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i 


4i 

I 


( 


I 


THE  WORKS 


OP 


COWPER  AND  THOMSON, 


mCLUDING  MANY 


]SEVER  BEFORE  PUBLISHED  IN  THIS  COUNTRY 


NEW  AND  INTERESTING  MEMOIR 


aife  Of  Kmmum. 


COMPLETE  IN  ONE  VOLUME. 


J.  GRIGG,  No.  9,  NORTH  FOURTH  STREET. 
1839. 


/ 


Printed  by  t.  k.  and  p.  g.  coll:ns 


PHII>ADEI,PH1A. 


4  Contents^. 


Sketch  of  the  Life  of  William  Cowper,  Esq.  .  .  1 
Table  Talk,  w      ......  3 

Progress  of  Error,  10 

Truth,  15 

21 
.  27 
34 
■  40 
48 
.  55 
62 
•  70 
78 
.  85 
93 


Expostulation,  

Hope,  

Charity,  

Conversation,  

Retirement,  -  

The  Task^  Book  I.  The  Sofa,  .... 

n.  The  Time-Piece,  . 

m.  The  Garden,    -      -      -  . 

IV.  The  Winter  Evening,  - 

V,  The  Winter  Morning  Walk,  - 

VI.  The  Winter  Walk  at  Noon,  . 

Epistle  to  Joseph  Hill,  Esq.   102 

Tirocinium  5  or,  a  Review  of  Schools,      -      •      -  103 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 
The  Yearly  Distress,  or  Tithing  Time  at  Stock,  in  Essex,  112 

Sonnet  to  Henry  Cowper,  Esq.   ib. 

Lines  addressed  to  Dr.  Darwin,        -      -      -      -  113 

On  Mrs.  Montagu's  Feather  Hangings,       -      •      •  ib 

Verses  supposed  to  be  written  by  Alexander  Selkirk,  •  ib. 

On  the  Promotion  of  Edward  Thurlow,  Esq,       •      •  114 

Ode  to  Peace,   lb. 

Human  Frailty,   -   ib. 

The  Modem  Patriot,   115 

On  Sbserving  some  names  of  little  note  recorded  in  the 

Biographia  Britannica,   ib. 

Report  of  an  adjudged  case,  not  to  be  found  in  any  of  the 

books,       .      .  „  

On  the  burning  of  Lord  Mansfield's  library,       .      .  116 

On  the  same,   ib. 

The  love  of  the  world  reproved.   ib. 

On  the  death  of  Lady  Throckmorton's  Bulfinch,     •  ib. 

The  Rose,   117 

The  Doves,   ib. 

A  Fable,   118 

A  Comparison,   ib. 

Another,  addressed  to  a  young  lady,     -      -      •      -  ib. 

The  Poet's  New- Year's  Gift,   ib. 

Ode  to  Apollo,   119 

Pairing  Time  anticipated.   A  fable,  ....  ib. 

The  Dog  and  the  Water  Lily,             ....  120 

The  Poet,  the  Oysteii  and  the  SenshWe  Plant,   .   '.  ib. 

The  Shruooery,   121 

The  Winter  Nosegay,   ib. 

Mutual  forbearance  necessary  to  the  happiness  of  the  mar- 
ried state,                                           .      .  ib. 

The  Negro's  complaint,  ■  .  122 

Pity  for  poor  Africans,   ib. 

The  Morning  Dream,       ......  i23 

The  Nightingale  and  Glow  Worm,     -      •      •      .  ib. 

On  a  Goldfinch  starved  to  death  in  his  cage,     .      .  124 

The  Pine-apple  and  the  Bee,   ib. 

Horace,  Book  II.  Ode  X,   ib. 

A  reflection  on  the  foregoing  ode,   125 

The  Lily  and  the  Rose,     ......  ib. 

Idem  Latine  Redditum,       -   ib. 

The  Poplar  field,   ib. 

Idem  Latine  Redditum,   126 

Votum,   ib. 


Page. 

Translation  of  Prior's  Chloe  and  Euphelia,  •      .      -  126 

The  history  of  John  Gilpin,   ib. 

Epistle  to  an  afflicted  Protestant  lady  in  France,  .     .  129 

To  the  Rev.  W.  C.  Unwin,   ib. 

To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Newton,   130 

Catharina,   ib. 

The  Morahzer  corrected,      .      -      .      .      .      -  ib. 

The  Faithful  Bird,   131 

The  Needless  Alarm,   ib. 

Boadicea,   133 

Heroism,  

On  the  receipt  of  my  mother's  picture  out  of  Norfolk,  134 

Friendship,   135 

On  a  mischievous  Bull,     -            ....  137 

Annus  Memorabilis,  1789,  ib, 

Hynm  for  the  use  of  the  Sunday  School  at  Olney,    -  138 

Stanzas  subjoined  to  a  bill  of  mortahty  for  the  year  1787,  ib. 

The  same  for  17^,   139 

The  same  for  1789,   ib. 

The  same  for  1790,                                         -  140 

The  same  for  1792,   ib. 

The  same  for  1793,   ib. 

Epitaph  on  Mr.  Hamilton,   141 

Epitaph  on  a  Hare,   jb. 

Epitaphium  Alterum,   ib. 

Stanzas  on  the  first  publication  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  142 

Address  to  Miss  ,  on  reading  the  Prayer  for  Indifierence,  ib. 

A  Tale  founded  on  a  fact,   143 

To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Newton,  on  his  return  from  Ramsgate,  ib. 

Poetical  epistle  to  Lady  Austen,    -      -  ,   .      .      .  144 

Song,  written  at  the  request  of  Lady  Austen,     •      .  145 

Verses  from  a  poem  entitled  Valediction,      -      -      -  ib. 

Epitaph  on  Johnson,  .......  jij. 

To  Miss  C  ,  on  her  birth-day,   ib. 

Gratitude,   145 

The  Flatting  MiU,   ib. 

To  Mrs.  Throckmorton,   ib. 

On  the  late  indecent  liberties  taken  with  the  remaina  of 

Milton,   147 

To  Mi-s.  King,   ib. 

The  Judgment  of  the  Poets,   ib. 

Epitaph  on  Mrs.  M.  Higgins,  of  Weston,  -      .      .  148 

The  Retired  Cat,   ib. 

To  the  Nightingale,   149 

Sonnet  to  W.  Wilberforce,  Esq.   ib. 

Epigram,  ,  ib. 

To  Dr.  Austin,     -      .   ,   ib. 

Sonnet,  addressed  to  William  Hayley,  Esq,      .      .  150 

Catharina,  •      .  ih. 

Sonnet  to  George  Romney,  Esq.      ....  ib. 

On  receiving  Hayley's  picture,   ib. 

On  a  plant  of  Virgin's-bower,   ib. 

To  my  cousin,  Anne  Bodham,   151 

To  Mrs.  Unwin,   ib. 

To  William  Hayley,  Esq.   ib. 

On  a  Spaniel,  called  Beau,  killing  a  bird,  ...  ib. 

Beau's  Reply,      .      .      .            .      .      >      .  ib. 

To  Mary,   ....            •      -      •      -  152 

On  the  Ice  Islands,       -      .      •      .      .      .      .  ib. 

The  Castaway,   153 

Translations  from  Vincent  Bourne. 

I.  The  Glow  Worm,   ib. 

II.  The  Jackdaw,    -      .      .      .     .     .  154 


700275 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 
.  154 
ib. 
-  155 
ib. 


156 


in.  The  Cricket,  

IV.  The  Parrot,  

V.  TheThracian,  .... 

VI.  Reciprocal  Kindness,  

VII.  A  Manual,  

Vm.  AnEnignaa,  

IX.  Sparrows  self-domesticated,   -      •      -      -  ib. 

X.  Familiarity  dangerous,  -  •  -  -  157 
XL  Invitation  to  the  Red-breast,  -  -  -  -  ib. 
XIL  Strada's  Nightingale,  ib. 

Xni.  Ode  on  the  death  of  a  Lady,  -      •      -      -  ib. 

XIV.  The  Cause  Won,  158 

XV.  The  Silk  Worm,  ib. 

XVI.  The  Innocent  Thief,  ib. 


XVII,  Denner's  Old  Woman,  ... 
XVm,  The  Tears  of  ,  a  Painter,     .      -  • 

XIX,  The  Maze,     ...  -  • 

XX,  No  Sorrow  peculiar  to  the  Sufferer,  - 

XXI,  The  Snail,  

The  Contrite  Heart,  

The  Shining  Light,      - ,  - 
Thirsting  for  God,     -    '  - 

A  Tale,  

Song  on  Peace,  

Sonnet  to  John  Johnson,  .... 
Inscription  on  a  grove  of  Oaks,  • 

Love  Abused,       -  •  

Memorial  for  Ashley  Cowper,  Esq,  - 
To  the  memory  of  John  Thornton,  Esq, 

To  a  Young  Friend,  

To  the  memory  of  Dr.  Lloyd,      •  • 
Epitaph  on  Fop,  a  dog,     -      .      .      -  - 

LETTERS. 
Letter,  1763, 

1  To  Lady  Hesketh.   Journals  of  the  House  of  Lords  ; 

reflection  on  the  singular  temper  of  his  mind, 

Aug.  9  164 

1765. 

2  To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq.  Account  of  his  situation  at  • 

Huntingdon,  June  24  ib. 

3  To  Lady  Hesfcetk   On  his  illness  and  subsequent 

recovery,  July  1  165 

4  To  the  same.  Satetary  effects  of  affliction  on  the  hu- 

man mind,  July  4  ib. 

5  To  the  same.   Account  -of  Huntingdon;  distance 

from  his  brother,  &c.  July  5  166 

6  To  the  same.   Newton's  Treatise  on  the  Prophecies ; 

reflections  of  Dr.  Young  on  the  truth  of  Christiani- 
ty, July  12  167 

7  To  the  same.   On  the  beauty  and  sublimity  of  scrip- 

tural language,  Aug.  1  ib. 

8  To  the  same.  Pearsall's  Meditations;  definition  of 

faith,  Aug.  17  168 

9  To  the  same.   On  a  particular  providence;  experi- 

ence of  mercy,  &c,  Sept.  4  169 

10  To  the  same.   First  introduction  to  the  Unwin  fami- 

ly;  their  characters,  Sept.  14  170 

11  To  the  same.   On  the  thankfulness  of  the  heart,  its 

inequalities,  &c.  Oct.  10  ib. 

12  To  the  same.   Miss  Unwin,  her  character  and  pie- 

ty, Oct.  18  ib. 

13  To  Major  Cowper.   Situation  at  Huntingdon;  his 

perfect  satisfaction,  &c-  Oct.  18  171 

14  To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq.   On  those  who  confine  all  me- 

rits to  their  own  acquaintance,    '  Oct.  25  172 

1766. 

15  To  Lady  Hesketh.   On  solitude ;  on  the  desertion  of 

his  friends,  March  6  ib. 

16  To  Mrs.  Cowper.  Mrs.  Unwin  and  her  son ;  his  cou- 

sin Martin  Madan,  March  12  173 


Letter.  Page. 

17  To  the  same.  Letters  the  fruit  of  friendship;  his 

conversion,  April  4  173 

18  To  the  same.  The  probability  of  knowing  each  other 

in  a  future  state,  April  17  174 

19  To  he  same.   On  the  recollection  of  earthly  affairs 

by  departed  spitits,  April  18  175 

20  To  the  same.  On  the  same  subject;  on  his  own  state 

of  body  and  mind,  Sept.  3  176 

21  To  the  same.   His  manner  of  living ;  reasons  for  his 

not  taking  orders,  Oct.  20  177 

1767. 

22  To  the  same.   Reflections  arising  from  reading  Mar- 

shall, March  11  ib. 

23  To  the  same.   Introduction  of  Mr.  Unwin's  son ; 

his  gardening ;  on  Marshall,  March  14  178 

24  To  the  same.   On  the  motive  of  his  introducing  Mr. 

Unwin's  son  to  her,  April  3  ib. 

25  To  the  same.   Mr.  Unwin's  death ;  doubts  concern- 

ing his  future  abode,  July  13  179 

26  To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq.  Reflections  arising  from  Mr. 

Unwin's  death,  July  16 

1768. 

27  To  the  same.   On  the  occurrences  during  his  visit  at 

St.  Alban's,  July  16 


ib 


ib. 


28  To  the  same.   On  the  difference  of  dispositions ;  his 

love  of  retirement, 

29  Tp  Mrs.  Cowper.   His  new  situation;  reasons  for 

the  insufficiency  of  the  world  to  confer  happiness, 

30  To  Mrs.  Cowper.   The  consolations  of  religion  on 

the  death  of  her  husband,  Aug.  31 

1770. 

31  To  the  same.  Dangerous  ilhiess  of  his  brother, 

March  5 

32  To  the  Rev.  John  Newton.  Sickness  and  death  of  his 

brother,  March  31 

33  To  J.  Hill,  Esq.  Religious  sentiments  of  his  bro- 

ther, ,  May  8 

34  Td  Mrs.  Cowper.   The  same  subject,  June  7 

35  To  J.  Hill,  Esq.   Expression  of  his  gratitude  for  in- 

stances of  friendship,  Sept.  25 

36  To  the  Rev.  William  Unwin.   The  same  subject; 

of  supplicatory  letters,  &c.  June  8 

1779. 

Johnson's  Lives  of  the  Poets,  May  26 
His  hot-house ;  tame  pigeons ;  visit  to 
Sept.  21 

Johnson's  biography ;  his  treatment 
Oct.  31 

Quick  succession  of  human  events ; 
modern  patriotism,  Dec.  2 

1780. 

41  To  the  same.  Burke's  speech  on  the  reformation; 

Nightingale  and  Glow-worm,  Feb.  27 

42  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   On  the  danger  of  innova- 

tion, March  18 

43  To  the  Rev,  W,  Unwin.   On  keeping  the  Sabbath, 

March  28 

44  To  the  same.   Pluralities  in  the  Church,      April  6 

45  To  the  Rev,  J,  Newton,  Distinction  between  a  travel- 

ed man,  and  a  traveled  gentleman,         April  16 

46  To  the  same.   Serious  reflections  on  rural  scenery. 


37  To  the  same. 

38  To  the  same. 

Gayhurst, 

39  To  the  same. 

of  Milton, 

40  To  the  same. 


47  To  J.  Hill,  Esq.  The  Chancellor's  (T- 


May3 
-w''  illness. 
May  6 

48  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   His  passion  for  landscape 
drawing ;  modern  politics,  May  8 

49.  To  Mrs.  Cowper.   On  her  brother's  death,  May  10 
50  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   Pedantry  of  commenta- 
tors ;  Dr.  Bentley,  &c.  May  10 


190 


f 


CONTENTS.1 


V 


Letter. 

51  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   Danger  of  endeavouring 

to  excel;  versification  of  a  thought,  June  8  190 

52  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   On  the  riots  in  1780 ;  dan- 

ger of  associations,  June  12  191 

53  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.  Latin  verses  on  do.  June  18  ib, 

54  To  the  same.   Robertson's  History ;  Biographia  Bri- 

tannica,  •  June  22  192 

55  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   Ligenuity  of  slander ;  lace- 

makers^  petition,  June  23  ib. 

56  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   To  touch  and  retouch,  the 

secret  of  good  writing ;  an  epitaph,  July  2  193 

57  To  J.  Hill,  Esq.   Recommendation  of  the  lace-ma- 

kers' petition,  July  8  194 

58  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   Translation  of  the  Latin 

verses  on  the  riots  in  1780,  July  11  ib. 

59  To  Mrs.  Cowper.   On  the  inseiisible  progress  of  age, 

July  20  ib. 

60  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   Olney  Bridge,       July  27  195 


61  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   A  riddle,  July  30  ib. 

62  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   Human  nature  not  chan- 

ged ;  a  modem  only  an  ancient  in  a  diSerent  dress, 

Aug.  6  196 

63  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   Escape  of  one  of  his  hares, 

Aug.  21  ib. 

64  To  Mrs.  Cowper.    Lady  Cowper's  death;  age  a 

friend  to  the  mind,  Aug.  31  197 

65  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   Biographia ;  verses,  par- 

son and  clerk,  Sept.  3  ib. 

66  To  the  same.   On  education,  Sept  7  198 

67  To  the  same.   Public  schools,  Sept.  17  199 

68  To  the  same.   On  the  same  subject,  Oct.  5  ib. 

69  To  Mrs.  Newton.   On  Mr.  Newton's  arrival  at  Rams- 

gate,  Oct.  5  200 

70  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   On  a  goldfinch  starved  to 

death  in  a  cage,  Nov.  9  ib. 

71  To  J.  Hill,  Esq.   With  the  memorable  law  case  be- 

,      tween  nose  and  eyes,  -  Dec.  25  201 

72  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.  With  the  same,  Dec.  ib. 
I  1781. 

73  To  J.  HiU,  Esq.   On  metrical  law  cases ;  old  age, 

Feb.  15  ib. 

74  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   Consolations  on  the  asperi- 

ty of  a  critic,  April  2  202 

75  To  the  same.  Publication  of  his  first  volume.  May  1  ib. 

76  To  .Joseph  Hill,  Esq.   On  the  composition  and  pub- 

lication of  his  first  volume.  May  9  203 

77  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   Reasons  for  not  showing 

his  preface  to  Mr.  Unwin,  May  10  ib. 

78  To  the  same.   Delay  of  his  publication ;  Vincent 

Bourne  and  his  poems,  May  23  204 

79  To  the  same.    Correction  of  his  proofs ;  on  hip  horse- 

manship, ,        May  205 

80  To  the  same.  Mrs.  Unwin's criticisms;  a  distinguish- 

ing providence,  June  5  ib. 

81  To  the  same.   On  the  design  of  his  poems ;  Mr.  Un- 

win's bashfulness,  .Tune  24  205 

82  To  the  same.   Thanks  for  some  rugs ;  on  the  fashion 

of  wearing  wigs,  July  6  207 

83  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   In  rhyme ;  on  his  poetry, 

July  12  ib. 

84  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   Duty  of  submitting  to  inju- 

ry ;  story  of  an  Abbe,  July  29  208 

85  To  the  same.   His  poem.  Retirement ;  Lady  Aus- 

ten's settling  at  Olney,  Aug.  25  209 

86  To  the  same.   Brighton  amusements ;  his  projected 

authorship,  Oct.  6  ib. 

87  To  Mrs.  Cowper.    His  first  volume ;  death  of  a 

friend,  Oct.  19  210 

88  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unv^in.   Brighton  dissipation ;  edu- 

cation of  young  Unwin,  Nov.  5  811 


Letter. 

89  To  the  same. 


90  To  the  same. 

Pope, 

91  To  the  same. 


Character  of  Caraccioli, 

95  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin. 

dignity  of  authorship, 

96  ToLordThurlow. 


Page. 

Origin  and  causes  of  social  feeling, 

Nov.  26  211 

1782. 

Johnson's  characters  of  Prior  and 

Jan.  5  212 
Danger  of  criticism  to  the  taste; 
young  Unwin's  education,  Jan.  17  213 

92  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.  His  intended  publication, 

Feb.  2  214 

93  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.  On  some  verses  of  Lowth's ; 
on  the  origin  of  his  correspondence  with  Lady 
Austen,  Feb.  9  215 

94  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   Pleasures  of  authorship, 

Feb.  16  216 

ib. 

Mr.  Newton's  preface ;  the 

Feb.  24  217 
With  his  first  volume  of  poems, 

Feb.  25  ib. 

97  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   Thoughts  on  reproving 

kings,  Feb.  218 

98  To  the  same.   Past  and  present  politics,     March  6  ib, 

99  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   On  the  newspapers, 

March  7  219 

100  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   Mr.  Newton's  preface,  and 

Johnson's  criticisms,  March  14  ib. 

101  *To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   Observations  on  religious 

characters,  220 

102  To  the  same.   On  his  own  volume  of  poems ;  on  his 

letter  to  the  chancellor,  March  18  221 

103  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bull,  March  24  ib, 

104  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   On  the  same  subject  as 

Letter  102,  April  1  222 

105  To  the  same.   The  dignity  of  the  Latin  language ;  on 

parenthesis,  April  27  ib. 

106  To*the  same.   Dr.  Franklin's  letter ;  providential  es- 

cape of  Captain  Cook,  May  27  223 

107  To  the  same.   On  the  anxiety  of  an  author,  June  12  224 

108  To  the  same.   Dispensations  of  Providence,  July  16  ib. 

109  To  the  same.   Account  of  a  viper  in  the  green-house ; 
poems  of  Madame  Guion,  Aug.  3  225 

110  To  Lady  Austen.   A  billet  and  verses,         Aug.  12  226 

111  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bull,  Oct.  27  227 

112  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   John  Gilpin's  feats,  Nov.  4  ib. 

113  To  the  same.   On  a  charitable  donation  to  the  poor 
of  Olney,  Nov.  18  ib. 

114  To  the  same.   Dr.  Seattle's  translation  of  Madame 

Guion's  poems,  228 

115  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   Mr.  's  charity  and  be- 

nevolence, Jan.  19  229 

116  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   Nations  act  under  the  direc- 

tion of  Providence,  Feb.  8  ib. 

117  To  J.  Hill,  Esq.   Favourable  reception  given  to  his 

poems,  Feb.  13  &  20  ib. 

118  To  the  same.  Dr.  Franklin's  letter  transcribed,  Feb.  20  230 

119  To  the  same.   Nations  like  ants;  etching  of  the 

Chancellor  (Thurlow,)  ib. 

120  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   Reflections  on  the  illness 

of  a  friend,  April  5  ib. 

121  To  the  same.   On  simplicity  in  preaching.  May  5  231 

122  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   On  a  sermon  of  Paley's, 

May  12  ib. 

123  To  J.  Hill,  Esq.   Loss  of  friends ;  a  tax  on  long  life, 

May  26  232 

124  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   Death  of  Mrs.  C.   May  31  ib. 

125  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.    Character  of  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Bull,  Junes  ib. 

126  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   On  his  ecclesiastical  histo- 
ry ;  remarkable  mists,  June  12  233 

127  To  the  same.   On  religious  zeal,  June  17  234 


vi 


CONTENTS. 


ib, 


Letter.  Page. 

128  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.  Translation  of  Mr.  New- 

ton's letter  into  Dutch,  June  19  234 

129  To  the  same.   Ilis  love  of  home ;  styles  of  Robertson 

and  Gibbon,  July  27  ib. 

130  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bull,  Aug.  3  235 

131  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   On  ballads;  anecdote  of 

his  goldfinch,  Aug.  4  ib. 

132  To  the  same.   Madame  Guion's  poems,       Sept.  7  236 

133  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   On  his  recovery  from  a  fe- 

ver ;  story  of  a  clerk  in  a  public  office,       Sept.  8  237 

134  To  the  sa.vne.   Description  of  a  visit  to  Mr.  , 

Sept.  23  ib. 

135  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.  Philosophers  happy;  air 

balloons,  -      Sept.  29  238 

136  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   Tendency  of  the  Gospel  to 

promote  the  happiness  of  mankind,  Oct.  6  239 

137  To  the  same.   On  the  American  loyahsts,       Oct.  240 

138  To  J.  Hill,  Esq.  Comfortsof  a  winter  evening,  Oct.  20  241 

139  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   Reflections  on  the  unkind 

behaviour  of  acquaintance,  Nov.  10  ib. 

140  To  the  same.   The  same  subject ;  L'Estrange's  Jo- 

sephus,  Nov.  24  242 

141  To  the  same.  Account  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Throckmor 

ton, 

1784. 

142  To  the  same.   East  India  Company's  Charter,  Jan.  3  243 

143  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   Departure  of  the  old  year, 

Jan.  18  244 

144  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.  State  of  departed  spirits,  Jan.  245 

145  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   On  East  India  affairs ;  Lines 

of  Dr.  Jortin  translated,  Jan.  25  246 

146  To  the  same.   Title  and  motto  for  a  work  of  Mr 

Newton's,  Feb.  ib. 

147  To  the  same.   Our  forefathers  not  nervous ;  Adam, 

as  he  appeared  in  a  dream,  Feb.  10  247 

148  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bull,  Feb.  22  248 

149  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   Secret  charity  at  Olney ; 

parliamentary  debates,  Feb. 

150  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   Difficulty  in  writing  to 

strangers,  Feb.  29 

151  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   On  the  Theological  Miscel- 

lany; Caraccioli,  March  8  249 

152  To  the  same.   Style  and  spirit  of  Mr.  Newton's  Apo- 

logy ;  East  India  patronage,  March  11  ib 

153  To  the  same.   Works  of  Caraccioli,         March  19  250 

154  To  the  same.   Visit  of  a  Candidate,         March  29  ib, 

155  To  the  same.   Danger  of  trifling  with  our  Maker ; 

earthquake  in  Calabria,  April  251 

156  To  the  Rev.  W,  Unwin.   Seattle  and  Blair;  origin 

of  language,  April  5  252 

157  Tothesame.  ObservationsonBlair'sLectureg,April25  253 

158  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   Difference  of  style  between 

Beattie  and  Blair,  April  26  ib. 

159  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   On  face-painting,    May  3  254 

160  To  the  same.   Declines  writing  a  sequel  to  John  Gil- 

pin, May  8  255 

161  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   Dr.  Johnson's  favourable 

opinion  of  his  poems,  May  22  256 

■  162  Tothesame.   Same  subject,  June  5  ib. 

163  To  the  Rev.  Vv.  Unwin. 

164  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton. 

new  taxes, 

165  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin. 

Essav  on  Suicide, 


ib. 


ib, 


Tax  on  candles,  July  3  ib. 
Mythology  of  the  ancients ; 

July  5  257 
Vincent  Bourne ;  Hume's 

July  12  258 

166  To  the"  Rev.  J.  Newton.  Madness  sometimes  hu- 

morous and  sometimes  whimsical,  July  19  259 

167  To  the  same.   Pleasant  situation  of  Lymington ;  Mr. 

July  28  ih 


Letter.  Page, 
To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   Captain  Cook's  last  voyage, 

Aug.  16  260 

170  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin,   Publicatipn  of  the  Task, 

Sept,  11  261 

171  To  J,  Hill,  Esq,  Dr.  Cotton  truly  a  philosopher, 

Sept.  11  262 

172  To  the  Rev,  J,  Newton.   Effect  of  sounds,  Sept.  18  ib, 

173  To  the  Rev,  W,  Unwin,  Punctuation  of  blank  verse, 

Oct.  2  263 

174  To  the  Rev.  J,  Newton.  On  unconnected  thoughts ; 
death  of  Captain  Cook,  Oct.  9  ib. 

175  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   The  tendency  of  the  Task, 
and  of  all  his  writings,  Oct.  10  264 

176  To  the  same.   On  his  poem.  Tirocinium,     Oct.  20  265 

177  To  the  Rev,  J.  Newton,  Sandwich  islanders,  Oct.  30  266 

178  To  the  Rev.  W,  Unwin,   Reasons  why  an  author 
may  wish  to  keep  his  works  secret,  Nov.  1  267 

179  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bull,  Nov.  8  ib. 

180  To  Joseph  Hill,  Esq.  On  the  death  of  his  mother,  Nov.  268 

181  To  the  Rev.  J.  Newton.   His  poems,  the  Task  and 
Tirocinium,  Nov.  27  ib, 

182  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin,   Tirocinium,  1784,  269 

183  To  the  same.   His  poems ;  picture  of  Lunardi, 

Nov,  29  ib, 

184  To  the  Rev,  J,  Newton.   On  the  titles  to  the  different 
books  of  the  Task,  Dec.  13  270 

185  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin,   Inscription  of  Tirocinium ; 
compUment  to  Bishop  Bagot,  Dec.  18  271 

186  To  the  Rev.  J,  Newton.   On  his  poem  being  called 
the  Task,  '  Dec,  21  ib. 

1785, 

187  To  the  Rev.  W,  Unwin,   Death  of  Dr.  Johnson,  and 
an  epitaph  on  him,  Jan,  15  272 

188  To  the  Rev,  W,  Unwin,   On  two  small  poems;  the 
Poplar  Field  and  the  Rose,  Feb.  7  273 

189  To  the  same.   Reflections  on  the  impatience  of  au- 
thors, March  20  ib, 

190  To  the  same.   Celebrity  of  John  Gilpin,     April  30  274 

191  To  J.  Hill,  Esq.   Description  of  his  boudoir  at  Ol- 
ney, June  25  275 

192  To  the  Rev.  W,  Unwin.   Account  of  a  violent  thun- 
der storm,  July  27  ib. 

193  To  the  same.   Dr.  .lohnson's  Journal,        Aug.  27  276 

194  To  Lady  Hesketh,  On  her  return  to  England,  Oct.  12  277 

195  To  the  Rev,  W.  Unwin,  Translation  of  Homer, 

Oct.  22  278 

196  To  Lady  Hesketh.   Obligations  to  a  friend  not  irk- 
some ;  some  account  of  his  affairs,  Nov,  9  ib. 

197  To  the  same.   Disinterestedness  of  his  affections,  280 

198  To  the  Rev.  Walter  Bagot.   Bishop  Bagot's  charge, 

Nov.  9  ib, 

199  To  the  Rev,  W,  Unwin,   Publishing  his  Homer  by 
subscription,  Dec.  24  ib. 

200  To  J.  Hill,  Esq.   Same  subject,  Dec.  24  281 

201  To  the  Rev.  W,  Unwin,   Same  subject;  anecdotes 
of  the  poor  at  Olney,  Dec,  31  ib, 

1786. 

202  To  Lady  Hesketh.   Correcting  his  poems,    Jan.  10  282 

203  To  the  Rev.  W,  Unwin,   On  his  visiting  Lady  Hes- 
keth;  on  Homer,  .Tan.  14  ib. 

204  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.  Translation  of  Homer,  Jan.  15  283 

205  To  the  same.  Dr.  Maty's  opinion  of  the  Task,  .Ian.  23  ib, 

206  To  Lady  Hesketh,   On  receiving  a  snufi-box  with 
portraits  of  his  three  hares,  Jan,  31  284 

207  To  the  same.  On  her  promised  visit  to  Olney,  Feb.  9  285 

208  To  the  same.   Vexations  attendant  on  a  variety  of 
criticisms ;  the  Chancellor's  promise,      Feb.  11  ib. 

209  To  the  same.   On  their  expected  meeting  at  Olney, 

Feb.  19  286 


Gilpin, 

To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin,   On  the  inhabitants  of  the  ^„    „    .  x<  v,  oo-r 

islands  in  the  Pacific  Ocean,  Aug.  14  260  210  To  Che  Rev,  W,  Bagot.  Death  of  Mrs.  Bagot,  Feb.  27  287 


CONTENTS. 


Letter.  Page. 

211  To  Lady  Hesketh.  Elisions  in  some  instances  allowa- 

ble, March  6  287 

212  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   On  the  translation  of  Ho- 

mer, March  13  288 

213  To  J.  HiU,  Esq.   Same  subject,  April  5  289 

214  To  Lady  Hesketh.   On  her  postponing  her  visit ;  de- 

scription of  the  vicarage,  April  17  ib. 

215  To  the  same.   Her  letters  his  comfort,       April  24  290 

216  To  the  same.   Dr.  Maty's  critique  on  his  Homer ; 

description  of  his  own  feelings.  May  8  ib. 

217  To  the  same.   Pain  and  pleasure  on  the  sight  of  a 

long-absent  friend,  May  15  292 

218  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.   Submission  to  the  will  of 

God ;  Horace's  advice  to  autliors,  May  20  293 

219  To  Lady  Hesketh.   Gives  up  meeting  her  at  New- 

port; lines  in  the  Task;  state  of  his  nerves,  May  25  294 

220  To  the  same.   Beauties  of  the  spring ;  his  spirits  less 

depressed,  '  May  29  295 

221  To  the  same,  ^is  feelings  on  her  expected  arrival ; 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Throckmorton,  June  4  and  5  296 

222  To  .T.  HiU,  Esq.   His  time  much  occupied  by  Ho- 

mer ;  the  Chancellor's  illness,  June  9  297 

223  To  the  same.   Lady  Hesketh's  visit,  and  the  village 

of  Weston,  June  19  ib. 

224  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.    The  arrival  of  Lady  Hes- 

keth ;  residence  in  Olney ;  Latin  books  for  young 
readers,  July  3  ib. 

225  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.  Revisal  of  his  Homer,  July  4  298 

226  To  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin.   On  his  Homer,      Aug.  24  299 

227  To  the  sanie.   On  his  compositions,  ib. 

228  To  the  same.   His  state  of  mind;  verses  to  Miss  C. 

on  her  birth-day,  300 

229  To  the  same.   On  declining  to  write  on  a  subject  pro- 

posed to  him,  ib. 

230  Letter-writing,  illustrated  by  a  simile  in  rhyme ;  state 

of  the  nation,  301 

231  To  the  same.   On  his  poem  of  the  Lily  and  the  Rose,  ib. 

232  To  the  same.   The  poet  Churchill,  ib. 

233  To  the  same.   First  poetry,  a  translated  elegy  of  Ti- 

bullus,  302 

234  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.   Milton's  blank  verse,  and 

revisal  of  his  Homer,  Aug.  31  303 

235  To  J.  HIU,  Esq.   Mischance  that  liappened  to  part 

of  his  translation  of  Homer,  Oct.  6  ib. 

236  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.  Change  of  habitation,  Nov.  17  ib. 

237  To  Lady  Hesketh.   A  poet's  hermitage,      Nov.  26  304 

238  To  the  same.   On  the  death  of  Mr.  Unwin,   Pec.  4  305 

239  To  Robert  Smith,  Esq.  (the  present  Lord  Carrington.) 

On  the  same  subject,  Dec.  9  ib. 

240  To  Lady  Hesketh.  On  the  same  subject,  Dec.  9  306 
211  To  J.  Hill,  Esq.   On  the  same  subject,  Dec.  9  ib. 

242  To  Lady  Hesketh.   On  praise  to  a  poet,       Dec.  21  307 

1787. 

243  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.    Homer's  description  of 

slaughter ;  praise  of  the  author  and  Mr.  Unwin, 

Jan.  3  ib. 

244  To  Lady  Hesketh.   On  Homer,  and  his  song  of  the 

Rose,  Jan.  8  ib. 

245  To  the  same.   Obliged  by  indisposition  to  suspend 

his  Homer ;  on  dreams,  and  a  visit  from  Mr.  Rose, 

Jan.  18'  308 

246  To  Samuel  Rose,  Esq.   His  indisposition ;  Burns' 

Poems,  .  July  24  309 

247  To  the  same.   On  his  reviving  health;  Barclay's 

Argenis  and  Burns,  Aug.  27  ib. 

248  To  Lady  Hesketh.   On  the  family  at  Weston  Hall, 

Aug.  30  310 

249  To  the  same.   Books  he  had  read,  Sept.  4  ib. 

250  To  the  same.   On  a  lady  whom  he  met  at  the  Hall, 

Sept.  15  ib. 


Letter. 


Page, 


251  To  the  same.   On  the  Memoirs  of  Baron  de  Tott, 

Sept.  29  311 

252  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   On  leaving  the  country  after  the 

death  of  his  father,  Oct.  19  ib. 

253  To  Lady  Hesketh.   On  a  kitten  and  a  leech,  Nov.  10  312 

254  To  J.  Hill,  Esq.   On  his  own  studies,        Nov.  16  ib. 

255  To  Lady  Hesketh.    Beauties  of  Weston ;  the  clerk  of 

Northampton;  on  a  paper  in  the  Mirror;  anec- 
dote of  a  beggar,  Nov.  27  ib. 

256  To  the  same.   On  his  neighbours,  Dec.  4  313 

257  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.   On  his  Homer,  andJJishop 

Bagot,  Dec.  6  ib. 

258  To  Lady  Hesketh.   On  a  ball,  and  his  translation, 

Dec.  10  314 

259  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   On  his  Homer ;  talents  given  by 

nature,  Dec.  13  ib. 

1788. 

260  To  Lady  Hesketh.   On  verses  by  Mr.  Merry ;  inocu- 

lation, Jan.  1  315 

261  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.   On  Bishop  Bagot,  and  his 

Homer,  Jan.  5  316 

262  To  Lady  Hesketh.   Restsons  for  writing  few  occa- 

sional poems ;  on  a  print  of  Bunbury's,    Jan.  19  ib. 

263  To  the  same.   On  his  own  anxiety,  Jan.  30  317 
254  To  the  same.    On  trouble  as  the  portion  of  mortali- 
ty ;  on  reading  a  book  of  his  Iliad  to  Mr.  Great- 
heed,  Feb.  1  ib. 

265  To.  S.  Rose,  Esq.   Improvement  of  time ;  on  the  re- 

flection of  Glaucus,  Feb.  14  318 

266  To  Lady  Hesketh.   On  his  own  melancholy;  Han- 

nah More,  and  Hastings's  trial,  Feb.  16  319 

267  To  the  same.    On  Burke's  invective,  Feb.  22  ib. 

268  -To  the  same.    A  fox  chase,  March  3  320 

269  Tothesa)ne.   On  the  book  entitled,  "The  Manners 

of  the  Great,"  March  12  ib. 

270  To  General  Cowper.   On  his  poem  upon  the  slave 

trade ;  the  Morning  Dream,  a  ballad,  321 

271  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.   On  "The  Manners  of  the 

Great,"  and  his  Homer,  March  19  ib. 

272  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.  Depression  of  spirits ;  Dr.  Clarke, 

March  29  3^ 

273  To  Lady  Hesketh.   On  his  poem  upon  the  slave 

trade,  March  31  ib. 

274  To  the  same.  Smollett's  Don  Quixote ;  on  his  friend 

Mr.  Rowley,  May  6  323 

275  To  J.  Hill,  Esq.   Books  that  he  had  lost,       May  8  ib. 

276  To  Lady  Hesketh.   On  Mrs.  Montague,       May  12  ib. 

277  To  J.  HiU,  Esq.   On  two  prints.  Crazy  Kate  and  the 

Lace-maker ;  bust  of  Paris,  May  24  324 

278  To  Lady  Hesketh.   Same  subject;  Mrs.  Montague, 

May  27  ib. 

279  To  the  same.   Sufferings  from  the  east  wind ;  extra- 

ordinary advertisement  of  a  dancing-master,  June  3  325 

280  To  J.  Hill,  Esq.  Death  of  Ashley  Cowper,  Esq.  June  8  ib. 

281  To  Lady  Hesketh.   On  the  same  subject,     June  10  ib. 

282  To  the  same.   On  the  same  subject,  June  15  326 

283  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.   On  scenes  of  horror, 

June  17  ib. 

284  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   On  a  dry  season,  Jtine  23  327 

285  To  Lady  Hesketh.   On  his  own  expectations ;  anec- 

dote of  his  dog  Beau,  June  27  ib. 

286  To  the  same.   On  the  Lime  Walk  at  Weston ;  ac- 

count of  living  authors,  July  28  328 

287  To  the  same.   Favourable  reception  of  the  Task ; 

Mr.  Bacon,  the  sculptor,  Aug.  9  ib. 

288  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   Solicitude  for  a  friend,    Aug.  18  ,329 

289  To  the  same.   On  the  oak  called  Judith ;  on  impro- 

per fears,  Sept.  11  ib, 

290  To  the  same.    A  riddle ;  on  finishing  the  Iliad ; 

death  of  a  bullfinch,  Sept.  25  33k 


viii 


CONTENTS. 


Letter.  Tage. 

291  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   Vincent  Bourne ;  invitation  to  his 

friend,  Nov.  30  330 

292  To.  J.  Hill,  Esq.   Introduction  of  Mr.  Rose,  Dec.  2  331 

293  To  Robert  Smith,  Esq.  .  Dec.  20  ib. 

1789. 

294  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.  On  memory ;  Sir  J.  Hawkins, 

Jan.  19  ib. 

295  lb  the  same.   On  accidents,  Jan.  24  ib. 

296  To  the  Rev.  W.  Ragot.   Progress  in  Homer,  Jan.  29  332 

297  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   On  Hawkins  Brown,       May  20  ib. 

298  To  the  same.   Cuckow  clocks;  BosweU's Tour, 

June  5  ib. 

299  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.   Compliments  on  the  mar- 

riage of  his  friend,  June  16  333 

300  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.  On  Hawkins  and  Boswell,  June  20  ib. 

301  To  Mrs.  Throckmorton.  Poetical  talents  of  a  friend ; 

incidents  at  the  Hall,  July  18  ib. 

302  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   Improvement  of  time  in  early  life, 

July  23  334 

303  To  the  same.   Mrs.  Piozzi's  Travels,  Aug.  8  ib. 

304  To  the  same.   Variations  in  our  summers;  remark 

on  Mr.  J  ,  Sept.  24  ib. 

'303  To  the  same.   On  receiving  several  presents ,  a  spor- 
tive imitation  of  the  Odyssey,  Oct.  4  335 

306  To  J.  Hill,  Esq.    French  revolution,  Dec.  18  ib. 

307  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.   On  Villoison's  Homer,  ib. 

308  To  the  same.   The  same  subject,  336 

1790. 

309  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   On  his  health ;  remarks  on  a  pas- 

sage in  Homer,  Jan.  3  ib. 

310  To  Lady  Hesketh.   On  his  kinsman's  poem;  expec- 

tation of  the  critics  on  his  Homer,  Jan.  23  337 

311  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   Bentley's  remarks  on  Homer, 

Feb.  2  ib. 

312  To  Lady  Hesketh.   Verses  to  Mrs.  Throckmorton, 

.  Feb.  9  ib. 

313  To  Mr.  Johnson.   Remarks  of  Mr.  Fuseli  on  his  po- 

em, Feb.  11  333 

314  To  Lady  Hesketh.   Anxiety  for  a  female  relation; 

on  receiving  his  mother's  picture,  Feb.  26  ib. 

315  To  Mrs,  Bodham.   On  his  mother's  picture,  Feb.  27  ib. 

316  To  John  Johnson,  Esq.   Praise  of  Mrs.  Bodham; 

invitation  to  Weston,  Feb.  28  339 

317  To  Lady  Hesketh.   On  the  Test  Act,         March  8  340 

318  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   Solicitude  for  his  friend's  health 

March  11  ib. 

319  To  Mrs.  Throckmorton.   On  a  lady's  remarks  on  his 

Homer,  March  21  341 

320  To  Lady  Hesketh.   On  the  style  he  introduced  in  his 

translation  of  Homer,  March  22  ib, 

321  ToJ.  Johnson,  Esq.  Remarks  on  Longinus,  March  23  342 

322  To  the  same.   On  Lavater ;  particular  studies  recom- 

mended, April  17  ib. 

323  To  Lady  Hesketh.   Completion  of  his  translation, 

April  19  343 

324  To  tlie  same.  On  pictures  of  both  his  parents,  Apr!  1 30  ib, 

325  To  Mrs.  Throckmorton.   Village  incidents.  May  10  ib, 

326  To  Lady  Hesketh,  May  28  344 

327  To  the  same.   On  a  poetical  application,      June  3  ib, 

328  To  J.  Johnson,  Esq.   On  particular  studies,  June  7  ib, 

329  To  S.Rose,  Esq.  Onearly  marriages;  a  riddle,  June  8  345 

330  To  Lady  Hesketh.   Reflections  on  seeing  an  old  wo- 

man; inscriptions  for  a  grove  of  oaks,     June  17  ib 

331  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.   African  serpents  and  ants ; 

on  Bishop  Bagot's  removal,  June  22  346 

33^To  Mrs.  Bodham.   On  letter-writing,  June  29  ib. 

333  To  Lady  Hesketh.   Mrs.  Unwin's  illness;  on  the 

French  revolution,  July  7  347 

334  To  J.  Johnson,  Esq.  Danger  of  music  engrossing 

too  much  time,  July  8  ib, 


Letter.  Pag& 

335  To  the  same.  Cautions  against  an  heedless  inatten- 
tion to  friends,  July  31  347 

336  To  Mr.  Johnson.   Mr.  Fuseli's  strictures  on  his  Ho- 
mer, Sept.  7  343 

337  To  Mr.s.  Bodham.   Mr.  Johnson's  carrying  his  Ho- 
mer to  London,  Sept.  9  ib. 

To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   On  his  marriage ;  preface  to  Ho- 
mer, Sept.  13  ib. 
To  Mr.  Johnson.  Mr.  Newton's  preface,  &c.  Oct.  3  349 

340  To  Mrs.  Bodham.   On  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  infan- 
cy, Nov.  21  ib. 

341  To  J.  Johnson,  Esq.   Visit  from  the  Dowager  Lady 
Spencer,  Nov.  26  ib. 

342  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   Prediction  of  future  eminence  in 
his  profession,  Nov.  30  350' 

343  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.   Translation  of  Homer ;  on 
the  office  of  Poet  Laureat,  Dec.  1  ib. 

344  To  J.  Johnson,  Esq.   King's  College  subscription ; 
family  of  the  Donnes,  Dec.  18  351 

1791. 

345  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.   Long  and  short  syllables  in 
the  English  language,  Jan.  4  ib. 

346  To  Mr.  Johnson.   On  a  line  in  one  of  his  poems  hav- 
ing been  tampered  with,  ib. 

347  To  J.  Johnson,  Esq.   Playful  remarks  on  his  charac- 
ter, Jan.  21  352 

348  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   His  present  of  Pope's  Homer, 

Feb.  5  ib. 

349  To  Lady  Hesketh.  Fame  not  an  empty  breath,  Feb.  13  353 

350  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.   Blank  verse  the  English  he- 
roic, Feb.  26  ib. 

351  To  J.  Johnson,  Esq.  On  the  subscriptions  from  Cam- 
bridge, Oxford,  and  the  Scotch  Universities, 

Feb.  27  ib. 

352  To  J.  Hill,  Esq.   Preface  to  the  translation  of  Ho- 
mer, March  6  354 

353  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hurdis.   Invitation  to  Vi^eston ;  Sir 
Thomas  More,  March  6  ib. 

354  To  J.  Hill,  Esq.   Achilles  in  the  attitude  of  a  dancing- 


 ^  .  March  10  ib. 

355  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.   On  the  critical  talents  of  Dr. 

Johnson,  March  18  ib. 

356  To  J.  Johnson,  Esq.   On  the  poems  of  the  Norwich 

maiden,  March  19  355 

357  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   His  Homer  calculated  at  less  than 

the  7th  part  of  a  farthing  per  line,        March  24  ib. 

358  To  Lady  Hesketh.   God  no  more  a  respecter  of  wit 

than  he  is  of  persons,  March  25  356 

359  To  Mrs.  Throckmorton.   Little  success  of  applica- 

tion to  the  University  of  Oxford,  April  1  ib. 

360  To  J.  Johnson,  Esq.   Brilliant  collection  of  names 

from  Cambridge,  April  6  357 

361  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   General  success  of  the  subscrip- 

tion, April  29  ib. 

362  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.   Mr.  Bagot ;  Milton's  Poems, 

May  2  ib. 

363  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Buchanan,  May  11  358 

364  To  Lady  Hesketh.   Letter  from  Dr.  Cogswell,  from 

New  York,  ,  May  18  ib. 

365  To  J.  Johnson,  Esq.   Translation  of  the  Frogs  and 

Mice,  May  23  ib. 

366  To  Lady  Hesketh.  Delays  of  printers;  confidence  in 

government,  May  27  ib. 

367  To  J.  Johnson,  Esq.  On  his  procuring  himthe  Cam- 

bridge subscriptions  to  his  Homer,  June  1  359 

368  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hurdis.   On  the  time  of  the  publi- 

cation of  his  Homer,  June  13  ib. 

369  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.  Man  an  ungrateful  animal,  June  15  360 

370  To  Dr.  James  Cogswell.   On  the  Task,  and  his  other 

poems,  June  15  ib. 


CONTENTS. 


Letter.  Page. 

371  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.  Lady  Bagot's  visit  to  Wes- 

ton, Aug.  2  361 

372  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hurdis.   On  his  mode  of  study  at 

Weston,  Aug.  9  ib. 

373  To  J.  Johnson,  Esq.   On  the  subject  of  a  new  work, 

Aug.  9  362 

374  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   Translation  of  Milton's  Italian  and 

Latin  Poems,  "  Sept.  14  ib. 

375  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.   Milton's  Elegy  on  the  death 

of  the  Bishop  of  Winchester,  Sept.  21  ib. 

376  To  the  same.   Upon  a  poem  of  Lord  Bagot's,  Oct.  25  363 

377  To  J.  Johnson,  Esq.    On  his  sister's  recovery,  Oct.  31  ib. 

378  To  J.  Hill,  Esq.   On  the  antipathy  to  compound  epi- 

thets, Nov.  14  ib. 

379  To  the  Rev.  W,  Bagot.   Translation  of  Homer  and 

Milton,  Dec.  5  364 

380  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hurdis.   On  original  composition 

and  translation,  Dec.  10  ib. 

381  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   Mrs.  Unwin's  illness,      Dec.  21  365 

1792. 

382  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.   On  his  children's  recove- 

ry, Feb.  14  ib. 

383  To  the  Lord  Thurlow.   On  his  translation  of  Homer,  366 
To  William  Cowper,  Esq.  from  Lord  Thurlow.  On 

rhyme;  on  translation;  hif  lordship's  version  of 
the  speech  of  Achilles  to  Phodiix, 

384  To  the  Lord  Thurlow.   On  the  same  subject, 

385  To  the  same.   His  satisfaction  at  his  lordship's  being 

pleased  with  his  translation,  367 
To  William  Cowper  Esq.  from  Lord  Thurlow.  Blank 
verse  fittest  for  a  translation  of  Homer, 

386  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hurdis.   Ackaowledgment  of  his 

friendly  remarks  on  Homer,  Feb.  21 

387  To  the  same.   Continuation  of  the  same,    March  2 

388  To  J.  Johnson,  Esq.  Mildness  of  the  Spring,  March  11 

389  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hurdis.   On  his  tragedy  of  Sir  Tho- 

mas More,  March  23 

390  To  Lady  Hesketh.   On  receiving  the  first  letter  from 

Mr.  Hayley,  March  25 

391  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.  Onapoemof  Mr.Park's,  March  30  370 

392  To  the  same.   Printers  tiresome,  April  5  ib. 

393  To  W.  Hayley,  Esq.   Invitation  to  Weston ;  charac- 

ter of  Mrs.  Unwin,  April  6  ib. 

394  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hurdis.   Comparison  of  his  unan- 

swered letters  with  the  leaves  in  autumn,  April  8  371 

395  To  Lady  Throckmorton.   On  appropriating  the  pro- 

ductions of  others  to  ourselves ;  on  calumniation ; 
sonnet  to  Mr.  Wilberforce,  April  16  ib. 

396  To  the  Rev.  J.  Jekyll  Rye.   Abhorrence  of  the  slave 

trade,  April  16  372 

397  To  Lady  Hesketh.   With  some  lines  to  Warren  Has- 

tings, May  5  ib 

398  To  J.  Johnson,  Esq.   On  the  subject  of  his  ordina- 

tion. May  20  373 

399  To  Lady  Hesketh.   Mrs.  Unwin's  second  attack, 

May  24  ib. 

400  To  the  same.   The  same  subject.  May  26  374 

401  To  Mrs.  Bodham.   On  the  subject  of  early  ordina- 

tion, June  4  ib. 

402  To  William  Hayley,  Esq.   On  Mrs,  "Unwin's  amend- 

ed health,  *  June  4  ib. 

403  To  the  same.   Same  subject,  June  5  ib. 

404  To  the  same.   His  attachment  to  Mr.  Hayley,  and 

his  own  melancholy,  June  7  375 

405  To  the  same.   Resignation  of  Mrs.  Unwin ;  a  poem 

to  Dr.  Darwin,  June  10  ib. 

406  To  Lady  Hesketh.   Mrs.  Unwin's  gradual  recovery, 

June  U  376 

407  To  W.  Hayley,  Esq.  On  the  projected  visit  to  Earth- 

ain.  June  19  lb. 


Letter. 

408  To  the  same. 

409  To  the  same. 

410  To  the  same. 

411  To  the  same. 

Eartham, 

412  To  the  same. 

his  picture  finished, 

413  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Greatheed. 


Page. 

Same  subject;  lines  to  Catharina, 

June  27  376 

Upon  the  Hfe  of  Milton,  July  4  377 

On  Abbott's  picture  of  him,  July  15  ib. 
The  day  fixed  for  their  journey  to 

July  22  ib. 
Fears  and  distresses beforesetting  out ; 

July  29  37S 
Description  of  Earth- 


ib. 


ib. 


ib. 


ib. 


ib. 


am;  the  journey  thither,  Aug.  6  ib. 

414  To  Mrs.  Courtenay.    Same  subject,  Aug.  12  379 

415  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   Wishes  him  at  Eartham,  Aug.  14  ib. 

416  To  the  same.    Same  subject,  Aug.  18  380 

417  To  Mrs.  Courtenay.   Manner  of  spending  his  time 
at  Eartham ;  epitaph  on  Fop,  Aug.  25 

418  To  Lady  Hesketh.  Improvement  in  his  health ;  his 
portrait  by  Romney,  Aug.  26 

419  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hurdis.  On  the  death  of  his  sister ; 
invitation  to  Eartham,  Aug.  26  381 

420  To  the  same.   On  the  beautiful  scenery  of  Eartham ; 
regrets  on  leaving  it,  Sept.  9  ib, 

421  To  W.  Hayley,  Esq.  Account  of  his  journey,  Sept.  18  382 

422  To  the  same.   Same  subject,  Sept.  21  ib, 

423  To  the  same.   His  spirits  sink  on  the  approach  of 
winter,  Oct.  2  ib. 

424  To  the  same.   Full  of  affectionate  regard;  on  Hay- 
ley's  verses  to  Dr.  Austin,  Oct.  13  383 

425  To  J.  .Johnson,  Esq.   Regret  for  his  absence ;  sonnet 
to  Romney,  Oct.  19 

426  To  the  same    Moral  reflection  on  sitting  for  a  pic- 
ture, .Oct.  22 

427  To  W.  Hayley,  Esq.   Difficulty  of  exertion;  sonnet 
to  Romney,  Oct.  28  384 

428  To  S.  Rose,  Feq.   Compliment  on  his  professional 
industi^^ ;  hopes  of  future  success,  Nov.  9  ib. 

429  To  J.  Johnson,  Esq,   Difficulty  in  commencing  his 
Milton ;  lowness  of  spirits,  Nov.  20  ib, 

430  To  W.  Hayley,  Esq.   Same  subject,  Nov.  25  385 

431  To  J.  Hill,  Esq.   Politics  of  the  day,  Dec.  16  ib. 

432  To  W.  Hayley,  Esq.   On  his  confinement  in  conse- 
quence of  his  translating  Milton,  Dec,  26  386 

1793. 

433  To  the  Rev.  W.  Hurdis.   On  the  ilhiess  of  Miss  Hur- 
dis, Jan.  6  ib. 

434  To  W.  Hayley,  Esq.   On  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Hay  ley's 
picture,  Jan.  20  ib. 

435  To  the  same.   On  the  death  of  a  friend,       Jan.  29  387 

436  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   His  translation  of  Homer,  Feb.  5  ib. 

437  To  Lady  Hesketh.   Toryism  of  Lady  Hesketh  and 
Mrs.  Rose,  Feb.  10 

438  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   On  the  Analytical  Review  of  his 
Homer,  Feb.  17 

439  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hurdis.   Professorship  of  poetry; 
discoveries  in  natural  history,  Feb.  23  388 

440  To  W.  Hayley,  Esq.   His  dream  respecting  Milton, 

Feb.  24  ib. 

441  To  the  Rev.  W,  Bagot    Republicans  of  France, 

March  4  389 

442  To  Mr.  Thomas  Hayley.    On  Mr.  Thomas  Hayley's 
strictures  on  his  Homer,  March  14  ib. 

443  To  W.  Hayley,  Esq.  Revisal  of  his  Homer,  March  19  390 

444  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   Revised  translation  of  Homer, 

March  27 

445  To  J.  Johnson,  Esq.   Mr,  Johnson's  resolution  to 
take  holy  orders,  April  11 

446  To  W.  Hayley,  Esq,   On  ilie  notes  to  his  Homer, 

April  23  391 

447  To  the  Rev,  W.  Bagot.  On  the  death  of  those  we 
love.  May  4  ib. 

448  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.  On  the  notes  of  his  Homer,  May  5  ib. 


ib. 


ib. 


ib. 


ib. 


X 


CONTENTS. 


Letter. 

449  To  Lady  Hesketh 


Page. 


Toryism  of  Lady  Ilcslceth, 

May  7  392 

450  To  W.  Ilayley,  Esq.  Distribution  of  his  time,  May  21  ib. 

451  To  Lady  Hesketh.  With  his  verses  to  a  young  friend 

on  his  arrival  at  Cambridge  wet,  wlien  no  rain  had 
fallen  tliere,  June  1  393 

452  To  W.  Hayley,  Esq.   On  the  proposal  of  a  joint  com- 

position, June  29  ib. 

453  To  the  same.   On  his  projected  poem  of  the  Four 

A^es,  July  7  ib. 

454  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Greatheed.   On  Mr.  Greatheed's  in- 

vitation, July  23  394 

455  To  W.  Hayley,  Esq.   Improvements  in  his  garden, 

July  24  ib. 

456  To  Mrs.  Charlotte  Smith.  July  25  395 

457  To  Lady  Hesketh.   On  his  lines  and  acknowledg- 

ments to  Miss  Fanshaw,  Aug.  H  ib. 

458  To  W.  Hayley,  Esq.   On  his  new  buildings  and  im- 

provements, Aug.  15  ib 

459  To  Mrs.  Courtenay.   The  treatment  of  Bob  Archer 

by  a  roguish  fiddler,  Aug.  20  396 

460  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   Notes  to  his  Homer,       Aug.  22  ib. 

461  To  W.  Hayley,  Esq.   On  Flaxman's  monument  to 

Lord  Mansfield,  .  Aug.  27  397 

462  To  Lady  Hesketh.   On  Lady  Hesketh's  visit  to  Wes- 

ton, Aug.  29  ib. 

463  To  the  Rev.  John  Johnsoa   Mr.  Johnson's  present 

of  a  sun-dial,  Sept.  6  398 

464  To  W.  Hayley,  Esq.  On  his  affected  mirth  and  real 

melancholy,  Sept,  8  ib. 


Letter.  Page. 

465  To  Mrs.  Courtenay.   On  Mr.  Johnson's  present  of  a 

sun-dial,  Sept.  15  ib. 

466  To  the  Rev.  J.  Johnson.  On  Mr.  Johnson's  visit  to 

Weston,  Sept.  29  399 

167  To  W,  Hayley,  Esq.   On  the  visits  and  civilities 

which  wasted  his  time,  Oct.  5  lb. 

468  To  the  same.   On  Mr.  Ilaylcy  and  his  son's  visit  to 

Weston,  Oct.  18  400 

469  To  the  Rev.  J.  Jekyll  Rye.  On  Mr,  Hurdis's  election 

to  the  Professorship  of  poetry  at  Oxford,    Nov,  3  ib. 

470  To  Mrs.  Courtenay.   Mr.  Hayley's  visit,       Nov.  4  ib. 

471  To  J.  Hill,  Esq.   Beauties  of  Weston,  Nov.  5  401 

472  To  the  Rev.  W.  Bagot.   Reflections  on  the  French 

Revolution,  Nov.  10 

473  To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hurdis.   On  Hayley's  Life  of  Mil- 

ton, his  own  commentary,  Nov.  24 

474  To  S.  Rose,  Esq.   Subjects  for  painting  recommend- 

ed ;  idea  of  a  joint  work  with  Hayley,      Nov.  29  402 

475  To  the  same.   Thanking  him  for  books ;  Jonathan 

Wild;  Man  as  he  is,  Dec.  8  ib, 

476  To  W.  Hayley,  Esq.   Uneasy  at  not  hearing  from 

him ;  plan  of  continuing  the  Four  Ages,    Dec.  8  ib, 

477  To  the  same.   Criticism  on  the  address  of  Hector  to 

his  son,  ■  Dec.  17  403 


ib. 


ib 


1794. 

478  To  the  same.   Same  subject, 


1798. 


479  To  Lady  Hesketh, 


Jan.  5  ib. 


Oct.  13  404 


SKETCH 


OP  THE 


OF  THE  INNER  TEMPLE. 


William  Cowper  was  born  at  Berkhamstead 
Herts,  November  26,  1731.   His  father,  the  rec- 
tor of  the  parish,  was  the  reverend  John  Cowper, 
D.  D,,  son  of  Spencer  Cowper,  one  of  the  justices 
of  the  common  pleas,  a  younger  brother  of  the  lord 
chancellor  Covsrper.    He  received  his  early  educa- 
tion at  a  school  in  his  native  county,  whence  he 
Was  removed  to  that  of  Westminster.    Here  he 
adquired  a  competent  portion  of  classical  know- 
ledge; but,  from  the  delicacy  of  his  temperament, 
and  the  timid  shyness  of  his  disposition,  he  seems 
to  have  endured  a  species  of  martyrdom  from  the 
rudeness  and  tyranny  of  his  more  robust  compan- 
ions, and  to  have  received,  indeUbly,  the  impres- 
sions that  subsequently  produced  his  Tirocinium, 
in  which  poem  his  dislike  to  the  system  of  public 
education  in  England  is  very  strongly  stated.  On 
leaving  Westminster,  he  was  articled,  for  three 
years,  to  an  eminent  attorney,  during  which  time 
he  appears  to  have  paid  very  little  attention  to  his 
profession;  nor  did  he  alter  on  this  point  after  his 
entry  at  the  Temple,  in  order  to  qualify  himself 
for  the  honourable  and  lucrative  place  of  clerk  to 
the  house  of  lords,  which  post  his  family  interest 
had  secured  for  him.    While  he  resided  in  the 
Temple,  he  appears  to  have  been  rather  gay  and 
social  in  his  intercourse,  numbering  among  his 
companions  Lloyd,  ChurchiU,  Thornton  and  Col- 
man,  aU  of  whom  had  been  his  companions  at 
Westminster  school,  and  the  two  latter  of  whom 
he  assisted  with  some  papers  in  the  Connoisseur. 
His  natural  disposition,  however,  remained  timid 
and  diffident,  and  his  spirits  so  constitutionally  in- 
firm, that,  when  the  time  arrived  for  his  assuming 
the  post  to  which  he  had  been  destined,  he  was 
thrown  into  such  unaccountable  terror  at  the  idea 
of  making  his  appearance  before  the  assembled 
peerage,  that  he  was  not  only  obliged  to  resign  the 
appointment,  but  was  precipitated,  by  his  agitation 


of  spirits,  into  a  state  of  great  mental  disorder. 
At  tins  period,  he  was  led  into  a  deep  consideration 
of  his  religious  state;  and,  having  imbibed  the 
doctrme  of  election  and  reprobation  in  its  most  ap- 
palling rigor,  he  was  led  to  a  veiy  dismal  state  of 
apprehension.    We  are  told,  "that  the  terror  of 
eterna  judgment  overpowered  and  actuaUy  disor- 
dered his  faculties;  and  he  remained  seven  months 
m  a  continual  expectation  of  being  instantly  plung- 
ed into  eternal  misery."    In  this  shocking  condi- 
tion, confinement  became  necessary,  and  he  was 
placed  m  a  receptacle  for  lunatics,  kept  by  the 
amiable  and  weU-known  doctor  Cotton  of  St.  Al- 
ban's.    At  length,  his  mind  recovered  a  degree  of 
serenity,  and  he  retired  to  Huntingdon,  where  he 
formed  an  acquaintance  vnth  the  family  of  the 
reverend  Mr.  Unwin,  which  ripened  into  the  strict- 
est intimacy.    In  1773,  he  was  again  assailed  by 
religious  despondency,  and  endured  a  partial  alien- 
ation of  mind  for  some  years,  during  which  afllic- 
tion  he  was  highly  indebted  to  the  affectionate  care 
of  Mrs.  Unwin.    In  1778,  he  again  recovered ;  in 
1780,  he  was  persuaded  to  translate  some  of  the 
spiritual  songs  of  the  celebrated  madame  Guion. 
In  the  same  and  the  following  year,  he  was  also  induc- 
ed toprepare  a  volume  of  poems  for  the  press,  which 
was  printed  in  1782.    This  volume  did  not  attract 
any  great  degree  of  public  attention.    The  princi- 
pal topics  are,  Error,  Truth,  Expostulation,  Hope, 
Charity,  Retirement  and  Conversation;  all  of  which 
are  treated  with  originality,  but,  at  the  same  time, 
with  a  portion  of.  religious  austerity^  which,  with- 
out some  very  stnking  recommendation,  was  not, 
at  that  time,  of  a  nature  to  acquire  popularity! 
They  are  in  rhymed  heroics;  the  style  being  rather 
strong  than  poetical,  although  never  flat  or  insipid. 
A  short  time  before  the  publication  of  this  volume," 
Mr.  Covq)er  became  acquainted  with  lady  Austen ' 
widow  of  sir  Robert  Austen,  who  subsequently 


2 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  COWPER. 


resided,  for  some  time,  at  the  parsonage-house  at 
Okiey.  To  the  influence  of  this  lady,  the  world 
is  indebted  for  the  exquisitely  humorous  ballad  of 
John  Gilpin,  and  the  author's  master-piece,  the 
Task.  The  latter  admirable  poem  chiefly  occupi- 
ed his  second  volume,  which  was  published  in 
1785,  and  rapidly  secured  universal  admiration. 
The  Task  unites  minute  accuracy  with  great  ele- 
gance and  picturesque  beauty;  and,  after  Thom- 
son, Cowper  is  probably  the  poet  who  has  added 
most  to  the  stock  of  natural  imagery.  The  moral 
reflections  in  this  poem  are  also  exceedingly  im- 
pressive, and  its  delineation  of  character  abounds 
in  genuine  nature.  His  religious  system,  too,  al- 
though discoverable,  is  less  gloomily  exhibited  in 
this  than  in  his  other  productions.  This  volume 
also  contained  his  Tirocinium— a  piece  strongly 
written,  and  abounding  with  striking  observations, 
whatever  may  be  thought  of  its  decision  against 
public  education.  About  the  year  1784,  he  began 
his  version  of  Homer,  which,  after  many  impedi- 
ments, appeared  in  July,  1791.  This  work  pos- 
sesses much  exactness,  as  to  sense,  and  is  certain- 


ly a  more  accurate  representation  of  Homer  than 
the  version  of  Pope;  but  English  blank  verse  can 
not  sufficiently  sustain  the  less  poetical  parts  of 
Homer,  and  the  general  effect  is  bald  and  prosaic. 
Disappointed  at  the  reception  of  this  laborious 
work,  he  meditated  a  revision  of  it,  as  also  the  su- 
perintendence of  an  edition  of  Milton,  and  a  new 
didactic  poem,  to  be  entitled  the  Four  Ages;  but, 
although  he  occasionally  wrote  a  few  verses,  and 
revised  his  Odyssey,  amidst  his  glimmerings  of 
reason,  those  and  all  other  undertakings  finally 
gave  way  to  a  relapse  of  his  malady.  His  disor- 
der extended,  with  little  intermission  to  the  close 
of  life ;  which,  melancholy  to  relate,  ended  in  a 
state  of  absolute  despair.  In  1794,  a  pension  of 
300Z.  per  annum  was  granted  him  by  the  crown. 
In  the  beginning  of  1800,  this  gifted,  but  afflicted 
man  of  genius,  exhibited  symptoms  of  dropsy, 
which  carried  him  off  on  the  25th  of  April  follow- 
ing. Since  his  death,  Cowper  has,  by  the  care 
and  industry  of  his  fiiend  and  biographer.  Hay- 
ley,  become  known  to  the  world,  as  one  of  the  most 
easy  and  elegant  letter-wrriters  on  record. 


OP 

WIIililAM  COWPER,  ESa. 

OF  THE  INNER  TEMPLE. 


Si  te  forte  meae  gravis  uret  sarcina  chartae, 
A.bjicito   £^or.  Lib.  1.  Epist.  13. 


A.  YOU  told  me,  I  remember,  glory,  built 
On  selfish  principles,  is  shame  and  guilt; 
The  deeds  that  men  admire  as  half  divine, 
Stark  naught,  because  corrupt  in  their  design. 
Strange  doctrine  this!  that  without  scruple  tears 
The  laurel,  that  the  very  lightning  spares; 
Brings  down  the  warrior's  trophy  to  the  dust, 
And  eats  into  his  bloody  sword  like  rust, 

B.  I  grant  that,  men  continuing  what  they  are. 
Fierce,  avancious,  proud,  there  must  be  war; 
And  never  meant  the  rule  should  be  apphed 

To  him,  that  fights  with  justice  on  his  side. 
!   Let  laurels  drenched  in  pure  Parnassian  dews, 
Reward  his  memory,  dear  to  every  muse. 
Who,  with  a  courage  of  unshaken  root. 
In  Honour's  field  advancing  his  firm  foot, 
Plants  it  upon  the  Une  that  Justice  draws, 
And  will  prevail  or  perish  in  her  cause. 
'Tis  to  the  virtues  of  such  men,  man  owes 
His  portion  in  the  good  that  Heaven  bestows. 
And  when  recording  History  displays 
Feats  of  renown,  though  wrought  in  ancient  days, 
Tells  of  a  few  stout  hearts,  that  fought  and  died, 
Where  duty  placed  them,  at  their  country's  side; 
The  man,  that  is  not  moved  with  what  he  reads, 
That  takes  not  fire  at  their  heroic  deeds, 
Unworthy  of  the  blessings  of  the  brave. 
Is  base  in  kind,  and  born  to  be  a  slave. 

But  let  eternal  infamy  pursue 
The  wretch  to  nought  but  his  ambition  true, 
Who,  for  the  sake  of  filUng  with  one  blast 
The  post-horns  of  all  Europe,  lays  her  waste. 
Think  yourself  stationed  on  a  towering  rock, 
To  see  a  people  scattered  like  a  flock, 


Some  royal  mastiif  panting  at  their  heels, 
With  all  the  savage  thirst  a  tiger  feels; 
Then  view  him  self-proclaimed  in  a  gazette 
Chief  monster  that  has  plagued  the  nations  yet: 
The  globe  and  sceptre  in  such  hands  misplaced, 
Those  ensigns  of  dominion,  how  disgraced! 
The  glass,  that  bids  man  mark  the  fleeting  hour, 
And  Death's  own  scythe  would  better  speak  his 
power; 

Then  grace  the  bony  phantom  in  their  stead 
With  the  king's  shoulder-knot  and  gay  cockade; 
Clothe  the  twin  brethren  in  each  other's  dress, 
The  same  their  occupation  and  success. 

A.  'Tis  your  belief  the  world  was  made  for  man; 
Kings  do  but  reason  on  the  self-same  plan: 
Maintaining  yours,  you  cannot  theirs  condemn. 
Who  think,  or  seem  to  think,  man  made  for  them> 

B.  Seldom,  alas!  the  power  of  logic  reigns 
With  much  sufficiency  in  royal  brains; 
Such  reasoning  falls  like  an  inverted  cone, 
Wanting  its  proper  base  to  stand  upon. 
Man  made  for  kings!  those  optics  are  but  dim, 
That  tell  you  so — say,  rather,  they  for  him. 
That  were  indeed  a  king-ennobUng  thought, 
Could  they,  or  would  they,  reason  as  they  ought 
The  diadem,  with  mighty  projects  lined, 

To  catch  renovm  by  ruining  mankind, 
Is  worth,  with  all  its  gold  and  gUttering  store, 
Just  what  the  toy  will  seU  for,  and  no  more. 
Oh!  bright  occasions  of  dispensing  good, 
How  seldom  used,  how  little  understood! 
To  pour  in  Virtue's  lap  her  just  reward; 
Keep  Vice  restrained  behind  a  double  guard; 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


To  quell  the  faction,  that  affronts  the  throne 
By  silent  magnanimity  alone; 
To  nurse  with  tender  care  the  thriving  arts; 
Watch  every  beam  Philosophy  imparts; 
To  give  Religion  her  unbridled  scope, 
Nor  judge  by  statute  a  believer's  hope; 
With  close  fidelity  and  love  unfeigned. 
To  keep  the  matrimonial  bond  unstained; 
Covetous  only  of  a  virtuous  praise; 
His  life  a  lesson  to  the  land  he  sways; 
To  touch  the  sword  with  conscientious  awe, 
Nor  draw  it  but  when  duty  bids  him  draw; 
To  sheathe  it  in  the  peace-restoring  close, 
With  joy  beyond  what  victory  bestows; — 
Blest  country,  where  these  Idngly  glories  shine! 
Blest  England,  if  this  happiness  be  thine ! 

A.  Guard  what  you  say,  the  patriotic  tribe 
Will  sneer,  and  charge  you  with  a  bribe— 

B.  A  bribe  1  ' 
The  worth  of  his  three  kingdoms  I  defy, 
To  lure  me  to  the  baseness  of  a  lie : 
And,  of  all  lies  (be  that  one  poet's  boast,) 
The  lie  that  flatters  I  abhor  the  most. 
Those  arts  be  theirs,  who  hate  his  gentle  reign; 
But  he  that  loves  him  has  no  need  to  feign. 

A.  Your  smooth  eulogium  to  one  crown  addrest 
Seems  to  imply  a  censure  on  the  rest. 

B.  Gluevedo,  as  he  tells  his  sober  tale. 
Asked,  when  in  hell,  to  see  the  royal  jail; 
Approved  their  method  in  all  other  tilings:  ^ 
But  where,  good  sir,  do  you  confine  your  kings'? 
There— said  his  guide— the  group  is  full  in  view. 
Indeed'?— replied  the  don— there  are  but  few. 
His  black  interpreter  the  charge  disdained— 
Few,  fellow'?— there  are  all  that  ever  reigned. 
Wit,  undistinguishing,  is  apt  to  strike 
The  guilty  and  not  guilty  both  alike: 
I  grant  the  sarcasm  is  too  severe. 
And  we  can  readily  refute  it  here; 
While  Alfred's  name,  the  father  of  his  age, 
And  the  sixth  Edward's  grace  th'  historic  page. 

A.  Kings  then,  at  last,  have  but  the  lot  of  all: 
By  their  own  conduct  they  must  stand  or  fall. 

B.  True.    While  they  live,  the  courtly  laureat 

pays  . 

His  quitrent  ode,  his  peppercorn  of  praise; 
And  many  a  dunce,  whose  fingers  itch  to  write, 
Adds,  as  he  can,  his  tributary  mite. 
A  subject's  faults  a  subject  may  proclaim, 
A  monarch's  errors  are  forbidden  game! 
Thus,  free  from  censure,  overawed  by  fear, 
And  praised  for  virtues  that  they  scorn  to  wear, 
The  fleeting  forms  of  majesty  engage 
Respect,  while  stalking  o'er  life's  narrow  stage; 
Then  leave  their  crimes  for  history  to  scan,  . 
And  ask,  with  busy  scorn,  was  this  the  man*? 

I  pity  kings,  whom  Worship  waits  upon 
Obsequious  from  the  cradle  to  the  throne; 


Before  whose  infant  eyes  the  flatterer  bows, 
And  binds  a  wreath  about  their  baby  brows; 
Whom  Education  stiffens  into  state, 
And  Death  awakens  from  that  dream  too  late. 
Oh!  if  Servility,  with  supple  knees. 
Whose  trade  it  is  to  smile,  to  crouch,  to  please; 
If  smooth  Dissimulation,  skilled  to  grace 
A  devil's  purpose  with  an  angel's  face; 
If  smiling  peeresses,  and  simpering  peers, 
Encompassing  his  throne  a  few  short  years; 
If  the  gilt  carriage  and  the  p£\.mpered  steed. 
That  wants  no  driving,  and  disdains  the  lead; 
If  guards,  mechanically  formed  in  ranks, 
Playing,  at  beat  of  drum,  their  martial  pranks, 
Shouldering  and  standing  as  if  struck  to  stone, 
While  condescending  majesty  looks  on! 
If  monarchy  consist  in  such  base  things, 
Sighing,  I  say  again,  I  pity  kings! 

To  be  suspected,  thwarted,  and  withstood, 
E'en  when  he  labours  for  his  country's  good; 
To  see  a  band  called  patriot  for  no  cause, 
But  that  they  catch  at  popular  applause, 
Careless  of  all  th'  anxiety  he  feels. 
Hook  disappointment  on  the  public  wheels; 
With  all  their  flippant  fluency  of  tongue. 
Most  confident  when  palpably  most  wrong; 
If  this  be  kingly,  then  farewell  for  me 
AH  kingship ;  and  may  I  be  poor  and  free ! 
To  be  the  table  talk  of  clubs  up-stairs. 
To  which  th'  unwashed  artificer  repairs, 
T'  indulge  his  genius  after  long  fatigue, 
By  diving  into  cabinet  intrigue; 
(For  what  kings  deem  a  toil,  as  well  they  may, 
To  him  is  relaxation  and  mere  play;) 
To  win  no  praise  when  well-wrought  plans  prevail. 
But  to  be  rudely  censured  when  they  fail ; 
To  doubt  the  love  his  favourites  may  pretend, 
And  in  reality  to  find  no  friend; 
If  he  indulge  a  cultivated  taste, 
His  galleries  with  the  works  of  art  well  graced. 
To  hear  it  called  extravagance  and  waste; 
If  these  attendants,  and  if  such  as  these. 
Must  .follow  royalty,  then  welcome  ease; 
However  humbled  and  confined  the  sphere, 
Happy  the  state  that  has  not  these  to  fear. 

A.  Thus  men,  whose  thoughts  contemplative 
have  dwelt 
On  situations  that  they  never  felt. 
Start  up  sagacious,  covered  with  the  dust. 
Of  dreaming  study  and  pedantic  rust. 
And  prate  and  preach  about  what  others  prove, 
As  if  the  world  and  they  were  hand  and  glove. 
Leave  kingly  backs  to  cope  with  kingly  cares ; 
They  have  their  weight  to  carry,  subjects  their«, 
Poets,  of  all  men,  ever  least  regret 
Increasing  taxes  and  the  nation's  debt. 
Could  you  contrive  tne  payment,  and  rehearse 
The  mighty  plan,  oracular,  in  verse, 


TABLE  TALK. 


5 


Ko  bard,  howe'er  majestic,  old  or  new. 
Should  claim  my  fixed  attention  more  than  you. 

B.  Not  Brindley  nor  Bridgewater  would  essay 
To  turn  the  course  of  Helicon  that  way; 
Nor  would  the  Nine  consent  the  sacred  tide 
Should  purl  amidst  the  traffic  of  Cheapside, 
Or  tinlvJe  ia  'Change  Alley,  to  amuse 
The  leathern  ears  of  stockjobbers  and  Jews. 

A.  Vouchsafe,  at  least,  to  pitch  the  key  of  rhyme 
To  themes  more  pertinent,  if  less  sublime. 
When  ministers  and  ministerial  arts ; 
Patriots,  who  love  good  places  at  their  hearts; 
When  admirals,  extolled  for  standing  still, 

Or  doing  nothing  with  a  deal  of  skill; 

Gen'rals,  who  will  not  conquer  when  they  may. 

Firm  friends  to  peace,  to  pleasure,  and  good  pay; 

Wlien  Freedom,  wounded  almost  to  despair, 

Though  Discontent  alone  can  find  out  where; 

When  themes  like  these  employ  the  poet's  tongue, 

I  hear  as  mute  as  if  a  syren  sung. 

Or  tell  me,  if  you  can,  what  power  maintains, 

A  Briton's  scorn  of  arbitrary  chains: 

That  were  a  theme  might  animate  the  dead, 

And  move  the  lips  of  poets  cast  in  lead. 

B.  The  cause,  tho'  worth  the  search,  may  yet 
elude 

Conjecture  and  remark,  however  shrewd. 
They  take  perhaps  a  well-directed  aim, 
Who  seek  it  in  his  cUmate  and  his  frame. 
Liberal  in  all  things  else^  yet  Nature  here 
With  stern  severity  deals  out  the  year. 
Winter  invades  the  spring,  and  often  pours 
A  chilKng  flood  on  summer's  drooping  flowers; 
Unwelcome  vapcurs  quench  autumnal  beams, 
Ungenial  blasts  attending  curl  the  streams: 
The  peasants  urge  their  harvest,  ply  the  fork 
With  double  toil,  and  shiver  at  their  work ; 
Thus  with  a  rigour  for  his  good  designed. 
She  rears  her  favourite  man  of  all  mankind. 
His  form  robust  and  of  elastic  tone, 
Proportioned  well,  half  muscle  and  half  bone, 
Supplies  with  warm  activity  and  force 
A  mind  well  lodged,  and  masculine  of  course. 
Hence  Liberty,  sweet  Liberty  inspires 
And  keeps  alive  his  fierce  but  noble  fires. 
Patient  of  constitutional  control. 
He  bears  it  with  meek  manliness  of  soul; 
But  if  Authority  grow  wanton,  wo 
To  him  that  treads  upon  his  free-born  toe; 
One  step  beyond  the  boundary  of  the  laws 
Fires  him  at  once  in  Freedom's  glorious  cause. 
Thus  proud  Prerogative,  not  much  revered, 
Is  seldom  felt,  though  sometimes  seen  and  heard; 
And  in  his  cage,  like  parrot  fine  and  gay. 
Is  kept  to  strut,  look  big,  and  talk  away. 

Born  in  a  climate  softer  far  than  ours, 
Not  formed,  like  us,  with  such  Herculean  powers, 
The  Frenchman,  easy,  debonair,  and  brisk. 
Give  him  his  lass,  his  fiddle,  and  his  frisk, 


Is  alwas  happy,  reign  whoever  may, 
And  laughs  the  sense  of  misery  far  away. 
He  drinks  his  simple  beverage  with  a  gust; 
And,  feasting  on  an  onion  and  a  crust, 
We  never  feel  th'  alacrity  and  joy 
With  which  he  shouts  and  carols  Vive  la  Roi, 
Filled  with  as  much  true  merriment  and  glee, 
As  if  he  heard  his  king  say— Slave,  be  free. 

Thus  happiness  depends,  as  Nature  shows, 
Less  on  exterior  things  than  most  suppose, 
Vigilant  over  all  that  he  has  made, 
Kind  Providence  attends  with  gracious  aid; 
Bids  equity  throughout  his  works  prevail. 
And  weighs  the  nations  in  an  even  scale; 
He  can  encourage  Slavery  to  a  smile. 
And  fill  with  discontent  a  British  isle. 

A.  Freeman,  and  slave  then,  if  the  case  be  such; 
Stand  on  a  level;  and  you  prove  too  much: 

If  all  men  indiscriminately  share 

His  fostering  power,  and  tutelary  care, 

As  well  be  yoked  by  Despotism's  hand. 

As  dwell  at  large  in  Britain's  chartered  land. 

B.  No.    Freedom  has  a  thousand  charms  to 
show, 

That  slaves,  howe'er  contented,  never  know. 

The  mind  attains  beneath  her  happy  reign, 

The  growth,  that  Nature  meant  she  should  attain; 

The  varied  fields  of  science,  ever  new. 

Opening  and  wider  opening  on  her  view. 

She  ventures  onward  with  a  prosperous  force, 

While  no  base  fear  impedes  her  in  her  course. 

Religion,  richest  favour  of  the  skies. 

Stands  most  revealed  before  the  freeman's  eyes; 

No  shades  of  superstition  blot  the  day. 

Liberty  chases  all  that  gloom  away: 

The  soul  emancipated,  unopprest. 

Free  to  prove  all  things,  and  hold  fast  the  best, 

Learns  much;  and  to  a  thousand  Hstening  minds 

Communicates  with  joy  the  good  she  finds: 

Courage  in  arms,  and  ever  prompt  to  show 

His  manly  forehead  to  the  fiercest  foe ; 

Glorious  in  war,  but  for  the  sake  of  peace, 

His  spirits  rising  as  his  toils  increase. 

Guards  well  what  arts  and  industry  have  won, 

And  Freedom  claims  him  for  her  first-born  son. 

Slaves  fight  for  what  were  better  cast  away — 

The  chains  that  binds  them,  and  a  tyrant's  sway ; 

But  they  that  fight  for  freedom,  undertake 

The  noblest  cause  mankind  can  have  at  stake : — 

Religion,  virtue,  truth,  whate'er  we  call 

A  blessing — freedom  is  the  pledge  of  all. 

O  Liberty !  the  prisoner's  pleasing  dream. 

The  poet's  muse,  his  passion,  and  his  theme; 

Genius  is  thine,  and  thou  art  Fancy's  nurse; 

Lost  without  th'  ennobling  powers  of  verse; 

Heroic  song  from  thy  free  touch  acquires 

Its  clearest  tone,  the  rapture  it  inspires: 

Place  me  where  Winter  breathes  his  keenest  air, 

And  I  will  sing,  if  Liberty  be  there; 


6 


COWPfiR'S  WORKS. 


And  I  will  sing  at  Liberty's  dear  feet, 
In  Afric's  torrid  clime,  or  India's  fiercest  heat. 

A.  Sing  where  you  please;  in  such  a  cause  I 
grant 

An  English  poet's  privilege  to  rant; 
But  is  not  Freedom — at  least  is  not  ours 
Too  apt  to  play  the  wanton  with  her  powers, 
Grow  freakish,  and,  o'erleaping  every  mound, 
Spread  anarchy  and  terror  all  around  1 

B.  Agreed.    But  would  you  sell  or  slay  your 
horse 

For  bounding  and  curveting  in  his  course'? 
Or  if,  when  ridden  with  a  careless  rein, 
He  break  away,  and  seek  the  distant  plain"? 
No.    His  high  mettle,  under  good  control, 
Gives  him  Olympic  speed,  and  shoots  him  to  the 
goal. 

Let  disciphne  employ  her  wholesome  arts; 
Let  magistrates  alert  perform  their  parts; 
Not  skulk  or  put  on  a  prudential  mask. 
As  if  their  duty  were  a  desperate  task; 
Let  active  laws  apply  the  needful  t;urb, 
To  guard  the  peace  that  Riot  would  disturb; 
And  Liberty,  preserved  from  wild  excess, 
Shall  raise  no  feuds  for  armies  to  suppress. 
When  Tumult  lately  burst  his  prison-door, 
And  set  plebeian  thousands  in  a  roar; 
When  he  usurped  Authority's  just  place 
And  dared  to  look  his  master  in  the  face 
When  the  rude  rabble's  watch-word  was — De- 
stroy, 

And  blazing  London  seemed  a  second  Troy; 
Liberty  blushed  and  hung  her  drooping  head, 
Beheld  their  progress  with  the  deepest  dread; 
Blushed,  that  effects  like  these  she  should  pro- 
duce. 

Worse  than  the  deeds  of  galley-slaves  broke  loose. 
She  loses  in  such  storms  her  very  name. 
And  fierce  Licentiousness  should  bear  the  blame. 

Incomparable  gem!  thy  worth  untold; 
Cheap  though  blood-bought,  and  throvm  away 
when  sold ; 

May  no  foes  ravish  thee,  and  no  false  friend 
Betray  thee,  while  professing  to  defend! 
Prize  it,  ye  ministers;  ye  monarchs,  spare; 
Ye  Patriots,  guard  it  with  a  miser's  care. 

A.  Patriots,  alas!  the  few  that  have  been  found 
Where  most  they  flourish,  upon  EngUsh  ground 
The  country's  need  have  scantily  supplied, 
And  the  last  left  the  scene,  when  Chatham  died 

B.  Not  so— the  virtue  still  adorns  our  age, 
Though  the  chief  actor  died  upon  the  stage. 
In  him  Demosthenes  was  heard  again; 
Liberty  taught  him  her  Athenian  strain; 
She  clothed  him  with  authority  and  awe. 
Spoke  from  his  lips,  and  in  his  looks  gave  law. 
His  speech,  his  form,  his  action,  full  of  grace, 
And  all  his  country  beaming  in  his  face, 


He  stood,  as  some  inimitable  hand 
Would  strive  to  make  a  Paul  or  Tully  stand. 
No  sycophant  or  slave,  that  dared  oppose 
Her  sacred  cause,  but  trembled  when  he  rose; 
And  every  venal  stickler  for  the  yoke 
Felt  himself  crushed  at  the  first  word  he  spoke. 

Such  men  are  raised  to  station  and  command, 
When  Providence  means  mercy  to  a  land. 
He  speaks,  and  they  appear;  to  him  they  owe 
Skill  to  direct,  and  strength  to  strike  the  blow; 
To  manage  with  address,  to  seize  with  power 
The  crisis  of  a  dark  decisive  hour; 
So  Gideon  earned  a  victory  not  his  own; 
Subserviency  his  praise,  and  that  alone. 

Poor  England !  thou  art  a  devoted  deer, 
Beset  with  every  ill  but  that  of  fear. 
The  nations  hunt;  all  mark  thee  for  a  prey; 
They  swarm  around  thee,  and  thou  stand'st  at 
bay, 

Undaunted  still,  though  wearied  and  perplexed; 
Once  Chatham  saved  thee ;  but  who  saves  thee  nextl 
Alas !  the  tide  of  pleasure  sweeps  along 
All,  that  should  be  the  boast  of  British  song. 
'Tis  not  the  wreath,  that  once  adorned  thy  brow, 
The  prize  of  happier  times,  will  serve  thee  now 
Our  ancestry,  a  gallant,  chieftain  race. 
Patterns  of  every  virtue,  every  grace. 
Confessed  a  God;  they  kneeled  before  they  fought. 
And  praised  him  in  the  victories  he  wrought. 
Now  from  the  dust  of  ancient  days  bring  forth 
Their  sober  zeal,  integrity,  and  worth; 
Courage,  ungraced  by  these,  affronts  the  skies, 
Is  but  the  fire  without  the  sacrifice. 
The  stream,  that  feeds  the  wellspring  of  the  heart 
Not  more  invigorates  life's  noblest  part, 
Than  virtue  quickens,  with  a  warmth  divine,  , 
The  powers,  that  Sin  has  brought  to  a  decline. 

A.  Th'  inestimable  Estimate  of  Brown 
Rose  hke  a  paper  kite,  and  charmed  the  town; 
But  measures,  planned  and  executed  well, 
Shifted  the  wind  that  raised  it,  and  it  fell. 
He  trod  the  very  self-same  ground  you  tread, 
And  victory  refuted  all  he  said. 

B.  And  yet  his  judgment  was  not  framed  amiss; 
Its  error,  if  it  erred,  was  merely  this — 
He  thought  the  dying  hour  already  come, 
And  a  complete  recovery  struck  him  dumb. 

But  that  effeminacy,  folly,  lust, 
Enervate  and  enfeeble,  and  needs  must ; 
And  that  a  nation  shamefully  debased, 
Will  be  despised  and  trampled  on  at  last, 
Unless  sweet  Penitence  her  powers  renew; 
Is  truth,  if  history  itself  be  true. 
There  is  a  time,  and  Justice  marks  the  date, 
For  long-forbearing  Clemency  to  wait; 
That  hour  elapsed,  the  incurable  revolt 
Is  punished,  and  down  comes  the  thunderbolt. 
If  Mercy  then  put  by  the  threat'ning  blow. 
Must  she  perform  the  same  kind  office  now? 


TABLE  TALK. 


7 


May  she !  and,  if  offended  Heaven  be  still 
Accessible,  and  prayer  prevail,  sbe  will. 
'Tis  not,  however,  insolence  and  noise, 
The  tempest  of  tumultuary  joys, 
Nor  is  it  yet  despondence  and  dismay 
Will  win  her  visits,  or  engage  her  stay ; 
Prayer  only,  and  the  penitential  tear, 
Can  call  her  smiling  down,  and  fix  her  here. 

But  when  a  country  (one  that  I  could  name) 
In  prostitution  sinks  the  sense  of  shame : 
When  infamous  Venality,  grown  bold, 
Writes  on  his  bosom,  to  be  let  or  sold  ; 
When  Perjury,  that  Heaven-defying  vice, 
Sells  oaths  by  tale,  and  at  the  lowest  price; 
Stamps  God's  own  name  upon  a  lie  just  made, 
To  turn  a  penny  in  the  way  of  trade; 
When  Avarice  starves  (and  never  hides  his  face) 
Two  or  three  millions  of  the  human  race. 
And  not  a  tongue  inquires,  how,  where,  or  when, 
Though  conscience  wUl  have  tmnges  now  and 
then; 

When  profanation  of  the  sacred  cause 
In  all  its  parts,  times,  ministry,  and  laws. 
Bespeaks  a  land,  once  Christian,  fallen  and  lost, 
In  all,  that  wars  against  the  title  most; 
What  follows  next  let  cities  of  great  name, 
And  regions  long  since  desolate  proclaim. 
Nineveh,  Babylon,  and  ancient  Rome, 
Speak  to  the  present  time,  and  times  to  come; 
They  cry  aloud,  in  every  careless  ear, 
Stop,  while  ye  may;  suspend  your  mad  career; 
O  learn  from  our  example  and  our  fate, 
Learn  wisdom  and  repentance,  ere  too  late. 

Not  only  Vice  disposes  and  prepares 
The  mind,  that  slumbers  sweetly  in  her  snares, 
To  stoop  to  Tyranny's  usurped  command. 
And  bend  her  polished  neck  beneath  his  hand, 
(A  dire  effect,  by  one  of  Nature's  laws. 
Unchangeably  connected  with  its  cause;) 
But  Providence  himself  will  intervene. 
To  throw  his  dark  displeasure  o'er  the  scene. 
All  are  his  instruments;  each  form  of  war. 
What  burns  at  home,  or  threatens  from  afar, 
Nature  in  arms,  her  elements  at  strife. 
The  storms,  that  overset  the  joys  of  life, 
Are  but  the  rods  to  scourge  a  guilty  land, 
And  waste  it  at  the  bidding  of  his  hand. 
He  gives  his  word,  and  Mutiny  soon  roars 
In  all  her  gates,  and  shakes  her  distant  shores ; 
The  standards  of  all  nations  are  unfurled ; 
She  has  one  foe,  and  that  one  foe  the  world: 
And,  if  he  doom  that  people  with  a  frown, 
And  mark  them  vnth  a  seal  of  wrath  pressed  down. 
Obduracy  takes  place;  callous  and  tough. 
The  reprobated  race  grows  judgment-proof: 
Earth  shakes  beneath  them,  and  Heaven  roars 
above ; 

But  nothing  scares  them  from  the  course  they  love 
2  B  2 


To  the  lascivious  pipe  and  wanton  song. 
That  charm  down  fear,  they  frolic  it  along. 
With  mad  rapidity  and  unconcern, 
Down  to  the  gulf,  from  which  is  no  return. 
They  trust  in  navies,  and  their  navies  fail — 
God's  curse  can  cast  away  ten  thousand  sail ! 
They  trust  in  armies,  and  their  courage  dies; 
In  wisdom,  wealth,  in  fortune,  and  in  lies; 
But  all  they  trust  in  withers,  as  it  must, 
When  He  commands,  in  whom  they  place  no  trust. 
Vengeance  at  last  pours  down  upon  their  coast  - 
A  long  despised,  but  now  victorious  host; 
Tyranny  sends  the  chain  that  must  abridge 
The  noble  sweep  of  all  their  privilege; 
Gives  liberty  the  last,  the  mortal  shock; 
Shps  the  slave's  collar  on,  and  snaps  the  lock. 

A.  Such  lofty  strains  embelUsh  what  you  teach; 
Mean  you  to  prophesy,  or  but  to  preach? 

B.  I  know  the  mind,  that  feels  indeed  the  fire 
The  muse  imparts,  and  can  command  the  lyre, 
Acts  with  a  force,  and  kindles  with  a  zeal, 
Whate'er  the  theme,  that  others  never  feel. 
If  human  woes  her  soft  attention  claim, 
A  tender  sympathy  pervades  the  frame ; 
She  pours  a  sensibility  divine 
Along  the  nerve  of  every  feeling  line. 
But  if  a  deed,  not  tamely  to  be  borne, 
Fire  indignation  and  a  sense  of  scorn. 
The  strings  are  swept  with  a  power,  so  loud. 
The  storm  of  music  shakes  the  astonished  crowd. 
So,  when  remote  futurity  is  brought 
Before  the  keen  inquiry  of  her  thought, 
A  terrible  sagacity  informs 
The  poet's  heart;  he  looks  to  distant  storms; 
He  hears  the  thunder  ere  the  tempest  lowers; 
And,  armed  with  strength  surpassing  human 

powers. 

Seizes  events  as  yet  unlcnown  to  man, 
And  darts  his  soul  into  the  dawning  plan. 
Hence,  in  a  Roman  mouth,  the  graceful  name 
Of  prophet  and  of  poet  was  the  same; 
Hence  British  poets  too  the  priesthood  shared, 
And  every  hallowed  druid  was  a  bard. 
But  no  prophetic  fires  to  me  belong ; 
I  play  with  syllables,  and  sport  in  song. 

A.  At  Westminster,  where  little  poets  strive 
To  set  a  distich  upon  six  and  five. 
Where  discipline  helps  th'  opening  buds  of  sense, 
And  makes  his  pupils  proud  with  silver  pence, 
I  was  a  poet  too;  but  modern  taste 
Is  so  refined,  and  delicate,  and  chaste, 
That  verse,  v?hatever  fire  the  fancy  warms, 
Without  a  "creamy  smoothness  has  no  charms. 
Thus,  all  success  depending  on  an  ear. 
And  thinldng  I  might  purchase  it  too  dear, 
If  sentiment  were  sacrificed  to  sound, 
And  truth  cut  short  to  make  a  period  round, 
I  judged  a  man  of  sense  could  scarce  do  worse, 
Than  caper  in  the  morris- dance  of  verse. 


8 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


B.  Thus  reputation  is  a  spur  to  wit, 
And  some  wits  flag  through  fear  of  losing  it. 
Give  me  the  Une  that  ploughs  its  stately  course 
Like  a  proud  swan,  conquering  the  stream  by  force, 
That,  like  some  cottage  beauty,  strikes  the  heart, 
auite  unindebted  to  the  tricks  of  art. 
When  Labour  and  when  Dullness,  club  in  hand, 
Like  the  two  figures  at  St.  Dunstan's  stand. 
Beating  alternately,  in  measured  time, 
The  clock-work  tintinabulum  of  rhyme, 
Exact  and  regular  the  sounds  will  be; 
But  such  mere  quarter-strokes  are  not  for  me. 

From  him,  who  rears  a  poem  lank  and  long, 
To  him  who  strains  his  all  into  a  song; 
Perhaps  some  bonny  Caledonian  air,' 
AH  birks  and  braes,  though  he  was.never  there; 
Or,  having  whelped  a  prologue  with  great  pains; 
Feels  himself  spent,  and  fumbles  for  his  brains; 
A  prologue  interdashed  with  many  a  stroke — 
An  art  contrived  to  advertise  a  joke, 
So  that  the  jest  is  clearly  to  be  seen, 
Not  in  the  words— but  in  the  gap  between: 
Manner  is  all  in  all,  whate'er  is  writ, 
The  substitute  for  genius,  sense,  and  wit. 

To  dally  much  with  subj  ects  mean  and  low 
Proves  that  the  mind  is  weak,  or  makes  it  so. 
Neglected  talents  rust  into  decay. 
And  every  effort  ends  in  pushpin  play. 
'The  man,  that  means  success,  should  soar  above 
A  soldier's  feather,  or  a  lady's  glove; 
Else,  summoning  the  muse  to  such  a  theme, 
The  fruit  of  aii  her  labour  is  whipped  cream. 
As  if  an  eagle  flew  aioft,  and  then — 
Stooped  from  its  highest  pitch  to  pounce  a  wren. 
As  if  the  poet,  purposing  to  wed, 
ShouM  carve  himself  a  wife  in  gingerbread. 

Ages  eiapsed  ere  Homer's  lamp  appeared, 
Aad  ages  ere  the  Mantuan  swan  was  heard. 
To  carry  naiure  lengths  unknown  before, 
T-o  give  a  Milton  birth,  asked  ages  more. 
ThJis  Genius  rose  and  sd;  at  ordered  times, 
And  shot  a  dayspring  into  distant  climes, 
Eun-obling  every  region  that  he  chose; 
He  sunk  in  Greece,  in  Italy  he  rose: 
And  tedious  years  of  Gothic  darkness  past, 
Emerged,  all  splendour,  in  our  isle  at  last. 
Thus  lovely  halcyons  dive  into  the  main. 
Then  show  far  off  their  shining  plumes  again. 

A.  Is  genius  only  found  in  epic  lays'?  ^ 
Prove  this,  and  forfeit  all  pretence  to  praise. 
Make  their  heroic  powers  your  own  at  once, 
Or  candidly  confess  yourself  a  dunce. 

27.  These  were  the  chief:  each  interval  of  night 
Was  graced  with  many  an  undulating  light. 
In  less  illustrious  bards  his  beauty  shone 
A  meteor,  or  a  star ;  in  these  the  sun. 

The  nightingale  may  claim  the  topmost  bough 
Wliile  the  poor  grasshopper  must  chirp  below. 


Like  him  unnoticed,  I,  and  such  as  I, 
Spread  little  wings,  and  rather  skip  than  fly; 
Perched  on  the  meagre  produce  of  the  land, 
An  ell  or  two  of  prospect  we  command ; 
But  never  peep  beyond  the  thorny  bound 
Or  oaken  fence,  that  hems  the  paddock  round. 

In  Eden,  ere  yet  innocence  of  heart 
Had  faded,  poetry  was  not  an  art : 
Language,  above  all  teaching,  or,  if  taught, 
Only  by  gratitude  and  glowing  thought. 
Elegant  as  simplicity,  and  warm 
As  ecstacy,  unmanacled  by  form ; 
Not  prompted,  as  in  our  degenerate  days, 
By  low  ambition  and  the  thirst  of  praise ; 
Was  natural  as  is  the  flowing  stream. 
And  yet  magnificent.    A  God  the  theme ! 
That  theme  on  earth  exhausted,  though  above 
'Tis  found  as  everlasting  as  his  love. 
Man  lavished  all  his  thoughts  on  human  things- 
The  feats  of  heroes,  and  the  wrath  of  kings ; 
But  still,  while  Virtue  kindled  his  delight. 
The  song  was  moral,  and  so  far  was  right. 
'Twas  thus,  tUl  Luxury  seduced  the  mind 
To  joys  less  innocent,  as  less  refined ; 
Then  genius  danced  a  bacchanal ;  he  crowned 
The  brimming  goblet,  seized  the  thyrsus,  bound 
His  brows  with  ivy,  rushed  into  the  field 
Of  wild  imagination,  and  there  reeled. 
The  victim  of  his  own  lascivious  fires. 
And  dizzy  with  delight,  profaned  the  sacred  wires. 
Anacreon,  Horace  played  in  Greece  and  Rome 
This  bedlam  part ;  and  others  nearer  home. 
When  Cromwell  fought  for  power,  and  while  he 
reigned 

The  proud  protector  of  the  power  he  gained, 
Religion,  harsh,  intolerant,  austere, 
Parent  of  manners  like  herself  severe. 
Drew  a  rough  copy  of  the  Christian  face. 
Without  the  smile,  the  sweetness,  or  the  grace ; 
The  dark  and  sullen  humour  of  the  time 
Judged  every  effort  of  the  muse  a  crime ; 
Verse,  in  the  finest  mould  of  fancy  cast. 
Was  lumber  in  an  age  so  void  of  taste : 
But  when  the  Second  Charles  assumed  the  sway, 
And  arts  revived  beneath  a  softer  day; 
Then,  like  a  bow  long  forced  into  a  curve, 
The  mind,  released  from  too  constrained  a  nerve, 
Flew  to  its  first  position  with  a  spring. 
That  made  the  vaulted  roofs  of  pleasure  ring. 
His  court,  the  dissolute  and  hateful  school 
Of  Wantonness,  where  vice  was  taught  by  rule. 
Swarmed  with  a  scribbling  herd,  as  deep  inlaid 
With  brutal  lust  as  ever  Circe  made. 
From  these  a  long  succession,  in  the  rage 
Of  rank  obscenity,  debauched  their  age ; 
Nor  ceased,  till,  ever  anxious  to  redress 
The  abuses  of  her  sacred  charge,  the  press, 
The  muse  instructed  a  well-nurtured  train 
Of  abler  votaries  to  cleanse  the  stain, 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


And  claim  the  palm  for  purity  of  song, 
That  Lewdness  had  usurped  and  worn  so  long. 
Then  decent  Pleasantry  and  sterling  Sense, 
That  neither  gave,  nor  would  endure  offence, 
Whipped  out  of  sight,  with  satire  just  and  keen, 
The  puppy  pack,  that  had  defiled  the  scene. 

In  front  of  these  came  Addison.    In  him 
Humour  in  holiday  and  sightly  trim, 
SubUmity  and  Attic  taste  combined, 
To  polish,  furnish,  and  delight  the  mind. 
Then  Pope,  as  harmony  itself  exact. 
In  verse  well  disciplined,  complete,  compact, 
Gave  virtue  and  morality  a  grace. 
That,  quite  eclipsing  Pleasure's  painted  face. 
Levied  a  tax  of  wonder  and  applause. 
Even  on  the  fools  that  trampled  on  their  laws. 
But  he  (his  musical  finesse  was  such, 
So  nice  his  ear,  so  delicate  his  touch)  | 
Made  poetry  a  mere  mechanic  art ; 
And  every  warbler  has  his  tune  by  heart. 
Nature  imparting  her  satiric  gift. 
Her  serious  mirth,  to  Arbuthnot  and  Swift, 
With  droll  sobriety  they  raised  a  smile 
At  Folly's  cost,  themselves  unmoved  the  while. 
That  constellation  set,  the  world  in  vain 
Must  hope  to  look  upon  their  like  again, 

A.  Are  we  then  left— 5.  Not  wholly  in  the  dark ; 
Wit  now  and  then,  struck  smartly,  shows  a  spark. 
Sufficient  to  redeem  the  modern  race 
From  total  night  and  absolute  disgrace. 
While  servile  trick  and  imitative  knack 
Confine  the  million  in  the  beaten  track. 
Perhaps  some  courser,  who  disdains  the  road. 
Snuffs  up  the  wind,  and  flings  himself  abroad. 

Contemporaries  all  surpassed,  see  one ; 
Short  his  career  indeed,  but  ably  run ; 
Churchill,  himself  unconscious  of  his  powerj5, 
In  penury  consumed  his  idle  hours ; 
And,  like  a  scattered  seed  at  random  sown, 
Was  left  to  spring  by  vigour  of  his  own. 
Lifted  at  length,  by  dignity  of  thought 
And  dint  of  genius,  to  an  afiluent  lot, 
He  laid  his  head  in  Luxury's  soft  lap. 
And  took,  too  often,  there  his  easy  nap. 
If  brighter  beams  'than  all  he  threw  not  forth, 
'Twas  negligence  in  him,  not  want  of  worth. 
Surly,  and  slovenly,  and  bold,  and  coarse, 
Too  proud  for  art,  and  trusting  in  mere  force, 
Spendthrift  alike  of  money  and  of  wit,  ^ 
Always  at  speed,  and  never  drawing  bit, 
He  struck  the  lyre  in  such  a  careless  mood, 
And  so  disdained  the  rules  he  understood. 
The  laurel  seemed  to  wait  on  his  command. 
He  snatched  it  rudely  from  the  Muses'  hand. 
Nature  exerting  an  unwearied  power, 
Forms,  opens,  and  gives  scent  to  every  flower ; 
Spreads  the  fresh  verdure  of  the  fields,  and  leads 
The  dancing  Naiads  through  the  dewy  meads : 


She  fills  profuse  ten  thousand  little  throats 
With  music,  modulating  all  their  notes ; 
And  charms  the  woodland  scenes,  and  wilds  un- 
known. 

With  artless  airs  and  concerts  of  her  own ; 
But  seldom  (as  if  fearful  of  expense) 
Vouchsafes  to  man  a  poet's  just  pretence — 
Fervency,  freedom,  fluency  of  thought. 
Harmony,  strength,  words  exquisitely  sought; 
Fancy,  that,  from  the  bow  that  spans  the  sky. 
Brings  colours,  dipped  in  Heaven,  that  never  die ; 
A  soul  exalted  above  Earth,  a  mind 
Skilled  in  the  characters  that  form  mankind  ^ 
And,  as  the  Sun  in  rising  beauty  drest. 
Looks  to  the  westward  from  the  dappled  east, 
And  marks,  whatever  clouds  may  interpose, 
Ere  yet  his  race  begins,  its  glorious  close ; 
An  eye  like  his  to  catch  the  distant  goal ; 
Or,  ere  the  wheels  of  verse  begin  to  roll, 
Like  his  to  shed  illuminating  rays 
On  every  scene  and  subject  it  surveys: 
Thus  graced,  the  man  asserts  a  poet's  name, 
And  the  world  cheerfully  admits  the  claim. 
Pity  Religion  has  so  seldom  found 
A  skilful  guide  into  poetic  ground ! 
The  flowers  would  spring  where'er  she  deigned  to 
stray. 

And  every  muse  attend  her  in  her  way. 
Virtue  indeed  meets  many  a  rhyming  friend, 
And  many  a  compliment  poUtely  penned ; 
But  unattired  in  that  becoming  vest 
Religion  weaves  for  her,  and  half  undrest, 
Stands  in  the  desert,  shivering  and  forlorn, 
A  wintry  figure,  like  a  withered  thorn. 
The  shelves  are  full,  all  other  themes  are  sped; 
Hackneyed  and  worn  to  the  last  flimsy  thread, 
Satire  has  long  since  done  his  best ;  and  curst 
And  loathsome  Ribaldry  has  done  his  worst ; 
Fancy  has  sported  all  her  powers  away 
In  tales,  in  trifles,  and  in  children's  play; 
And  'tis  the  sad  complaint,  and  almost  true, 
Whate'er  we  write,  we  bring  forth  nothing  new. 
'Twere  new  indeed  to  see  a  bard  all  fire, 
Touched  with  a  coal  from  Heaven,  assume  the 
lyre. 

And  tell  the  world,  still  kindling  as  he  sung, 
With  more  than  mortal  music  on  his  tongue, 
That  He,  who  died  below,  and  reigns  above, 
Inspires  the  song,  and  that  his  name  is  Love. 

For,  after  all,  if  merely  to  beguile, 
By  flowing  numbers  and  a  flowery  stye. 
The  tffidium  that  the  lazy  rich  endure. 
Which  now  and  then  sweet  poetry  may  cure ; 
Or,  if  to  see  the  name  of  idle  self. 
Stamped  on  the  well-bound  quarto,  grace  the  shelf. 
To  float  a  bubble  on  the  breath  of  Fame, 
Prompt  his  endeavour  and  engage  his  aim, 
Debased  to  servile  purposes  of  pride. 
How  are  the  powers  of  genius  misapplied  I 


10 


COWPER'S  WORKS, 


The  gift,  whofse  office  is  the  Giver's  praise, 
To  trace  him  in  his  word,  his  works,  his  ways ! 
Then  spread  the  rich  discovery,  and  invite 
Mankind  to  share  in  the  divine  deUght ; 
Distorted  from  its  use  and  just  design, 
To  make  the  pitiful  possessor  shine, 
To  purchase,  at  the  fool-frequented  fair 
Of  vanity,  a  wreath  for  self  to  wear, 
Is  profanation  of  the  basest  kind — 
Proof  of  a  trifling  and  a  worthless  ramd, 
A.  Hail,  Sternhold,  then!  and  Hopkins,  hail! 
B.  Amen. 


If  flattery,  folly,  lust,  employ  the  pen; 

If  acrimony,  slander,  and  abuse, 

Give  it  a  charge  to  blacken  and  traduce; 

Though  Butler's  wit,  Pope's  numbers.  Prior's  ease, 

With  all  that  fancy  can  invent  to  please, 

Adorn  the  polished  periods  as  they  fall. 

One  madrigal  of  theirs  is  worth  them  all. 

A.  'T  would  thin  the  ranks  of  the  poetic  tribe, 
To  dash  the  pen  through  all  that  you  proscribe. 

B.  No  matter — we  could  shift  when  they  were 
not; 

And  should,  no  doubt,  if  they  were  all  forgot. 


Si  quid  loquar  audiendum.    Hor.  Lib.  iv.  Od.  2. 


Sing,  muse,  (if  such  a  theme,  so  dark,  so  long, 
May  find  a  muse  to  grace  it  with  a  song,) 
By  what  unseen  and  unsuspected  arts 
The  serpent  Error  twines  round  human  hearts; 
Tell  where  she  lurks,  beneath  what  flowery  shades, 
That  not  a  glimpse  of  genuine  light  pervades, 
The  poisonous,  black,  insinuating  worm 
Successfully  conceals  her  loathsome  form. 
Take,  if  ye  can,  ye  careless  and  supine. 
Counsel  and  caution  from  a  voice  like  mine! 
Truths,  that  the  theorist  could  never  reach. 
And  observation  taught  me,  I  would  teach.  , 

Not  all,  whose  eloquence  the  fancy  fills, 
Musical  as  the  chime  of  tinkling  rills. 
Weak  to  perform,  though  mighty  to  pretend. 
Can  trace  her  mazy  Mdndings  to  their  end; 
Discern  the  fraud  beneath  the  specious  lure. 
Prevent  the  danger,  or  prescribe  the  cure. 
The  clear  harangue,  and  cold  as  it  is  clear, 
Falls  soporific  on  the  hstless  ear; 
Like  quicksilver,  the  rhetoric  they  display. 
Shines  as  it  runs,  but  grasped  at  slips  away. 

Placed  for  his  trial  on  this  bustling  stage. 
From  thoughtless  youth  to  ruminating  age. 
Free  in  his  will  to  choose  or  to  refuse, 
Man  may  improve  the  crisis,  or  abuse; 
Else  on  the  fataUst's  unrighteous  plan, 
Say  to  what  bar  amenable  were  man'? 
With  nought  in  charge,  he  could  betray  no  trust; 
And,  if  he  fell,  would  fall  because  he  must; 
If  Love  reward  him,  or  if  Vengeance  strike. 
His  recompence  in  both  unjust  aUke. 
Divine  authority  within  his  breast 
Brings  every  thought,  word,  action,  to  the  test; 
Warns  him  or  prompts,  approves  him  or  restrains. 
As  Reason,  or  as  Passion,  takes  the  reins. 
Heaven  from  above,  and  Conscience  from  within, 
Cries  in  his  startled  ear — Abstain  from  sin! 
The  world  around  solicits  his  desire, 
And  kindles  in  his  soul  a  treacherous  fire, 


While,  all  his  purposes  and  steps  to  guard, 
Peace  follows  Virtue  as  its  sure  reward; 
And  Pleasure  brings  as  surely  in  her  train 
Remorse,  and  Sorrow,  and  Vindictive  Pain. 

Man,  thus  endued  with  an  elective  voice. 
Must  be  supplied  with  objects  of  his  choice; 
Where'er  he  turns,  enjoyment  and  delight, 
Or  present,  or  in  prospect,  meet  his  sight ; 
Those  open  on  the  spot  their  honeyed  storfi 
These  call  him  loudly  to  pursuit  of  more. 
His  unexhausted  mine  the  sordid  vice 
Avarice  shows,  and  virtue  is  the  price. 
Her  various  motives  his  ambition  raise — 
Power,  pomp,  and  splendour,  and  the  thirst  of 
praise; 

There  beauty  woos  him  with  expanded  arms ; 
E'en  Bacchanalian  madness  has  its  charms. 

Nor  these  alone,  whose  pleasures  less  refined, 
Might  well  alarm  the  most  unguarded  mind, 
Seek  to  supplant  his  inexperienced  youth. 
Or  lead  him  devious  from  the  path  of  truth; 
Hourly  allurements  on  his  passions  press. 
Safe  in  themselves,  but  dangerous  in  th'  excess. 

Hark!  how  it  floats  upon  the  dew j  air! 
O  what  a  dying,  dying  close  was  there! 
'Tis  harmony  from  yon  sequestered  bower. 
Sweet  harmony  that  soothes  the  midnight  hour! 
Long  ere  the  charioteer  of  day  had  run 
His  morning  course,  th'  enchantment  was  begun, 
And  he  shall  gild  yon  mountain's  height  again, 
Ere  yet  the  pleasing  toil  becomes  a  pain. 

Is  this  the  rugged  path,  the  steep  ascent. 
That  Virtue  points  to"?  Can  a  Ufe  thus  spent 
Lead  to  the  bliss  she  promises  the  wise. 
Detach  the  soul  from  earth,  and  speed  her  to  the 
skies'? 

Ye  devotees  to  your  adored  employ. 
Enthusiasts,  drunk  with  an  unreal  joy. 
Love  makes  the  music  of  the  blest  above, 
Heaven's  harmony  is  universal  love: 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROR. 


11 


And  earthly  sounds,  tho'  sweet  and  well  combined 
And  lenient  as  soft  opiates  to  the  mind, 
Leave  Vice  and  Folly  unsubdued  behind. 

Gray  dawn  appears;  the  sportsman  and  his  train 
Speckle  the  bosom  of  the  distant  plain; 
'Tis  he,  the  Nimrod  of  the  neighbouring  lairs; 
Save  that  his  scent  is  less  acute  than  theirs; 
For  persevering  chase,  and  headlong  leaps. 
True  beagle  as  the  staunchest  hound  he  keeps. 
Charged  with  the  folly  of  his  life's  mad  scene. 
He  takes  offence,  and  wonders  what  you  mean; 
The  joy  the  danger  and  the  toil  o'erpays — 
'Tis  exercise,  and  health,  and  length  of  days. 
Again  impetuous  to  the  field  he  flies; 
Leaps  every  fence  but  one,  there  falls  and  dies; 
Like  a  slain  deer,  the  tumbrel  brings  him  home, 
Unmissed  but  by  his  dogs  and  by  his  groom. 

Ye  clergy,  while  your  orbit  is  your  place, 
Lights  of  the  world,  and  stars  of  human  race; 
But  if  eccentric  ye  forsake  your  sphere, 
Prodigies  ominous,  and  viewed  with  fear; 
The  comet's  baneful  influence  is  a  dream; 
Yours,  real  and  pernicious  in  th'  extreme. 
What  then!— are  appetites  and  lusts  laid  down. 
With  the  same  ease  that  man  puts  on  his  gownl 
Will  Avarice  and  concupiscence  give  place, 
Charmedby  the  sounds— Your  Reverence,  or  Your 
Grace  1 

No.    But  his  own  engagement  binds  him  fast ; 
Or,  if  it  does  not,  brands  him  to  the  last, 
What  atheists  call  him — a  designing  knave, 
A.  mere  church  juggler,  hypocrite,  and  slave. 
Oh,  laugh  or  mourn  with  me  the  rueful  jest, 
A  cassocked  huntsman,  and  a  fiddling  priest ! 
He  from  Italian  songsters  takes  his  cue: 
Set  Paul  to  music,  he  shall  quote  him  too. 
He  takes  the  field,  the  master  of  the  pack 
Cries— Well  done,  saint!  and  claps  him  on  the 
back. 

Is  this  the  path  of  sanctity?  Is  this 
To  stand  a  waymark  in  the  road  to  bliss'? 
Himself  a  wanderer  from  the  narrow  way, 
His  silly  sheep,  what  wonder  if  they  stray  7 
Go,  cast  your  orders  at  your  bishop's  feet. 
Send  your  dishonoured  gown  to  Monmouth-street ! 
The  sacred  function  in  your  hands  is  made — 
Sad  privilege !  no  function,  but  a  trade ! 

Occiduus  is  a  pastor  of  renown. 
When  he  has  prayed  and  preached  the  sabbath 
down. 

With  vfire  and  catgut  he  concludes  the  day, 
Q-Uavering  and  semiquavering  care  away 
The  full  concerto  swells  upon  your  ear; 
All  elbows  shake.    Look  in,  and  you  would  swear 
The  Babylonian  tyrant  vdth  a  nod 
Had  summoned  them  to  serve  his  golden  god. 
So  well  that  thought  th'  employment  seems  to  suit. 
Psaltery  and  sackbut,  dulcimer  and  flute. 


Ofie!  'tis  evangelical  and  pure: 
Observe  each  face,  how  sober  and  demure ! 
Ecstacy  sets  her  stamp  on  every  mien; 
Chins  fallen,  and  not  an  eye-ball  to  be  seen . 
Still  I  insist,  though  music  heretofore 
Has  charmed  me  much,  (not  e'en  Occiduus  more,) 
Love,  joy,  and  peace,  make  harmony  more  meet 
For  sabbath  evenings,  and  perhaps  as  sweet. 

Will  not  the  sickliest  sheep  of  every  flock 
Resort  to  this  example  as  a  rock ; 
There  stand,  and  justify  the  foul  abuse 
Of  sabbath-hours  with  plausible  excuse  ] 
If  apostolic  gravity  be  free 
To  play  the  fool  on  Sundays,  why  not  we? 
If  he  the  tinkling  harpsichord  regards 
As  inoffensive,  what  offence  in  cards'? 
Strike  up  the  fiddles,  let  ife  all  be  gay. 
Laymen  have  leave  to  dance,  if  parsons  play. 

Oh  Italy ! — Thy  sabbaths  will  be  soon 
Our  sabbaths,  closed  with  mummery  and  buffoon. 
Preaching  and  pranks  will  share  the  motley  scene, 
Ours  parcelled  out,  as  thine  have  ever  been, 
God's  worship  and  the  mountebank  between. 
What  says  the  prophet  1    Let  that  day  be  blest 
With  hoHness  and  consecrated  rest. 
Pastime  and  business  both  it  should  exclude, 
And  bar  the  door  the  moment  they  intrude: 
Nobly  distinguished  above  all  the  six 
By  deeds,  in  which  the  world  must  never  mix. 
Hear  him  again.    He  calls  it  a  delight, 
A  day  of  lux;ury  observed  aright, 
When  the  glad  soul  is  made  Heaven's  welcome 
guest. 

Sits  banqueting,  and  God  provides  the  feast. 
But  triflers  are  engaged  and  can  not  come; 
Their  answer  to  the  call  is — Noi  at  home. 

O  the  dear  pleasures  of  the  velvet  plain. 
The  painted  tablets,  dealt  and  dealt  again ! 
Cards  with  what  rapture,  and  the  polished  die, 
The  yawning  chasm  of  indolence  supply ! 
Then  to  the  dance,  and  make  the  sober  moon 
Witness  of  joys  that  shun  the  sight  of  noon. 
Blame,  cynic,  if  you  can,  quadrille  or  ball. 
The  snug  close  party,  or  the  splendid  hall, 
Where  night,  down-stooping  from  her  ebon  throne, 
Views  constellations  brighter  than  her  own, 
Tis  innocent,  and  harmless,  and  refined, 
The  balm  of  care,  Elysium  of  the  mind. 
Innocent!  Oh,  if  venerable  Time 
Slain  at  the  foot  of  Pleasure  be  no  crime, 
Then,  with  his  silver  beard  and  magic  wand, 
Let  Comus  rise  archbishop  of  the  land ; 
Let  him  your  rubric  and  your  feasts  prescribe, 
Grand  metropolitan  of  all  the  tribe. 

Of  manners  rough,  and  coarse  athletic  cast, 
The  rank  debauch  suits  Clodio's  filthy  ta.ste. 
RufiUus,  exquisitely  formed  by  rule. 
Not  of  the  moral  but  the  dancing  school, 


12 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Wonders  at  Clodio's  lollies,  in  a  tone 
As  tragical,  as  others  at  his  own. 
He  can  not  drink  five  bottles,  bilk  the  score, 
Then  kill  a  constable,  and  drink  five  more; 
But  he  can  drav^r  a  pattern,  make  a  tart, 
And  has  the  ladies'  etiquette  by  heart. 
Go,  fool;  and,  arm  in  arm  with  Clodio,  plead 
Your  cause  l)efore  a  bar  you  little  dread; 
But  know,  the  law  that  bids  the  drunkard  die, 
Is  far  too  just  to  pass  the  trifler  by. 
Both  baby-featured,  and  of  infant  size, 
Viewed  from  a  distance,  and  with  heedless  eyes 
Folly  and  Irmocence  are  so  aUke, 
The  difterence,  though  essential,  fails  to  strike. 
Yet  Folly  ever  has  a  vacant  stare, 
A  simpering  countenance,  and  a  trifling  air; 
But  Innocence,  sedate,  serene,  erect. 
Delights  us,  by  engaging  our  respect. 
Man,  Nature's  guest 'by  invitation  sweet, 
Receives  from  her  both  appetite  and  treat; 
But,  if  he  play  the  glutton  and  exceed, 
His  benefactress  blushes  at  the  deed; 
For  Nature,  nice,  as  liberal  to  dispense. 
Made  nothing  but  a  brute  the  slave  of  sense. 
Daniel  ate  pulse  by  choice— example  rare! 
Heaven  blessed  the  youth,  and  made  him  fresh  and 
fair. 

Gorgonius  sits,  abdominous  and  wan, 
Like  a  fat  squab  upon  a  Chinese  fan: 
He  snuffs  far  off  th'  anticipated  joy; 
Turtle  and  ven'son  all  his  thoughts  employ; 
Prepares  for  meals  as  jockeys  take  a  sweat, 
Oh,  nauseous! — an  emetic  for  a  whet! 
Will  Providence  o'erlook  the  wasted  good  1: 
Temperance  were  no  virtue  if  he  could. 

That  pleasures,  therefore,  or  what  such  we  call. 
Are  hurtful,  is  a  truth  confessed  by  all; 
,    And  some,  that  seem  to  threaten  virtue  less, 
Still  hurtful  in  th'  abuse,  or  by  th'  excess. 


Is  man  then  only  for  his  torment  placed 
The  centre  of  delights  he  may  not  taste; 
Like  fabled  Tantalus,  condemned  to  hear 
The  precious  stream  still  purling  in  his  ear. 
Lip-deep  in  what  he  longs  for,  and  yet  curst 
With  prohibition,  and  perpetual  thirst  1 
No,  wrangler— destitute  of  shame  and  sense 
The  precept,  that  enjoms  him  abstinence, 
Forbids  him  none  but  the  licentious  joy. 
Whose  fruit,  though  fair,  tempts  only  to  destroy 
Remorse,  the  fatal  egg  by  Pleasure  laid 
In  every  bosom  where  her  nest  is  made, 
Hatched  by  the  beams  of  Truth,  denies  him  rest 
And  proves  a  raging  scorpion  in  his  breast. 
No  pleasure'?    Are  domestic  comforts  dead  1 
Arc  all  the  nameless  sweets  of  friendship  fled ; 
Has  time  worn  out,  or  fashion  put  to  shame. 
Good  sense,  good  health,  good  conscience,  and 
good  fame  1 


All  these  belong  to  virtue,  and  all  prove, 
That  virtue  has  a  title  to  your  love. 
Have  you  no  touch  of  pity,  that  the  poor 
Stand  starved  at  your  inhospitable  door  1 
Or  if  yourself  too  scantily  supplied 
Need  help,  let  honest  industry  provide. 
Earn,  if  you  want;  if  you  abound,  impart: 
These  both  are  pleasures  to  the  feeling  heart. 
No  pleasure  1    Has  some  sickly  eastern  waste 
Sent  us  a  wind  to  parch  us  at  a  blast  1 
Can  British  Paradise  no  scenes  aflford 
To  please  her  sated  and  indiflferent  lord  1 
Are  sweet  philosophy's  enjoyments  run 
Gtuite  to  the  lees  1    And  has  rehgion  none  1 
Brutes  capable  would  tell  you  'tis  a  lie. 
And  judge  you  from  the  kennel  and  the  stye. 
Dehghts  like  these,  ye  sensual  and  profane, 
Ye  are  bid,  begged,  besought  to  entertain ; 
Called  to  these  crystal  streams,  do  ye  turn  oflt 
Obscene  to  swill  and  swallow  at  a  trough'? 
Envy  the  beast  then,  on  whom  Heaven  bestows 
Your  pleasures,  with  no  curses  in  the  close. 

Pleasure  admitted  in  undue  degree 
Enslaves  the  will,  nor  leaves  the  judgment  free. 
'Tis  not  alone  the  grape's  enticing  juice 
Unnerves  the  moral  powers,  and  mars  their  use ; 
Ambition,  avarice,  and  the  lust  of  fame, 
And  woman,  lovely  woman,  does  the  same. 
The  heart,  surrendered  to  the  ruling  power 
Of  some  ungoverned  passion  every  hour. 
Finds  by  degrees  the  truths,  that  once  bore  sway, 
And  all  their  deep  impressions,  wear  away ; 
So  coin  grows  smooth,  in  traffic  current  passed. 
Till  Csesar's  image  is  eflaced  at  last. 

The  breach,  tho'  small  at  first,  soon  opening  wide 
In  rushes  folly  with  a  full-moon  tide. 
Then  welcome  errors  of  whatever  size. 
To  justify  it  by  a  thousand  lies. 
As  creeping  ivy  clings  to  wood  or  stone. 
And  hides  the  ruin  that  it  feeds  upon. 
So  sophistry  cleaves  close  to  and  protects 
Sin's  rotten  trunk,  concealing  its  defects. 
Mortals,  whose  pleasures  are  their  only  care. 
First  wish  to  be  imposed  on,  and  then  are. 
And,  lest  the  fulsome  artifice  should  fail, 
Themselves  will  hide  its  coarseness  with  a  veil. 
Not  more  industrious  are  the  just  and  true. 
To  give  to  Virtue  what  is  Virtue's  due— 
The  praise  of  wisdom,  comeUness,  and  worth, 
And  call  her  charms  to  public  notice  forth— 
Than  Vice's  mean  and  disingenuous  race. 
To  hide  the  shocking  features  of  her  face. 
Her  form  with  dress  and  lotion  they  repair ; 
Then  kiss  their  idol,  and  pronounce  her  fair 

The  sacred  implement  I  now  employ 
Might  prove  a  mischief,  or  at  best  a  toy ; 
A  trifle,  if  it  move  but  to  amuse ; 
But,  if  to  wrong  the  judgment  and  abuse, 


THE  PROGRESS  OP  ERROR. 


13 


Worse  than  a  poniard  in  the  basest  hand, 
It  stabs  at  once  the  morals  of  a  land. 

Ye  writers  of  what  none  with  safety  reads, 
Footnig  it  in  the  dance  that  Fancy  leads; 
Ye  novelists,  who  mar  what  ye  would  mend, 
Snivelling  and  drivelling  folly  without  end ; 
Whose  corresponding  misses  fill  the  ream, 
With  sentimental  frippery  and  dream, 
Caught  in  a  delicate  soft  silken  net 
By  some  lewd  earl,  or  rakehell  baronet: 
Ye  pimps,  who,  under  virtue's  fair  pretence, 
Steal  to  the  closet  of  young  innocence. 
And  teach  her,  unexperienced  yet  and  green, 
To  scribble  as  you  scribbled  at  fifteen ; 
Who  kindling  a  combustion  of  desire, 
With  some  cold  moral  think  to  quench  the  fire ; 
Though  all  your  engineering  proves  in  vain. 
The  dribbling  stream  ne'er  puts  it  out  again : 
O  that  a  verse  had  power,  and  could  command 
Far,  far  away  these  flesh-flies  of  the  land ; 
Who  fasten  without  mercy  on  the  ikir, 
And  suck,  and  leave  a  craving  maggot  there ! 
Howe'er  disguised  the  inflammatory  tale. 
And  covered  with  a  fine-spun  specious  veil ; 
Such  writers,  and  such  readers,  owe  the  gust 
And  reUsh  of  their  pleasure  all  to  lust. 

But  the  muse,  eagle-pinioned,  has  in  view 
A  quarry  more  important  still  than  you ; 
Down,  down  the  wind  she  swims,  and  sails  away. 
Now  stoops  upon  it,  and  now  grasps  the  prey. 

Petronius !  all  the  muses  weep  for  thee ; 
But  every  tear  shall  scald  thy  memory : 
The  graces  too,  while  Virtue  at  their  shrine 
Lay  bleeding  under  that  soft  hand  of  thine, 
Felt  each  a  mortal  stab  in  her  own  breast. 
Abhorred  the  sacrifice,  and  cursed  the  priest. 
Thou  polished  and  high-finished  foe  to  truth, 
Graybeard  corrupter  of  our  listening  youth, 
To  purge  and  skim  away  the  filth  of  vice. 
That  so  refined  it  might  the  more  entice, 
Then  pour  it  on  the  morals  of  thy  son ; 
To  taint  his  heart,  was  worthy  of  thine  own ! 
Now,  while  the  poison  all  high  life  pervades, 
Write,  if  thou  canst,  one  letter  from  the  shades; 
One,  and  one  only,  charged  with  deep  regret, 
That  thy  worse  part,  thy  principles,  five  yet: 
One  sad  epistle  thence  may  cure  mankind 
Of  the  plague  spread  by  bundles  left  behind. 

'Tis  granted,  and  no  plainer  truth  appears, 
Our  most  important  are  our  earliest  years ; 
The  mind,  impressible  and  soft,  with  ease 
Imbibes  and  copies  what  she  hears  and  sees. 
And  through  life's  labyrinth  holds  fast  the  clew 
That  Education  gives  her,  false  or  true. 
Plants  raised  with  tenderness  are  seldom  strong; 
Man's  coltish  disposition  asks  the  thong; 
And  without  discipline,  the  favourite  child, 
Like  a  neglected  forester,  runs  wild. 


But  we,  as  if  good  qualities  would  grow 
Spontaneous,  take  but  little  pains  to  sow ; 
We  give  some  Latin,  and  a  smatch  of  Greek  ; 
Teach  him  to  fence  arid  figure  twice  a  week; 
And  having  done,  we  think,  the  best  we  can. 
Praise  his  proficiency,  and  dub  him  man. 

From  school  to  Cam  or  Isis,  and  thence  home; 
And  thence  with  all  convenient  speed  to  Rome, 
With  reverend  tutor  clad  in  habit  lay. 
To  tease  for  cash,  and  quarrel  with  all  day ; 
With  memorandum-book  for  every  town. 
And  every  post,  and  where  the  chaise  broke  down; 
His  stock,  a  few  French  phrases  got  by  heart, 
With  much  to  learn,  but  nothing  to  impart; 
The  youth  obedient  to  his  sire's  commands. 
Sets  otf  a  wanderer  into  foreign  lands. 
Surprised  at  all  they  meet,  the  gosling  pair. 
With  awkward  gait,  stretched  neck,  and  silly  stare, 
Discover  huge  cathedrals  built  with  stone, " 
And  steeples  towering  high  much  like  our  own; 
But  show  peculiar  light  by  many  a  grin. 
At  popish  practices  observed  within. 

Ere  long,  some  bowing,  smirking,  smart  abbe 
Remarks  two  loiterers  that  have  lost  their  way; 
And  being  always  primed  with  politesse 
For  men  of  their  appearance  and  address, 
With  much  compassion  undertakes  the  task, 
To  tell  them  more  than  they  have  wit  to  "ask; 
Points  to  inscriptions  wheresoe'er  they  tread. 
Such  as,  when  legible,  were  never  read. 
But,  being  cankered  now  and  half  worn  out, 
Craze  antiquarian  brains  with  endless  doubt; 
Some  headless  hero,  or  some  Caesar  shows- 
Defective  only  in  his  Roman  nose; 
Exliibits  elevations,  drav^dngs,  plans, 
Models  of  Herculanean  pots  and  pans ; 
And  sells  them  medals,  which,  if  neither  rare 
Nor  ancient,  will  be  so,  preserved  with  care. 

Strange  the  recital !  from  whatever  cause 
His  great  improvement  and  new  light  he  draws, 
The  squire,  once  bashful,  is  shamefaced  no  more, 
But  teems  with  powers  he  never  felt  before: 
Whether  increased  momentum,  and  the  force, 
With  which  from  clime  to  clime  he  sped  his  course, 
(As  axles  sometimes  kindle  as  they  go) 
Chafed  him,  and  brought  dull  nature  to  a  glow 
Or  whether  clearer  skies  and  softer  air. 
That  make  Italian  flowers  so  sweet  and  fair, 
Freshening  his  lazy  spirits  as  he  ran. 
Unfolded  genially  and  spread  the  man; 
Returning  he  proclaims  by  many  a  grace, 
By  shrugs  and  strange  contortions  of  his  face. 
How  much  a  dunce,  that  has  been  sent  to  roam. 
Excels  a  dunce,  that  has  been  kept  at  home. 

Accomplishments  have  taken  virtue's  place^ 
And  wisdom  falls  before  exterior  grace: 
We  slight  the  precious  kernel  of  the  stone, 
And  toU  to  polish  its  rough  coat  alone 


14 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


A  lUst  deportment,  manners  graced  with  ease, 
Elegant  phrase,  and  figure  formed  to  please, 
Are  qualities,  that  seem  to  comprehend 
Whatever  parents,  guardians,  schools  mtend; 
Hence  an  unfurnished  and  a  Ustless  mind, 
Though  busy,  trifling;  empty,  though  refined; 
Hence  all  that  interferes,  and  dares  to  clash 
With  indolence  and  luxury,  is  trash:  _ 
While  learning,  once  the  man's  exclusive  pnde, 
Seems  verging  fast  towards  the  female  side. 
Learning  itself,  received  into  a  mmd 
By  nature  weak,  or  viciously  incUned, 
Serves  hut  to  lead  philosophers  astray. 
Where  children  would  with  ease  discern  the  way, 
And  of  all  arts  sagacious  dupes  invent. 
To  cheat  themselves  and  gain  the  world  s  assent, 
The  worst  is-Scripture  warped  from  its  intent 
The  carriage  howls  along,  and  all  are  pleased 
If  Tom  be  sober,  and  the  wheels  well  greased; 
But  if  the  rogue  have  gone  a  cup  too  far, 
Left  out  his  linchpin,  or  forgot  his  tar. 
It  suffers  interruptipn  and  delay, 
And  meets  with  hindrance  in  the  smoothest  way . 
When  some  hypothesis,  absurd  and  vain. 
Has  filled  with  all  its  fumes  a  critic's  brain 
The  text,  that  sorts  not  with  his  darhng  whim, 
Though  plain  to  others,  is  obscure  to  him. 
The  wiU  made  subject  to  a  lawless  force. 
All  is  irregular  and  out  of  course; 
And  Judgment  drunk,  and  bribed  to  lose  his  way, 
Winks  hard,  and  talks  of  darkness  at  noonday. 

A  critic  on  the  sacred  book  should  be 
Candid  and  Ipmed,  dispassionate  and  free: 
Free  from  the  wayward  bias  bigots  feel. 
From  fancy's  influence,  and  intemperate  zeal: 
But,  above  all,  (or  let  the  wretch  refrain, 
Nor  touch  the  page  he  can  not  but  profane,) 
Free  from  the  domineering  power  ot  lust; 
A  lewd  interpreter  is  never  just. 

How  shall  I  speak  thee,  or  thy  power  address, 
Thou  god  of  our  idolatry,  the  Press'? 
Eiy  thee  religion,  liberty,  and  laws,  ^ 
Exert  their  influence,  and  advance  their  cause; 
By  thee  woi^se  plagues  than  Pharaoh's  land  befel 
Diffuse,  make  Earth  the  vestibule  of  Hell:  ^ 
Thou  fountain,  at  which  drink  the  good  and  wise; 
Thou  ever-bubbling  spring  of  endless  lies; 
Like  Eden's  dread  probationary  tree 
Knowledge  of  good  and  evil  is  from  thee. 

No  wild  enthusiast  ever  yet  could  rest, 
Till  half  mankind  were  like  himself  possessed.  - 
Philosophers,  who  darken  and  put  out 
Eternal  truth  by  everlasting  doubt; 
Church  quacks:  with  passions  under  no  command 
Who  fill  the  world  with  doctrines  contraband. 
Discoverers  of  they  know      what  confined 
Within  no  bounds-the  blind  that  lead  the  blind, 
To  streams  of  popular  opinion  drawn, 
Deposit  in  those  shallows  all  their  spawn. 


The  wriggling  fry  soon  fill  the  creeks  around, 
Poisoning  the  waters  where  their  swarms  abound. 
Scorned  by  the  nobler  tenants  of  the  flood. 
Minnows  and  gudgeons  gorge  th'  unwholsomefood. 
The  propagated  myriads  spread  so  fast. 
E'en  Lewenhoeck  himself  would  stand  aghast, 
Employed  to  calculate  th'  enormous  sum. 
And  own  his  crab-computing  powers  o'ercome. 
Is  this  hyperbole^  The  world  well  known, 
Your  sober  thoughts  will  hardly  find  it  one. 


Fresh  confidence  the  speculatist  takes 
From  every  hair-brained  proselyte  he  makes; 
And  therefore  prints.    Himself  but  half  deceived, 
Till  others  have  the  soothing  tale  beheved. 
Hence  comment  after  comptient,  spun  as  fine 
As  bloated  spiders  draw  the  flimsy  line: 
Hence  the  same  word,  that  bids  our  lusts  obey, 
Is  misapplied  to  sanctify  their  sway. 
If  stubborn  Greek  refuse  to  be  his  fnend, 
Hebrew  or  Syriac  shall  be  forced  to  bend: 
If  languages  and  copies  all  cry,  No- 
Somebody  proved  it  centuries  ago. 
Like  trout  pursued,  the  critic  in  despair 
Darts  to  the  mud,  and  finds  his  safety  there. 
Women,  whom  custom  has  forbid  to  fly,  , 
The  scholar's  pitch  (the  scholar  best  knows  why,) 
With  all  the  simple  and  unlettered  poor. 
Admire  his  learning,  and  almost  adore. 
Whoever  errs,  the  priest  can  ne'er  be  wrong, 
With  such  fine  words  familiar  to  his  tongue. 
Ye  ladies!  (for  indifferent  in  your  cause, 
I  should  deserve  to  forfeit  all  applause,) 
Whatever  shocks  or  gives  the  least  offence 
To  virtue,  delicacy,  truth,  or  sense, 
Try  the  criterion, 'tis  a  faithful  guide,) 
Nor  has,  nor  can  have.  Scripture  on  its  side. 

None  but  an  author  knows  an  author's  cares, 
Or  Fancy's  fondness  for  the  child  she  bears. 
Committed  once  into  the  public  arms. 
The  baby  seems  to  smile  with  added  ^arms 
Like  something  precious  ventured  far  from  shore, 
'Tis  valued  for  the  danger's  sake  the  more. 
He  views  it  with  complacency  supreme. 
Solicits  kind  attention  to  his  dream; 
And  daily  more  enamoured  of  the  cheat. 
Kneels,  and  asks  heaven  to  bless  the  dear  deceit 
So  one,  whose  story  serves  at  least  to  show 
Men  loved  their  own  productions  long  ago, 
Wooed  an  unfeeling  statue  for  his  wife. 
Nor  rested  till  the  gods  had  given  it  hfe. 
If  some  mere  driveller  suck  the  sugared  fib 
One  that  still  needs  his  leading-string  and  bit; 
And  praise  his  genius,  he  is  soon  repaid 
In  praise  applied  to  the  same  part-his  head: 
For  'tis  a  rule  that  holds  for  ever  true, 
Grant  me  discernment,  and  I  g^J^V' 
Patient  of  contradiction  as  a  child, 
AflTable,  humble,  diffident,  and  mild; 


TRUTH. 


15 


Such  was  Sir  Isaac,  and  such  Boyle  and  Locke: 
Your  blunderer  is  as  sturdy  as  a  rock. 
The  creature  is  so  sure  to  kick  and  bite, 
A  mvdeteer's  the  man  to  set  him  right. 
First  Appetite  enlists  him  Truth's  sworn  foe, 
Then  obstinate  Self-wiU  confirms  him  so. 
Tell  him  he  wanders;  that  his  error  leads 
To  fatal  ills;  that,  though  the  path  he  treads 
Be  flowery,  and  he  sees  no  cause  of  fear. 
Death  and  the  pains  of  hell  attend  him  there: 
In  vain;  the  slave  of  arrogance  and  pride: 
He  has  no  hearing  on  the  prudent  side. 
His  still  refuted  quirks  he  still  repeats; 
New  raised  objections  with  new  quibbles  meets; 
Till  sinking  in  the  quicksand  he  defends, 
He  dies  disputing,  and  the  contest  ends — 
But  not  the  mischiefs;  they,  still  left  behind, 
Like  thistle-seeds,  are  sown  by  every  wind. 

Thus  men  go  wrong  with  an  ingenious  skill; 
Bend  the  straight  rule  to  their  own  crooked  will; 
And  with  a  clear  and  shining  lamp  suppUed, 
First  put  it  out,  then  take  it  for  a  guide. 
Haltmgon  crutches  df  unequal  size. 
One  leg  by  truth  supported,  one  by  Ues; 
They  sidle  to  the  goal  with  awkward  pace. 
Secure  of  nothing — but  to  loose  the  race. 
Faults  in  the  life  breed  errors  in  the  braio. 
And  these  reciprocally  those  again. 
The  mind  and  conduct  mutually  imprint 
And  stamp  their  image  in  each  other's  mint; 
Each,  sire  and  dam,  of  an  infernal  race, 
Begetting  and  conceiving  all  that's  base. 
None  sends  his  arrow  to  the  mark  in  view. 
Whose  hand  is  feeble,  or  his  aim  untrue. 
For  though  ere  yet,  the  shaft  is  on  the  wing, 
Or  when  it  first  forsakes  th'  elastic  string, 
It  err  but  little  from  the  intended  line, 
It  falls  at  last  far  wide  of  his  design: 
So  he  who  seeks  a  mansion  in  the  sky. 
Must  watch  his  purpose  with  a  steadfast  eye; 
That  prize  belongs  to  none  but  the  sincere ; 
The  least  obUquity  is  fatal  here. 

With  cautious  taste  the  sweet  Circean  cup: 
He  that  sips  often,  at  last  drinks  it  up. 


Habits  are  soon  assumed;  but  when  we  strive 
To  strip  them  off,  'tis  being  flayed  alive. 
Called  to  the  temple  of  impure  delight, 
He  that  abstains,  and  he  alone,  does  right. 
If  a  wish  wander  that  way,  call  it  home; 
He  cannot  long  be  safe  whose  wishes  roam. 
But,  if  you  pass  the  threshold  you  are  caught; 
Die  then,  if  power  Almighty  save  you  not. 
There  hardening  by  degrees,  till  double  steeled, 
Take  leave  of  nature's  God,  and  God  revealed; 
Then  laugh  at  all  you  trembled  at  before; 
And,  joining  the  free-thinker's  brutal  roar. 
Swallow  the  two  grand  nostrums  they  dispense- 
That  Scripture  lies,  and  blasphemy  is  sense: 
If  clemency  revolted  by  abuse 
Be  damnable,  then  damned  without  excuse. 

Some  dream  that  they  can  silence,  when  thew 
wiU, 

The  storm  of  passion,  and  say.  Peace,  be  still; 
But  "  Thus  far  and  no  further,"  when  addressed 
To  the  wild  wave,  or  wilder  hiunan  breast, 
ImpUes  authority  that  never  can. 
That  never  ought  to  be  the  lot  of  man. 

But,  muse  forbear;  long  flights  forbode  a  fall; 
Strike  on  the  deep-toned  chord  the  sum  of  all. 

Hear  the  just  law — the  judgment  of  the  skies" 
He  that  hates  truth  shall  be  the  dupe  of  lies: 
And  he  that  will  be  cheated  to  the  last, 
Delusions  strong  as  Hell  shall  bind  him  fast. 
But  if  the  wanderer  his  mistake  discern, 
J udge  his  own  ways,  and  sigh  for  a  return, 
Bewildered  once,  must  he  bewail  his  loss 
For  ever  and  for  ever 7  No — the  cross! 
There  and  there  only  (though  the  deist  rave, 
And  atheist,  if  earth  bear  so  base  a  slave;) 
There  and  there  only  is  the  power  to  save. 
There  no  delusive  hope  invites  despair; 
No  mockery  meets  you,  no  deception  there. 
The  spells  and  charms,  that  blinded  you  before, 
AH  vanish  there,  and  fascinate  no  more. 

I  am  no  preacher,  let  this  hint  suffice — 
The  cross  once  seen  is  death  to  every  vice; 
Else  he  that  hiuig  there  sufiered  all  his  pain, 
Bled,  groaned,  and  agonized,  and  died,  in  vain. 


Pensanturtrutina.  Hor.  Ub,  ii.  Epist.  1. 


MAN,  on  the  dubious  waves  of  error  tossed. 
His  ship  half  foundered,  and  his  compass  lost, 
Sees,  far  as  human  optics  may  command, 
A  sleeping  fog,  and  fancies  it  dry  land: 
Spreads  all  his  canvass,  every  sinew  plies; 
Pants  for 't,  aims  afrit,  enters  it,  and  dies! 
Then  farewell  all  self-satisfying  schemes, 
His  well-built  systems,  philosophic  dreams: 


Deceitfiil  views  of  future  bliss  farewell! — 
He  reads  his  sentence  at  the  flames  of  Hell. 

Hard  lot  of  man — to  toil  for  the  reward 
Of  virtue,  and  yet  lose  it!  Wherefore  hardl 
He  that  would  win  the  race  must  guide  his  hocso 
Obedient  to  the  customs  of  the  course; 
Else,  though  unequalled  to  the  goal  he  flies, 
A  meaner  than  himself  shall  gain  the  prize. 


16 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Grace  leads  the  right  way ;  if  you  choose  the  wrong,  ] 
Take  it  and  perish;  but  restrain  your  tongue;  ' 
Charge  not,  with  light  sufficient,  and  left  free,  ^ 
Your  wilful  suicide  on  God's  decree. 

0  how  unlike  the  complex  works  of  man,  I 
Heaven's  easy,  artlesp,  unincumbered  plan ! 
No  meretricious  graces  to  beguile, 
No  clustering  ornaments  to  clog  the  pile ; 
From  ostentation  as  from  weakness  free, 
It  stands  like  the  cerulean  arch  we  see,  , 
Majestic  in  its  own  simplicity. 
Inscribed  above  the  portal,  from  afar 
Conspicuous  as  the  brightness  of  a  star. 
Legible  only  by  the  light  they  give. 
Stand  the  soul-quick'ning  words — Believe  and  live. 
Too  many,  shocked  at  what  should  charm  them 

most 

Despire  the  plain  direction,  and  are  lost. 
Heaven  on  such  terms !  (they  cry  with  proud  dis- 
dain,) 

Incredible,  impossible,  and  vain ! — 
Rebel,  because  'tis  easy  to  obey ; 
And  scorn,  for  its  own  sake,  the  gracious  way. 
These  are  the  sober,  in  whose  cooler  brains 
Some  thought  of  immortality  remains ; 
The  rest,  too  busy  or  too  gay  to  wait 
On  the  sad  theme,  their  everlasting  state, 
Sport  for  a  day,  and  perish  in  a  night, 
The  foam  upon  the  waters  not  so  light. 

Who  judged  the  Pharisee"?  What  odious  cause 
Exposed  him  to  the  vengeance  of  the  lawsl 
Had  he  seduced  a  virgin,  wronged  a  friend, 
Or  stabbed  a  man  to  serve  some  private  endl 
Was  blasphemy  his  sin  1.  Or  did  he  stray 
From  the  strict  duties  of  the  sacred  day^ 
Sit  long  and  late  at  the  carousing  board  % 
(Such  were  the  sins  with  which  he  charged  his 
Lord.) 

No— the  man's  morals  were  exact,  what  then  1 
Twas  his  ambition  to  be  seen  of  men ; 
His  virtues  were  his  pride ;  and  that  one  vice 
Made  all  his  virtues  gewgaws  of  no  price ; 
He  wore  them  as  fine  trappings  for  a  show, 
A  praying,  synagogue-frequenting  beau. 

The  self-applauding  bird,  the  peacock  see — 
Mark  what  a  sumptuous  pharisee  is  he ! 
Meridian  sun-beams  tempt  him  to  unfold 
His  radiant  glories,  azure,  green,  and  gold : 
He  treads  as  if,  some  solemn  music  near, 
His  measured  step  were  governed  by  his  ear: 
And  seems  to  say— Ye  meaner  fowl,  give  place, 

1  am  all  splendour,  dignity,  and  grace  1 
Not  so  the  pheasant  on  his  charms  presumes, 

Though  he  too  has  a  glory  in  his  plumes. 
He,  Christian  like,  retreats  with  modest  mien 
To  the  close  copse,  or  far-sequestered  green, 
And  shines  without  desiring  to  be  seen. 
The  plea  of  works,  as  arrogant  and  vain, 
Heaven  turns  from  with  abhorrence  and  disdain  j 


Not  more  affronted  by  avowed  neglect. 
Than  by  the  mere  dissembler's  feigned  ri'.w'pect. 
What  is  all  righteousness  that  men  devue'? 
What — but  a  sordid  bargain  for  the  skies'? 
But  Christ  as  soon  would  abdicate  his  own. 
As  stoop  from  Heaven  to  sell  the  proud  a  throne. 

His  dwelling  a  recess  in  some  rude  rock. 
Book,  beads,  and  maple  dish,  his  meagre  stock ; 
In  shirt  of  hair,  and  weeds  of  canvass,  dressed, 
Girt  with  a  bell-rope  that  the  pope  has  blessed ; 
Adust  with  stripes  told  out  for  eVery  crime, 
And  sore  tormented  long  before  his  time ; 
His  prayer  preferred  to  saints  that  can  not  aid ; 
His  praise  postponed,  and  never  to  be  paid ; 
See  the  sage  hermit,  by  mankind  admired. 
With  all  that  bigotry  adopts  inspired, 
Wearing  out  life  in  his  religious  whim. 
Till  his  religious  whimsy  wears  out  him. 
His  works,  his  abstinence,  his  zeal  allowed. 
You  think  him  humble — God  accounts  him  proud, 
High  in  demand,  though  lowly  in  pretence. 
Of  all  his  conduct  this  the  genuine  sense— 
My  penitential  stripes,  my  streaming  blood. 
Have  purchased  Heaven  and  prove  my  title  good. 

Turn  Eastward  now,  and  Fancy  shall  apply 
To  your  weak  sight  her  telescopic  eye. 
The  bramin  kindles  on  his  own  bare  head 
The  sacred  fire,  self-torturing  his  trade; 
His  voluntary  pains,  severe  and  long, 
'  Would  give  a  barbarous  air  to  British  song ; 
No  grand  inquisitor  could  worse  invent, 
Than  he  contrives  to  suffer,  well  content. 

Which  is  the  saintlier  worthy  of  the  two"? 
Past  all  dispute,  yon  anchorite  say  you. 
Your  sentence  and  mine  differ.    What's  a  name  " 
^  I  say  the  bramin  has  the  fairer  claim. 
If  sufferings,  Scripture  no  where  recommends, 
Devised  by  self  to  answer  selfish  ends, 
Give^aintship,  then  all  Europe  must  agree 
Ten  starveling  hermits  suffer  less  than  he. 

The  truth  is  (if  the  truth  may  suit  your  ear, 
And  prejudice  have  left  a  passage  clear,) 
Pride  has  attained  its  most  luxuriant  growth, 
And  poisoned  every  virtue  in  them  both. 
Pride  may  be  pampered  while  the  flesh  grows  lean; 
Humility  may  clothe  an  English  dean ; 
That  grace  was  Cowper's— his,  confessed  by  all— 
Though  placed  in  golden  Durham's  second  staU. 
Not  all  the  plenty  of  a  bishop's  board, 
His  palace,  and  his  lackeys,  and  "  My  Lord," 
More  nourish  pride,  that  condescending  vice, 
Than  abstinence,  and  beggary,  and  lice ; 
It  thrives  in  misery,  and  abundant  grows: 
In  misery  fools  upon  themselves  impose. 

But  why  before  us  protestants  produce 
An  Indian  mystic,  or  a  French  recluse'? 
Their  sin  is  plain ;  but  what  have  we  to  fear, 
;   Reformed  and  well  instructed'?  You  shall  hear. 


TRUTH. 


Yon  ancient  prude,  whose  withered  features  show 
She  might  be  young  some  forty  years  ago, 
Her  elbows  pinioned  close  upon  her  hips, 
Her  head  erect,  her  fan  upon  her  lips, 
Her  eye-brows  arched,  her  eyes  both  gone  astray 
To  watch  jon  amorous  couple  in  their  play, 
With  bony  and  unkerchiefed  neck  defies 
The  rude  inclemency  of  wintry  skies. 
And  sails  with  lappet-head  and  mincing  airs 
Duly  at  clink  of  bell  to  morning  prayers. 
To  thrift  and  parsimony  much  inclined, 
She  yet  allows  herself  that  boy  behind ; 
The  shivering  urchi»,  bending  as  he  goes, 
"With  sUpshod  heels,  and  dewdrop  at  his  nose ; 
His  predecessor's  coat  advanced  to  wear, 
Wliich  future  pages  yet  are  doomed  to  share. 
Carries  her  Bible  tucked  beneath  his  arm. 
And  hides  his  hands  to  keep  his  fingers  warm. 

She,  half  an  angel  in  her  own  account. 
Doubts  not  nereafter  with  the  saints  to  mount, 
Though  not  a  grace  appears  on  strictest  search, 
But  that  she  fasts,  and  item,  goes  to  church. 
Conscious  of  age,  she  recollects  her  youth. 
And  tells,  not  always  with  an  eye  to  truth, 
Who  spanned  her  waist,  and  who,  where'er  he 
came, 

Scrawled  upon  glass  Miss  Bridget's  lovely  name; 

Who  stole  her  slipper,  filled  it  with  tokay, 

And  drank  the  little  bumper  every  day. 

Of  temper  as  envenomed  as  an  asp, 

Censorious,  and  her  every  word  a  wasp; 

In  faithful  memory  she  records  the  crimes, 

Or  real  or  fictitious,  of  the  times  ; 

Laughs  at  the  reputations  she  has  torn, 

And  holds  them  dangUng  at  arm's  length  in  scorn. 

Such  are  the  fruits  of  sanctimonious  pride, 
Of  malice  fed  while  flesh  is  mortified : 
Take,  Madam,  the  reward  of  all  your  prayers. 
Where  hermits  and  where  bramins  meet  with 
theirs ; 

Your  portion  is  with  them.-^Nay,  never  frown, 
But,  if  you  please,  some  fathoms  lower  down. 

Artist  attend— your  brushes  and  your  paint- 
Produce  them— take  a  chair — now  draw  a  saint. 
Oh  sorrowful  and  sad !  the  streaming  tears 
Channel  her  cheeks— a  Niobe  appears ! 
Is  this  a  saint '?  Throw  tints  and  all  away — 
True  piety  is  cheerful  as  the  day. 
Will  weep  indeed  and  heave  a  pitying  groan 
For  others'  woes,  but  smiles  upon  her  own. 

What  purpose  has  the  King  of  saints  in  viewl 
Why  falls  the  Gospel  like  a  gracious  dew'? 
To  call  up  plenty  from  the  teeming  earth, 
Or  curse  the  desert  with  a  tenfold  dearth'? 
Is  it  that  Adam's  olfspring  may  be  saved 
From  servile  fear,  or  be  the  more  enslaved'? 
To  loose  the  finks  that  galled  mankind  before, 
Or  bind  them  faster  on,  and  add  still  more'? 


The  freeborn  Christian  has  no  chains  to  prove, 
Or,  if  a  chain,  the  golden  one  of  love ; 
No  fear  attends  to  quench  his  glowing  fires, 
What  fear  he  feels,  Ins  gratitude  inspires. 
Shall  he,  for  such  deliverance  freely  wrought, 
Recompense  ilH  He  trembles  at  the  thought. 
His  Master's  interest  and  his  own  combined, 
Prompt  every  movement  of  his  heart  and  mind : 
Thought,  word,  and  deed  his  liberty  evince, 
His  freedom  is  the  freedom  of  a  prince. 

Man's  obligations  infinite,  of  course 
His  life  should  prove  that  he  perceives  their  force; 
His  utmost  he  can  render  is  but  small — 
The  principle  and  motive  all  in  all. 
You  have  two  servants— Tom,  an  arch,  sly  rogue^ 
From  top  to  toe  the  Geta  now  in  vogue. 
Genteel  in  figure,  easy  in  address. 
Moves  without  noise,  and  swift  as  an  express, 
Reports  a  message  with  a  pleasing  grace. 
Expert  in  all  the  duties  of  his  placp; 
Say,  on  what  hinge  does  his  obedience  move*? 
Has  he  a  world  of  gratitude  and  love  1 
No,  not  a  spark — 'tis  all  mere  sharper's  play; 
He  likes  your  house,  your  housemaid  and  yoxu 

pay; 

Reduce  his  wageg  or  get  rid  of  her, 
Tom  quits  you,  with — Your  most  obedient.  Sir. 

The  dinner  served,  Charles  takes  his  usual  stand, 
Watches  your  eye,  anticipates  command ; 
Sighs  if  perhaps  your  appetite  should  fail ; 
And,  if  he  but  suspects  a  frown,  turns  pale ; 
Consults  all  day  your  interest  and  your  ease, 
Richly  rewarded  if  he  can  but  please ; 
And,  proud  to  make  his  firm  attachment  Imown, 
To  save  your  life  would  nobly  risk  his  own. 

Now  which  stands  highest  in  your  serious  thought? 
Charles,  without  doubt,  say  you— and  so  he  ought ; 
One  act,  that  from  a  thankful  heart  proceeds, 
Excels  ten  thousand  mercenary  deeds. 

Thus  Heaven  approves,  as  honest  and  sincere. 
The  work  of  generous  love  and  filial  fear ; 
But  with  averted  eyes  th'  omniscient  Judge 
Scorns  the  base  hirehng,  and  the  slavish  drudge. 
Where  dwell  these  matchless  saints  1 — old  Curio 
cries. 

E'en  at  your  side.  Sir,  and  before  your  eyes, 
The  favoured  few— th'  enthusiasts  you  despise. 
And  pleased  at  heart,  because  on  holy  ground 
Sometimes  a  canting  hypocrite  is  found, 
Reproach  a  people  with  his  single  fall, 
And  cast  his  filthy  garment  at  them  all. 
Attend ! — an  apt  similitude  shall  snow, 
Whence  springs  the  conduct  that  ofifends  you  so. 

See  where  it  smokes  along  the  sounding  plain, 
Blown  all  aslant,  a  driving,  dashing  rain. 
Peal  upon  peal  redoubling  all  around. 
Shakes  it  again  and  faster  to  the  ground ; 
Now  flashing  wide,  now  glancing  as  in  play. 
Swift  beyond  thought  the  lightnings  dart  away, 


1 


18 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Ere  yet  it  came  the  traveller  urged  his  steed, 

And  hurried,  but  with  unsuccessful  speed ; 

Now  drenched  throughout,  and  hopeless  of  his  case, 

He  drops  the  rein,  and  leaves  him  to  his  pace. 

Suppose,  unlooked-for  in  a  scene  so  rude, 

Long  hid  by  interposing  hill  or  wood, 

Some  mansion,  neat  and  elegantly  dressed, 

By  some  kind  hospitable  heart  possessed, 

Offer  him  warmth,  security,  and  rest ; 

Think  with  what  pleasure,  safe  and  at  his  ease. 

He  hears  the  tempest  howling  in  the  trees ; 

What  glowing  thanks  his  lips  and  heart  employ, 

While  danger  past  is  turned  to  present  joy. 

So  fares  it  with  the  sinner,  when  he  feels 

A  growing  dread  of  vengeance  at  his  heels ; 

His  conscience,  like  a  glassy  lake  before, 

Lashed  into  foaming  waves,  begins  to  roar ; 

The  law  grown  clamorous,  though  silent  long, 

Arraigns  him — charges  him  with  every  wrong — 

Asserts  the  rights  of  his  offended  Lord, 

And  death  or  restitution  is  the  word : 

The  last  impossible,  he  fears  the  first, 

And,  having  well  deserved,  expects  the  worst. 

Then  welcome  refuge,  and  a  peaceful  home ; 

Oh  for  a  shelter  from  the  wrath  to  come ! 

Crush  me,  ye  rocks !  ye  falling  mountains  hide. 

Or  bury  me  in  ocean's  angry  tide.  , 

The  scrutiny  of  those  all  seeing  eyes 

I  dare  not — And  you  need  not,  God  replies ; 

The  remedy  you  want  I  freely  give : 

The  Book  shall  teach  you — read,  believe,  and  live ! 

*Tis  done — ^the  raging  storm  is  heard  no  more, 

Mercy  receives  him  on  her  peaceful  shore : 

And  Justice,  guardian  of  the  dread  command, 

Drops  the  red  vengeance  from  his  willing  hand. 

A  soul  redeemed  demands  a  life  of  praise ; 

Hence  the  complexion  of  his  future  days. 

Hence  a  demeanour  holy  and  unspecked. 

And  the  world's  hatred,  as  its  sure  effect. 

Some  lead  a  life  umblameable  and  just, 
Their  own  dear  virtue  their  unshaken  trust ; 
They  never  sin — or  if  (as  all  offend) 
Some  trivial  slips  their  daily  walk  attend, 
The  poor  are  near  at  hand,  the  charge  is  small, 
A  slight  gratuity  atones  for  all. 
For  though  the  pope  has  lost  his  interest  here. 
And  pardons  are  not  sold  as  once  they  were. 
No  papist  more  desirous  to  compound, 
Than  some  grave  sinners  upon  English  ground. 
That  plea  refuted,  other  quirks  they  seek — 
Mercy  is  infinite,  and  man  is  weak ; 
The  future  shall  obliterate  the  past. 
And  Heaven  no  doubt  shall  be  their  home  at  last. 

Come  then — a  still,  small  whisper  in  your  ear — 
He  has  no  hope  who  never  had  a  fear ; 
And  he  that  never  doubted  of  his  state. 
He  may  perhaps — perhaps  he  may — ^too  late. 

The  path  to  bliss  abounds  with  many  a  snare ; 
Learning  is  one,  and  wit,  however  rare. 


The  Frenchman,  first  in  literary  fame, 

(Mention  him  if  you  please.)  Voltaire  1 — The  same. 

With  spirit,  genius,  eloquence,  supplied. 

Lived  long,  wrote  much,  laughed  heartily,  and  died. 

The  Scripture  was  his  jest-book,  whence  he  drew 

Bon  mots  to  gall  the  Christian  and  the  Jew ; 

An  infidel  in  health,  but  what  when  sick  T 

Oh — ^then  a  text  would  touch  him  at  the  quick : 

View  him  at  Paris  in  his  last  career. 

Surrounding  throngs  the  demi-god  revere ; 

Exalted  on  his  pedestal  of  pride, 

And  fumed  frankincense  on  every  side. 

He  begs  their  flattery  with  hife  latest  breath. 

And  smothered  in 't  at  last,  is  praised  to  death. 

Yon  cottager,  who  weaves  at  her  own  door, 
Pillow  and  bobbins  all  her  little  store ; 
Content  though  mean,  and  cheerful  if  not  gay, 
Shuffling  her  threads  about  the  livelong  day. 
Just  earns  a  scanty  pittance,  and  at  night. 
Lies  down  secure,  her  heart  and  pocket  light ; 
She,  for  her  humble  sphere  by  nature  fit, 
(Has  little  understanding,  and  no  wit, 
Receives  no  praise ;  but,  though  her  lot  be  such, 
Toilsome  and  indigent)  she  renders  much ; 
Just  knows,  and  knows  no  more,  her  Bible  true— 
A  truth  the  brilliant  Frenchman  never  knew ; 
And  in  that  charter  reads  with  sparkling  eyea 
Her  title  to  a  treasure  in  the  skies. 
Oh  happy  peasant !  Oh  tmhappy  bard !  , 
His  the  mere  tinsel,  hers  the  rich  reward ; 
He  praised  perhaps  for  ages  yet  to  come, 
She  never  heard  of  half  a  mile  from  home : 
He  lost  in  errors  his  vain  heart  prefers, 
She  safe  in  the  simphcity  of  hers. 

Not  many  wise,  rich,  noble,  or  profound 
In  science,  win  one  inch  of  heavenly  ground. 
And  is  it  not  a  mortifying  thought 
The  poor  should  gain  it,  and  the  rich  should  nof? 
No — ^the  voluptuaries,  who  ne'er  forget 
One  pleasure  lost,  lose  Heaven  without  regret ; 
Regret  would  rouse  them,  and  give  birth  to  prayer; 
Prayer  would  add  faith,  and  faith  would  fix  them 
there. 

Not  that  the  Former  of  us  all,  in  this. 
Or  aught  he  does,  is  governed  by  caprice ; 
The  supposition  is  replete  vsdth  sin. 
And  bears  the  brand  of  blasphemy  burnt  in. 
Not  0 — the  silver  trumpet's  heavenly  call 
Sounds  for  the  poor,  but  sounds  alike  for  all : 
Kings  are  invited,  and  would  kings  obey, 
No  slaves  on  earth  more  welcome  were  than  they; 
But  royalty,  nobility,  and  state, 
Are  such  a  dead  preponderating  weight. 
That  endless  bliss  (how  strange  soe'er  it  seem) 
In  counterpoise,  flies  up  and  kicks  the  beam. 
'Tis  open,  and  ye  can  not  enter — why  1 
Because  ye  will  not,  Conyers  would  reply — 
And  he  says  much  that  many  may  dispute, 
And  cavil  at  with  ease,  but  none  refute. 


TRUTH. 


19 


O  blessed  effect  of  penury  and  want ; 
The  seed  sown  there  how  vigorous  is  the  plant ! 
No  soil  like  poverty  for  growth  divine, 
As  leanest  land  supplies  the  richest  vmie. 
Earth  gives  too  little,  giving  only  bread. 
To  nourish  pride,  or  turn  the  weakest  head : 
To  them  the  sounding  jargon  of  the  schools 
Seems  what  it  is — a  cap  and  bells  for  fools : 
The  light  they  walked  by,  kindled  from  above, 
•Shows  them  the  shortest  way  to  life  and  love : 
They,  strangers  to  the  controversial  field, 
Where  deists,  always  foiled,  yet  scorn  to  yield, 
And  never  checked  by  what  impedes  the  wise, 
Believe,  rush  forward,  and  possess  the  prize. 

Envy,  ye  great,  the  dull  unlettered  small : 
Ye  have  much  cause  for  envy — but  not  all. 
We  boast  some  rich  ones  whom  the  Gospel  sways, 
And  one  who  wears  a  coronet  and  prays ; 
JJke  gleanings  of  an  olive-tree  they  show. 
Here  and  there  one  upon  the  topmost  bough. 

How  readily  upon  the  Gospel  plan, 
That  question  has  its  answer — What  is  man  1 
Sinful  and  weak,  in  every  sense  a  wretch ; 
An  instrument,  whose  chords  upon  the  stretch, 
And  strained  to  the  last  screw  that  he  can  bear, 
Yield  only  discord  in  his  Maker's  ear : 
Once  the  blest  residence  of  truth  divine. 
Glorious  as  Solyma's  interior  shrine, 
Where,  in  his  own  oracular  abode, 
Dwelt  visibly  the  light-creating  God^' 
But  made  long  since,  like  tJabylon  of  old, 
A  den  of  mischiefs  never  to  be  told : 
And  she,  once  mistress  of  the  realms  around, 
Now  scattered  wide,  and  no  where  to  be  found, 
As  soon  shall  rise  and  reascend  the  throne, 
By  native  power  and  energy  her  own, 
As  Nature,  at  her  own  pecuhar  cost, 
Restore  to  man  the  glories  he  has  lost. 
Go — bid  the  winter  cease  to  chill  the  year. 
Replace  the  wand'ring  comet  in  his  sphere, 
Then  boast  (but  wait  for  that  unhoped-for  hour) 
The  self-restoring  arm  of  human  power; 
But  what  is  man  in  his  owh  proud  esteem^ 
Pear  him — himself  the  poet  and  the  theme : 
A  monarch  clothed  with  majesty  and  awe. 
His  mind  his  kingdom,  and  his  wiU  his  law, 
Grace  in  his  mien,  and  glory  in  his  eyes, 
Supreme  on  earth,  and  worthy  of  the  skies, 
Strength  in  his  heart,  dominion  in  his  nod, 
And,  thunderbolts  excepted,  quite  a  God  I 
So  sings  he,  charmed  with  his  own  mind  and  form 
The  song  magnificent — the  theme  a  worm! 
Himself  so  much  the  source  of  his  delight, 
His  Maker  has  no  beauty  in  his  sight. 
See  where  he  sits,  contemplative  and  fixed, 
Pleasure  and  wonder  in  his  features  mixed, 
His  passions  tamed  and  all  at  his  control 
How  perfect  the  composure  of  his  soul ! 
c  2 


Complacency  has  breathed  a  gentle  gale 
O'er  all  his  thoughts,  and  swelled  his  easy  sail : 
His  books  well  trimmed  and  in  the  gayest  style, 
Like  regimental  coxcombs,  rank  and  file, 
Adorn  his  intellects  as  well  as  shelves. 
And  teach  him  notions  splendid  as  themselves: 
The  Bible  only  stands  neglected  there. 
Though  that  of  all  most  worthy  of  his  care; 
And,  like  an  infant  troublesome  awake. 
Is  left  to  sleep  for  peace  and  quiet's  sake. 

What  shall  the  man  deserve  of  human  kind, 
Whose  happy  skill  and  industry  combined 
Shall  prove  (what  argument  could  never  yet) 
The  Bible  an  imposture  and  a  cheat  1 
The  praises  of  the  libertine  professed. 
The  worst  of  men,  and  curses  of  the  best. 
Where  should  the  living,  weeping  o'er  his  woes; 
The  dying,  trembling  at  the  awful  close; 
Where  the  betrayed,  forsaken,  and  oppressed, 
The  thousands  whom  the  world  forbids  to  rest; 
Where  should  they  find  (those  comforts  at  an  end 
The  Scripture  yields,)  or  hope  to  find,  a  friend'? 
Sorrow  might  muse  herself  to  madness  then. 
And,  seeking  exile  from  the  sight  of  men. 
Bury  herself  in  soUtude  profound, 
Grow  frantic  vdth  her  pangs,  and  bite  the  ground 
Thus  often  Unbelief,  grown  sick  of  hfe. 
Flies  to  the  tempting  pool,  or  felon  knife. 
The  jury  meet,  the  coroner  is  short, 
And  lunacy  the  verdict  of  the  court : 
Reverse  the  sentence,  let  the  truth  be  known, 
Such  lunacy  is  ignorance  alone ; 
They  knew  not,  what  some  bishops  may  not  know, 
That  Scripture  is  the  only  cure  of  wo; 
That  field  of  promise,  how  it  flings  abroad 
Its  odour  o'er  the  Christian's  thorny  road! 
The  soul,  reposing  on  assured  rehef. 
Feels  herself  happy  amidst  all  her  grief, 
Forgets  her  labour  as  she  toils  along. 
Weeps  tears  of  joy,  and  bursts  into  a  song. 

But  the  same  word,  that,  like  the  polished  share. 
Ploughs  up  the  roots  of  a  believer's  care, 
Kills  too  the  flow'ry , weeds,  where'er  they  grow, 
That  bind  the  sinner's  Bacchanalian  brow. 
Oh  that  unwelcome  voice  of  heavenly  love, 
Sad  messenger  of  mercy  from  above ! 
How  does  it  grate  upon  his  thankless  ear, 
CrippUng  his  pleasures  with  the  cramp  of  fear! 
His  will  and  judgment  at  continual  strife, 
That  civil  war  imbitters  all  his  life : 
:,  In  vain  he  points  his  powers  against  the  skies, 
In  vain  he  closes  or  averts  his  eyes. 
Truth  will  intrude — she  bids  him  yet  beware; 
And  shakes  the  sceptic  in  the  scorner's  chair. 

Though  various  foes  against  the  truth  combine, 
Pride  above  all  opposes  her  design; 
Pride,  of  a  growth  superior  to  the  rest, 
The  subtlest  serpent  with  the  loftiest  crest, 


so 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Swells  at  the  thought,  and,  kindling  into  rage, 
Would  hiss  the  cherub  Mercy  from  the  stage. 

And  is  the  soul  indeed  so  lost? — she  cries, 
Fallen  from  her  glory,  and  too  weak  to  rise? 
Torpid  and  dull  beneath  a  frozen  zone, 
Has  she  no  spark  that  may  be  deemed  her  own? 
Grant  her  indebted  to  what  zealots  call 
Grace  undeserved,  yet  surely  not  for  all — 
Some  beams  of  rectitude  she  yet  displays, 
Some  love  of  virtu6,  and  some  power  to  praise; 
Can  lift  herself  above  corporeal  things. 
And,  soaring  on  her  own  unborrowed  wings, 
Possess  herself  of  all  that's  good  or  true, 
Assert  the  skies,  and  vindicate  her  due. 
Past  indiscretion  is  a  venial  crime, 
And  if  the  youth,  unmellowed  yet  by  time, 
Bore  on  his  branch,  luxuriant  then  and  rude, 
Fruits  of  a  blighted  size,  austere  and  crude, 
M^turer  years  shall,  happier  stores  produce, 
And  meliorate  the  well-concocted  juice. 
Then  conscious  of  her  meritorious  zeal, 
To  justice  she  may  make  ner  ooid  appeal. 
And  leave  to  mercy,  with  a  tranquil  mind, 
The  worthless  and  unfruitful  of  mankind. 
Hear  then  how  mercy,  slighted  and  defied. 
Retorts  the  affront  against  the  crovm  of  Pride. 

Perish  the  virtue,  as  it  ought,  abhorred. 
And  the  fool  with  it,  who  insults  his  Lord. 
The  atonement,  a  Redeemer's  love  has  wrought, 
Is  not  for  you — the  righteous  need  it  not. 
Seest  thou  yon  harlot,  wooing  all  she  meets. 
The  worn-out  nuisance  of  the  public  streets, 
Herself  from  morn  to  night,  from  night  to  morn. 
Her  own  abhorrence,  and  as  much  your  scorn; 
The  gracious  shower,  unlimited  and  free, 
Shall  fall  on  her,  when  heaven  denies  it  thee. 
Of  all  that  wisdom  dictates,  this  the  drift, 
That  man  is  dead  in  sin,  and  life  a  gift. 
'  Is  virtue,  then,  unless  of  Christian  growth. 
Mere  fallacy,  or  foolishness,  or  both? 
Ten  thousand  sages  lost  in  endless  wo. 
For  ignorance  of  what  they  could  not  know? 
That  speech  betrays  at  once  a  bigot's  tongue. 
Charge  not  a  G  od  with  such  outrageous  wrong. 
Truly  not  I — the  partial  light  men  have. 
My  creed  persuades  me,  well-employed,  may  save: 
While  he  that  scorns  the  noonday  beam,  perverse, 
Shall  find  the  blessing  unimproved  a  curse. 
Let  heathen  worthies,  whose  exalted  mind 
Left  sensuality  and  dross  behind. 
Possess  for  me  their  undisputed  lot, 
And  take  unenvied  the  reward  they  sought : 
But  still  in  virtue  of  a  Saviour's  plea, 
X^ot  blind  by  choice,  but  destined  not  to  see. 
Their  fortitude  and  wisdom  were  a  flame 
Celestial,  though  they  knew  not  whence  it  came, 
Derived  from  the  same  source  of  light  and  grace, 
That  guides  the  Christian  in  his  swifter  race;  | 


Their  judge  was  conscience,  and  her  rule  their  law 
That  rule,  pursued  with  reverence  and  with  awe, 
Led  them,  however  faJtering,  faint,  and  slow, 
From  what  they  knew,  to  what  they  wished  to 
know. 

But  let  not  him,  that  shares  a  brighter  day, 
Traduce  the  splendour  of  a  noontide  ray. 
Prefer  the  twilight  of  a  darker  time. 
And  deem  his  base  stupidity  no  crime: 
The  wretch,  who  slights  the  bounties  of  the  skies, 
And  sinks,  while  favoured  with  the  means  to  rise, 
Shall  find  them  rated  at  their  full  amount; 
The  good  he  scorned  all  carried  to  account. 

Marshaling  all  his  terrors  as  he  came, 
Thunder,  and  earthquake,  and  devouring  flame, 
From  Sinai's  top  Jehovah  gave  the  law, 
:  Life  for  obedience,  death  for  every  flaw. 
I  When  the  great  Sovereign  would  his  will  express, 
He  gives  a  perfect  rule;  what  can  he  less? 
And  guards  it  with  a  sanction  as  severe 
'  As  vengeance  can  inflict,  or  sinners  fear: 
Else  his  own  glorious  rights  he  would  disclaim, 
And  man  might  safely  trifle  with  his  name. 
,  He  bids  him  glow  with  unremitting  love 
To  all  on  earth,  and  to  himself  above; 
Condemns  the  injurious  deed,  the  sland'roua 
tongue. 

The  thought  that  meditates  a  brother's  wrong: 
Brings  not  alone  the  more  conspicuous  part. 
His  conduct,  to  the  test,  but  tries  his  heart. 

Hark !  universal  nature  shook  and  groaned, 
'Twas  the  last  trumpet — see  the  judge  enthroned ; 
Rouse  all  your  courage  at  your  utmost  need. 
Now  summon  every  virtue,  stand  and  plead. 
What!  silent?  Is  your  boasting  heard  no  more? 
That  self-renouncing  wisdom,  learned  before. 
Had  shed  immortal  glories  on  your  brow. 
That  all  your  virtues  can  not  purchase  now. 

All  joy  to  the  believer!  He  can  speak — 
Trembling  yet  ha,ppy,  confident  yet  meek. 

Since  the  dear  hour,  that  brought  me  to  thy  foot 
And  cut  up  all  my  follies  by  the  root, 
I  never  trusted  in  an  arm  but  thine, 
Nor  hoped,  but  in  thy  righteousness  divine: 
My  prayers  and  alms,  imperfect  and  defiled. 
Were  but  the  feeble  eflforts  of  a  child; 
Howe'er  performed,  it  was  their  brightest  part, 
That  they  proceeded  from  a  grateful  heart: 
Cleanse,d  in  thine  own  all  purifying  blood. 
Forgive  their  evil,  and  accept  their  good; 
I  cast  them  at  thy  feet — my  only  plea 
Is  what  it  was,  dependence  upon  thee; 
While  struggling  in  the  vale  of  tears  below, 
That  never  failed,  nor  shall  it  fail  me  now. 

Angelic  gratulations  rend  the  skies. 
Pride  falls  unpitied,  never  more  to  rise, 
Humility  is  crowned,  and  Faith  receives  the  priae 


EXPOSTULATION. 


21 


Tantane  tarn  patiens,  nullo  certamine  tolli 
Dona  sines?  Virff.  JEn.  Lib.  V. 


Why  we^ps  the  muse  for  England*?  What  ap- 
pears 

In  England's  case,  to  move  the  muse  to  tears  1 
From  side  to  side  of  her  delightful  isle 
Is  she  not  clothed  with  a  perpetual  smile? 
Can  nature  add  a  charm,  or  art  confer 
A  new-found  luxury  not  seen  in  her? 
Where  under  heaven  is  pleasure  more  pursued, 
Or  where  does  cold  reflection  less  intrude  ? 
Her  fields  a  rich  expanse  of  wavy  corn, 
Poured  out i from  plenty's  overflowing  horn; 
Ambrosial  gardens,  in  which  art  supplies 
The  fervour  and  the  force  of  Indian  skies ; 
Her  peaceful  shores,  where  busy  commerce  waits 
To  pour  his  golden  tide  through  all  her  gates; 
Whom  fiery  suns,  that  scorch  the  russet  spice 
Of  eastern  groves,  and  oceans  floored  with  ice, 
Forbid  in  vain  to  push  his  daring  way 
To  darker  cUmes,  or  climes  of  brighter  day; 
Whom  the  winds  waft  where'er  the  billows  roll, 
From  the  world's  girdle  to  the  frozen  pole; 
The  chariots  bounding  in  her  wheel-worn  streets, 
Her  vaults  below,  where  every  vintage  meets; 
Her  theatres,  her  revels,  and  her  sports ; 
The  scenes  to  wliich  not  youth  alone  resorts,  ■ 
But  age,  in  spite  of  weakness  and  of  pain, 
StUl  haunts,  in  hope  to  dream  of  youth  again; 
AM  speak  her  happy:  let  the  Muse  look  xoxmd 
From  East  to  West,  no  sorrow  can  be  found; 
Or  only  what,  in  cottages  confined. 
Sighs  unregarded  to  the  passing  wind. 
Then  wherefore  weep  for  England?  What  ap- 
pears 

In  England's  case  to  move  the  muse  to  tears? 

The  prophet  wept  for  Israel;  wished  his  eyes 
Were  fountains  fed  with  infinite  suppUes; 
For  Israel  dealt  in  robbery  and  wrong; 
There  were  the  scorner's  and  the  slanderer's 
tongue. 

Oaths,  used  as  playthings  or  convenient  topis, 
As  interest  bias'd  knaves,  or  fashion  fools; 
Adultery,  neighing  at  his  neighbour's  door; 
Oppression,  lab'ring  hard  to  grind  the  poor; 
The  partial  balance,  and  deceitful  weight ; 
The  treacherous  smile,  a  mask  for  secret  hate; 
Hypocrisy,  formality  in  prayer, 
And  the  dull  service  of  the  lip  were  there. 
Her  women,  insolent  and  self-caressed, 
By  Vanity's  unwearied  finger  dressed, 


Forgot  the  blush,  that  virgin  fears  impart 
To  modest  cheeks,  and  borrowed  one  from  art- 
Were  just  such  trifles,  without  worth  or  use, 
As  silly  pride  and  idleness  produce; 
Curled,  scented,  furbelowed,  and  flounced  around, 
With  feet  too  dehcate  to  touch  the  ground. 
They  stretched  the  neck,  and  rolled  the  wantpn  eye, 
And  sighed  for  every  fool  that  fluttered  by. 

He  saw  his  people  slaves  to  every  lust, 
Lewd,  avaricious,  arrogant,  unjust; 
He  heard  the  wheels  of  an  avenging  God 
Groan  heavily  along  the  distant  road; 
Saw  Babylon  set  wide  her  two-leaved  brass 
To  let  the  military  deluge  pass; 
Jerusalem  a  prey,  her  glory  soiled. 
Her  princes  captive,  and  her  treasures  spoiled; 
Wept  till  all  Israel  heard  his  bitter  cry. 
Stamped  with  his  foot,  and  smote  upon  his  thigh: 
But  wept,  and  stamped,  and  smote  his  thigh  in  vain; 
Pleasure  is  deaf  when  told  of  future  pain. 
And  sounds  prophetic  are  too  rough  to  suit 
Ears  long  accustomed  to  the  pleasing  lute; 
They  scorned  his  inspiration  and  his  theme. 
Pronounced  him  frantic,  and  his  fears  a  dream  ; 
With  self-indulgence  winged  the  fleeting  hours, 
Till  the  foe  found  them,  and  down  fell  their  towers. 

Long  time  Assyria  bound  them  in  her  chain, 
Till  penitence  had  purged  the  public  stain, 
And  Cyrus,  with  relenting  pity  moved. 
Returned  them  happy  to  the  land  they  loved; 
There,  proof  against  prosperity,  a  while 
They  stood  the  test  of  her  ensnaring  smile, 
And  had  the  grace  in  scenes  of  peace  to  show 
The  virtue  they  had  learned  in  scenes  of  wo. 
But  man  is  frail,  and  can  but  ill  sustain 
A  long  immimity  from  grief  and  pain; 
And  after  all  the  joys  that  Plenty  leads, 
With  tiptoe  step  Vice  silently  succeeds. 

When  he  that  ruled  them  vdth  a  shepherd's  rod 
In  form  a  man,  in  dignity  a  God, 
Came,  not  expected  in  that  humble  guise. 
To  sift  and  search  them  with  unerring  eyes, 
He  found,  concealed  beneath  a  fair  outside, 
The  filth  of  rottenness,  and  worm  of  pride; 
Their  piety  a  system  of  deceit. 
Scripture  employed  to  sanctify  the  cheat ; 
The  Pharisee  the  dupe  of  his  own  art, 
Self-idolized,  and  yet  a  knave  at  heart. 

When  nations  are  to  perish  in  their  sins 
'Tis  in  the  church  the  leprosy  begins; 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


The  priest,  whose  office  is  with  zeal  sincere 
To  watch  the  fountain,  and  preserve  it  clear, 
Carelessly  nods  and  sleeps  upon  the  brink, 
While  others  poison  what  the  flock  must  drink ; 
Or,  waking  at  the  call  of  lust  alone, 
Infuses  lies  and  errors  of  his  own: 
His  unsuspecting  sheep  believe  it  purej 
And,  tainted  by  the  very  means  of  cure, 
Catch  from  each  other  a  contagious  spot, 
The  foul  fore-runner  of  a  general  rot. 
Then  Truth  is  hushed,  that  Heresy  may  preach: 
And  all  is  trash,  that  Reason  can  not  reach : 
Then  God's  own  image  on  the  soul  impressed, 
Becomes  a  mock'ry,  and  a  standing  jest; 
And  faith,  the  root  whence  only  can  arise 
The  graces  of  a  life  that  wins  the  skies, 
Loses  at  once  all  value  and  esteem, 
Pronounced  by  gray-beards  a  pernicious  dream; 
Then  Ceremony  leads  her  bigots  forth, 
Prepared  to  fight  for  shadows  of  no  worth; 
While  truths,  on  which  eternal  things  depend, 
Find  not,  or  hardly  find,  a  single  firiend; 
As  soldiers  watch  the  signal  of  command. 
They  learn  to  bow,  to  kneel,  to  sit,  to  stand ; 
Happy  to  fill  Religion's  vacant  place 
With  hollow  form,  and  gesture,  and  grimace. 

Such,  when  the  Teacher  of  his  church  was  there. 
People  and  priest,  the  sons  of  Israel  were; 
Stiff  in  the  letter,  lax  in  the  design 
And  import  of  their  oracles  divine; 
Their  learning  legendary,  false,  absurd, 
And  yet  exalted  above  God's  own  word; 
They  drew  a  curse  from  an  intended  good. 
Puffed  up  with  gifts  they  never  understood. 
He  judged  them  with  as  terrible  a  frown. 
As  if  not  love,  but  wrath,  had  brought  him  down: 
Yet  he  was  gentle  as  soft  summer  airs, 
Had  grace  for  others'  sins,  but  none  for  theirs; 
Through  all  he  spoke  a  noble  plainness  ran — 
Rhet'ric  is  artifice,  the  work  of  man; 
And  tricks  and  turns,  that  fancy  may  devise, 
Are  far  too  mean  for  Him  that  rules  the  skies. 
Th'  astonished  vulgar  trembled  while  he  tore 
The  mask  from  faces  never  seen  before; 
He  stripped  th'  impostors  in  the  noonday  sun. 
Showed  that  they  followed  all  they  seemed  to  shun ; 
Their  pray'rs  made  public,  their  excesses  kept 
As  private  as  the  chambers  where  they  slept; 
The  temple  and  its  holy  rites  profaned 
By  mimim'ries  he  that  dwelt  in  it  disdained ; 
Uplifted  hands,  that  at  convenient  times 
Could  act  extortion  and  the  worst  of  crimes. 
Washed  with  a  neatness  scrupulously  nice. 
And  free  from  every  taint  but  that  of  vice. 
Judgment,  however  tardy,  mends  her  pace 
When  Obstinacy  once  has  conquered  Grace. 
They  saw  distemper  healed  and  life  restored, 
In  answer  to  the  fiat  of  his  word:  t 


Confessed  the  wonder,  and  with  daring  tongue 
Blasphemed  th'  authority  from  which  it  sprung. 
They  knew  by  sure  prognostics  seen  on  high, 
The  future  tone  and  temper  of  the  sky; 
But,  grave  dissemblers  could  not  understand 
That  Sin  let  loose  speaks  punishment  at  hand 

Ask  now  of  history's  authentic  page, 
And  call  up  evidence  from  ev'ry  age ; 
Display  with  busy  and  laborious  hand 
The  blessings  of  the  most  indebted  land; 
What  nation  will  you  find  whose  annals  prove 
So  rich  an  interest  in  almighty  love'? 
Where  dwell  they  now,  where  dwelt  in  ancient  day 
A  people  planted,  watered,  blest  as  they  7 
Let  Egypt's  plagues  and  Canaan's  woes  proclaim 
The  favours  poured  upon  the  Jewish  name; 
Their  freedom  purchased  for  them  at  the  cost 
Of  all  their  hard  oppressors  valued  most; 
Their  title  to  a  country  not  their  own. 
Made  sure  by  prodigies  till  then  unknown; 
For  them  the  states  they  left,  made  waste  and  void ; 
For  them  the  states  to  which  thew  went,  destroyed; 
A  cloud  to  measure  out  their  march  by  day. 
By  night  a  fire  to  cheer  the  gloomy  way ; 
That  moving  signal  summoning,  when  best, 
Their  host  to  move,  and  when  it  stayed  to  rest. 
For  them  the  rocks  dissolved  into  ^  flood, 
The  dews  condensed  into  angelic  food, 
Their  very  garments  sacred,  old  yet  new, 
And  Time  forbid  to  touch  them  as  he  flew; 
Streams,  swelled  above  the  bank,  enjoined  to  stand, 
While  they  passed  through  to  their  appointed  land. 
Their  leader  armed  with  meekness,  zeal,  and  love, 
And  graced  with  clear  credentials  from  above; 
Themselves  secured  beneath  th'  Almighty  wing! 
Their  God  their  captain,*  lawgiver,  and  king; 
Crovmed  with  a  thousand  vict'ries,  and  at  last 
Lords  of  the  conquered  soil,  there  rooted  fast. 
In  peace  possessing  what  they  won  by  war, 
Their  name  far  published,  and  revered  as  far; 
Where  will  you  find  a  race  like  theirs,  endowed 
With  all  that  man  e'er  wished  or  Heav'n  bestow- 
ed? 

They,  and  they  only,  amongst  all  mankind, 
Received  the  transcript  of  th'  eternal  mind; 
Were  trusted  with  his  own  engraven  laws. 
And  constituted  guardians  of  his  cause; 
Theirs  were  the  prophets,  theirs  the  priestly  call; 
And  theirs  by  birth  the  Saviour  of  us  all. 
In  vain  the  nations,  that  had  seen  them  rise 
With  fierce  and  envious  yet  admiring  eyes. 
Had  sought  to  crush  them,  guarded  as  they  were 
By  power  divine,  and  skill  that  could  not  err. 
Had  they  maintained  allegiance  firm  and  sure, 
And  kept  the  faith  immaculate  and  pure. 
Then  the  proud  eagles  of  all-conquering  Rome 
Had  found  one  city  not  to  be  o'ercome; 


Vide  Joshua  v.  14. 


And  the  twelve  standards  of  the  tribes  unfurled 
Had  bid  defiance  to  the  warring  world. 
But  grace  abused  brings  forth  the  foulest  deeds, 
As  richest  soil  the  most  luxuriant  weeds. 
Cured  of  the  golden  calves,  their  father's  sin, 
They  set  up  self,  that  idol  god  within; 
Viewed  a  Deliv'rer  with  disdain  and  hate. 
Who  left  them  still  a  tributary  state; 
Seized  fast  his  hand,  held  out  to  set  them  free 
From  a  worse  yoke,  and  nailed  it  to  the  tree: 
There  was  the  consummation  and  the  crown 
The  flower  of  Israel's  infamy  full  blown ; 
Thence  date  their  sad  declension  and  their  fall, 
Their  woes,  not  yet  repealed,  thence  date  them  all. 

Thus  fell  the  best  instructed  in  her  day, 
And  the  most  favoured  land,  look  where  we  may. 
Philosophy  indeed  on  Grecian  eyes 
Had  poured  the  day,  and  cleared  the  Roman  skies 
In  other  climes  perhaps  creative  art. 
With  power  surpassmg  theirs,  performed  her  part 
Might  give  more  life  to  marble,  or  might  fill 
The  glowing  tablets  with  a  juster  skill, 
Might  shine  in  fable,  and  grace  idle  themes 
With  all  th'  embroidery  of  poetic  dreams; 
'Twas  theirs  alone  to  dive  into  the  plan. 
That  truth  and  mercy  had  revealed  to  man; 
And  while  the  world  beside,  that  plan  unknown, 
Deified  useless  wood,  or  senseless  stone. 
They  breathed  in  faith  their  well-directed  prayers, 
And  the  true  God,  the  God  of  truth,  was  theirs. 
'   Their  glory  faded,  and  their  race  dispersed. 
The  last  of  nations  now,  though  once  the  first; 
They  warn  and  teach  the  proudest,  would  they 

learn,  I 
Keep  wisdom,  or  meet  vengeance  in  your  turn- 
If  we  escaped  not,  if  Heaven  spared  not  us,  ' 
Peeled,  scattered,  and  exterminated  thus; 
If  vice  received  her  retribution  due, 
When  we  were  visited,  what  hope  for  youl 
When  God  arises  with  an  awful  frown 
To  punish  lust,  or  pluck  presumption  down ; 
When  gifts  perverted,  or  not  duly  prized, 
Pleasures  o'ervalued,  and  his  grace  despised, 
Provoke  the  vengeance  of  his  righteous  hand, 
To  pour  down  wrath  upon  a  thankless  land ;' 
He  will  be  found  impartially  severe. 
Too  just  to  wink,  or  speak  the  guilty  clear. 

Oh  Israel,  of  all  nations  most  undone ! 
Thy  diadem  displaced,  thy  sceptre  gone ; 
Thy  temple,  once  thy  glory,  fallen  and  rased. 
And  thou  a  worshipper  e'en  where  thou  mayst  j 
Thy  services,  once  holy,  without  a  spot,  ' 
Mere  shadows  now,  their  ancient  pomp  forgot; 
Thy  Levites,  once  a  consecrated  host,  ' 
No  longer  Levites,  and' their  lineage  lost. 
And  thou  thyself  o'er  country  sown. 
With  none  on  earth  that  thou  canst  call  thine 
own; 

3 


EXPOSTULATION. 


S3 


Gry  aloud,  thou  that  sittest  in  the  dust. 
Cry  to  the  proud,  the  cruel,  and  unjust ; 
Knock  at  the  gates  of  nations,  rouse  their  fears 
Say  wrath  is  coming,  and  the  storm  appears; 
But  raise  the  shrillest  cry  in  British  ears. 

What  ails  thee,  restless  as  the  waves  that  roar, 
And  fling  their  foam  against  thy  chalky  shore  1 
Mistress,  at  least  while  Providence  shall  please, 

And  trident-bearing  queen  of  the  wide  seas  

Why,  having  kept  good  faith,  and  often  shown 
Friendship  and  truth  to  others,  find'st  thou  none? 
Thou  that  hast  set  the  persecuted  free, 
None  interposes  now  to  succour  thee. 
Countries  indebted  to  thy  power,  that  shine 
With  light  derived  from  thee,  would  smother 
thine; 

Thy  very  children  watch  for  thy  disgrace— 
A  lawless  brood,  and  curse  thee  to  thy  face. 
Thy  rulers  load  thy  credit,  year  by  year, 
With  sums  Peruvian  mines  could  never  clear  • 
As  if,  hke  arches  built  with  skilful  hand. 
The  more  'twere  pressed  the  firmer  it  would  stand. 

The  cry  in  all  thy  ships  is  still  the  same. 
Speed  us  away  to  battle  and  to  fame. 
Thy  mariners  explore  the  wild  expanse. 
Impatient  to  descry  the  flags  of  France ; 
But,  though  they  fight  as  thine  have  ever  fought, 
Return  ashamed  without  the  wreaths  they  sought,' 
Thy  senate  is  a  scene  of  civil  jar. 
Chaos  of  contrarieties  at  war ; 
Where  sharp  and  solid,  phlegmatic  and  light, 
Discordant  atoms  meet,  ferment,  and  fight;  ' 
Where  Obstinacy  takes  his  sturdy  stand, 
To  disconcert  what  Policy  has  planned ; 
Where  Policy  is  busied  all  night  long 
In  setting  right  what  Faction  has  set  wrong ; 
Whei^e  flails  of  oratory  thrash  the  floor. 
That  yields  them  chaff  and  dust,  and  nothing 
more. 

Thy  racked  inhabitants  repine,  complain. 
Taxed  till  the  brow  of  Labour  sweats  in  vain, 
War  lays  a  burden  on  the  reeling  state. 
And  peace  does  nothing  to  reheve  the  weight; 
Successive  loads  succeeding  broils  impose. 
And  sighing  millions  prophesy  the  close. 

Is  adverse  Providence,  when  pondered  well, 
So  dimly  writ,  or  difficult  to  spell. 
Thou  canst  not  read  with  readiness  and  ease 
Providence  adverse  in  events  hke  these'? 
Know  then  that  heavenly  wisdom  on  this  ball 
Creates,  gives  birth  to,  guides,  consummates  all 
That  while  laborious  and  quick-thoughted  man 
Snuffs  up  the  praise  of  what  he  seems  to  plan, 
He  first  conceives,  then  perfects  his  design. 
As  a  mere  instrument  in  hands  divine: 
Blind  to  the  working  of  that  secret  power, 
That  balances  the  wings  of  every  hour. 
The  busy  trifler  dreams  himself  alone, 
Frames  many  a  purpose,  and  God  works  his  owjt- 


24 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


States  thrive  or  wither  as  moons  wax  and  wane^ 
Even  as  his  will  and  his  decrees  ordain; 
While  honour,  vh-tue,  piety,  bear  sway, 
They  flourish;  and  as  these  decline,  decay; 
In  just  resentment  of  his  injured  laws, 
He  pours  contempt  on  them  and  on  their  cause; 
Strikes  the  rough  thread  of  error  right  athwart 
The  web  of  every  scheme  they  have  at  heart; 
Bids  rottenness  invade  and  bring  to  dust 
The  pillars  of  support,  in  which  they  trust, 
And  do  his  errand  of  disgrace  and  shame 
On  the  chief  strength  and  glory  of  the  frame. 
Kone  ever  yet  impeded  what  he  wrought, 
None  bars  him  out  from  his  most  secret  thought : 
Darkness  itself  before  his  eye  is  light. 
And  hell's  close  mischief  naked  in  his  sight. 
Stand  now  and  judge  thyself — Hast  thou  in- 
curred 

His  anger,  who  can  w^ste  thee  with  a  word, 
Who  poises  and  proportions  sea  and  land. 
Weighing  them  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand, 
And  in  whose  awful  sight  all  nations  seem 
As  grasshoppers,  as  dust,  a  drop,  a  dream'? 
Hast  thou  (a  sacrilege  his  soul  abhors) 
Claimed  all  the  glory  of  thy  prosperous  wars'? 
Proud  of  thy  fleets  and  armies,  stolen  the  gem 
Of  his  just  praise,  to  lavish  it  on  them'? 
Hast  thou  not  learned,  what  thou  art  often  told, 
A  truth  still  sacred,  and  believed  of  old, 
That  no  success  attends  on  spears  and  swords 
TJnblest,  and  that  the  battle  is  the  Lord's'? 
That  courage  is  his  creature;  and  dismay 
The  post,  that  at  his  bidding  speeds  away, 
Ghastly  in  feature,  and  his  stammering  tongue 
With  doleful  humour  and  sad  presage  hung, 
To  quell  the  valour  of  the  stoutest  heart, 
And  teach  the  combatant  a  woman's  parf? 
That  he  bids  thousands  fly  when  none  pursue, 
Saves  as  he  will  by  many  or  by  few, 
And  claims  for  ever,  as  his  royal  right. 
The  event  and  sure  decision  of  the  fight '? 
-  Hast  thou,  though  suckled  at  fair  Freedom's 
breast. 

Exported  slavery  to  the  conquered  Easf? 
Pulled  down  the  tyrants  India  served  with  dread. 
And  raised  thyself,  a  greater,  in  their  stead? 
Gone  thither  armed  and  hungry,  returned  full, 
Fed  from  the  richest  veins  of  the  Mogul, 
A  despot  big  with  power  obtained  by  wealth, 
And  that  obtained  by  rapine  and  by  stealth '? 
With  Asiatic  vices  stored  thy  mind. 
But  left  their  virtues  and  thine  own  behind  1 
And,  having  trucked  thy  soul,  brought  home  the 
fee, 

To  tempt  the  poor  to  sell  himself  to  thee*? 

Hast  thou  by  statute  shoved  from  its  design 
The  Saviour's  feast,  his  own  blest  bread  and  wine. 
And  made  the  symbols  of  atoning  grace 
An  office-key,  a  picklock  to  a  place, 


That  infidels  may  prove  their  title  good 
By  an  oath  dipped  in  sacramental  blood? 
A  blot  that  will  be  still  a  blot,  in  spite 
Of  all  that  grave  apologists  may  write ; 
And  though  a  bishop  toil  to  cleanse  the  stain, 
He  wipes  and  scours  the  silver  cup  in  vain. 
And  hast  thou  sworn  on  every  slight  pretence, 
Till  perjuries  are  common  as  bad  pence. 
While  thousands,  careless  of  the  damning  sin, 
Kiss  the  book's  outside,  who  ne'er  looked  within 

Hast  thou,  when  Heaven  has  clothed  thee  with 
disgrace, 

(And,  long  provoked,  repaid  thee  to  thy  face, 
For  thou  hast  known  ecHpses,  and  endured 
Dimness  and  anguish,  all  thy  beams  obscured. 
When  sin  had  shed  dishonour  on  thy  brow; 
And  never  of  a  sabler  hue  than  now,) 
Hast  thou,  with  heart  perverse  and  conscience 
seared, 

Despising  all  rebuke,  still  persevered, 
And  having  chosen  evil,  scorned  the  voice 
That  cri(;d.  Repent '? — and  gloried  in  thy  choice'? 
Thy  fastings,  when  calamity  at  last 
Suggests  the  expedient  of  a  yearly  fast, 
What  mean  they '?  Canst  thou  dream  there  is  a 
power  ► 

In  lighter  diet  at  a  later  hour. 

To  charm  to  sleep  the  threatening  of  tlie  skies. 

And  hide  past  folly  from  all-seeing  eyes  1 

The  fast,  that  wins  deliverance,  and  suspends 

The  stroke,  that  a  vindictive  God  intends. 

Is  to  renounce  hypocrisy;  to  draw 

Thy  life  upon  the  pattern  of  the  law ; 

To  war  with  pleasure,  idolized  before; 

To  vanquish  lust,  and  wear  its  yoke  no  more. 

All  fasting  else,  whate'er  be  the  pretence, 

Is  wooing  mercy  by  renewed  offence. 

Hast  thou  within  the  sin,  that  in  old  time 
Brought  fire  from  Heaven,  the  sex-abusing  crime, 
Whose  horrid  perpetration  stamps  disgrace, 
Baboons  are  free  from,  upon  human  race '? 
Think  on  the  fruitful  and  well-watered  spot. 
That  fed  the  flocks  and  herds  of  wealthy  Lot, 
Where  Paradise  seemed  still  vouchsafed  on  earth, 
Burning  and  scorched  into  perpetual  dearth,  . 
Or,  in  his  words  who  damned  the  base  desire. 
Suffering  the  vengeance  of  eternal  fire: 
Then  nature  injured,  scandalized,  defiled, 
Unveiled  her  Ijlushing  cheek,  looked  on,  and 
smiled; 

Beheld  with  joy  the  lovely  scene  defaced. 

And  praised  the  wrath,  that  laid  her  beauties  waste. 

Far  be  the  thought  from  any  verse  of  mine, 
And  farther  still  the  formed  and  fixed  design, 
To  thrust  the  charge  of  deeds  that  I  detest, 
Against  an  innocent,  unconscious  breast, 
The  man  that  dares  traduce,  because  he  can 
With  safety  to  himself,  is  not  a  man : 


EXPOSTULATION. 


S6 


An  individual  is  a  sacred  mark, 
JSTot  to  be  pierced  in  play,  or  in  the  dark ; 
But  public  censure  speaks  a  public  foe, 
Unless  a  zeal  for  virtue  guide  the  blow. 

The  priestly  brotherhood,  devout,  sincere, 
From  mean  self-interest  and  ambition  clear, 
Their  hope  in  heaven,  servility  their  scorn, 
Prompt  to  persuade,  expostulate,  and  w^arn. 
Their  wisdom  pure,  and  given  them  from  above, 
Their  usefulness  ensured  by  zeal  and  love, 
As  meek  as  the  man  Moses,  and  withal 
As  bold  as  in  Agrippa's  presence  Paul, 
Should  fly  the  world's  contaminating  touch, 
Holy  and  unpolluted : — are  thine  such  'i 
Except  a  few  with  Eli's  spirit  blest, 
Hophni  and  Phineas  may  describe  the  rest. 

Where  shall  a  teacher  look,  in  days  hke  these. 
For  ears  and  hearts,  that  he  can  hope  to  please  1 
Look  to  the  poor — the  simple  and  the  plain 
Will  hear  perhaps  thy  salutary  strain : 
Humility  is  gentle,  apt  to  learn, 
Speak  but  the  word,  will  Hsten  and  return. 
Alas,  not  so !  the  poorest  of  the  flock 
Are  proud,  and  set  their  faces  as  a  rock ; 
Denied  that  earthly  opulence  they  choose, 
God's  better  gift  they  scoff  at  and  refuse. 
The  rich,  the  produce  of  a  nobler  stem, 
Are  more  intelligent  at  least — try  them. 
Oh  vain  inquiry !  they  without  remorse 
Are  altogether  gone  a  devious  course ; 
Where  beck'ning  Pleasure  leads  them,  wildly  stray: 
Have  burst  the  bands,  and  cast  the  yoke  away. 

Now  borne  upon  the  wings  of  truth  sublime, 
Review  thy  dim  original  and  prime. 
This  island,  spot  of  unreclaimed  rude  earth, 
The  cradle  that  received  thee  at  thy  birth. 
Was  rocked  by  many  a  rough  Norwegian  blast. 
And  Danish  bowlings  scared  thee  as  they  passed ; 
For  thou  wast  born  amid  the  din  of  arms. 
And  sucked  a  breast  that  panted  with  alarms. 
While  yet  thou  wast  a  groveling  puling  chit. 
Thy  bones  not  fashioned,  and  thy  joints  not  knit, 
The  Roman  taught  thy  stubborn  knee  to  bow. 
Though  twice  a  Caesar  could  not  bend  thee  now. 
His  victory  was  that  of  orient  light. 
When  the  sun's  shafts  disperse  the  gloom  of  night. 
Thy  language  at  this  distant  moment  shows 
How  much  the  country  to  the  conqueror  owes ; 
Expressive,  energetic,  and  refined. 
It  sparkles  with  the  gems  he  left  behind ; 
He  brought  thy  land  a  blessing  when  he  came, 
He  found  thee  savage,  and  he  left  thee  tame ; 
Taught  thee  to  clothe  thy  pinked  and  painted  hide. 
And  grace  thy  figure  with  a  soldier's  pride. 
He  sowed  the  seeds  of  order  where  he  went, 
Improved  thee  far  beyond  his  own  intent, 
And,  while  he  ruled  thee  by  the  sword  alone, 
Made  thee  at  last  a  warrior  like  his  own. 


Religion,  if  in  heavenly  truths  attired, 
Needs  only  to  be  seen  to  be  admired ; 
But  thine,  as  dark  as  witcheries  of  the  night, 
Was  formed  to  harden  hearts  and  shock  the  sight  ; 
Thy  Druids  struck  the  well-hung  harps  they  bore 
With  fingers  deeply  died  in  human  gore ; 
And  while  the  victim  slowly  bled  to  death. 
Upon  the  rolling  chords  rung  out  his  dying  breath. 
Who  brought  the  lamp,  that  with  awakening 
beams 

Dispelled  thy  gloom,  and  broke  away  thy  dreams, 
Tradition,  now  decrepit  and  worn  out, 
Babbler  of  ancient  fables,  leaves  a  doubt : 
But  still  light  reached  thee ;  and  those  gods  of  thine, 
Woden  and  Thor,  each  tottering  in  his  shrine, 
Fell  broken  and  defaced  at  his  own  door. 
As  Dagon  in  Pliilistia  long  before. 
Bat  Rome,  with  sorceries  and  magic  wand, 
Soon  raised  a  cloud  that  darkened  every  land ; 
And  thine  was  smothered  in  the  stench  and  fog 
Of  Tiber's  marshes  and  the  papal  bog. 
Then  priests,  with  bulls  and  briefs,  and  shaven 
crowns. 

And  griping  fists,  and  unrelenting  frowns. 
Legates  and  delegates  with  powers  from  hell, 
Though  heavenly  in  pretension,  fleeced  thee  well ; 
And  to  this  hour,  to  keep  it  fresh  in  mind, 
Some  tvdgs  of  that  old  scourge  are  left  behind.* 
The  soldiery,  the  Pope's  well-managed  pack, 
Were  trained  beneath  his  lash,  and  knew  the  smack; 
And,  when  he  laid  them  on  the  scent  of  blood, 
Would  hunt  a  Saracen  through  fire  and  flood. 
Lavish  of  life  to  win  an  empty  tomb, 
That  proved  a  mint  of  wealth,  a  mine  to  Rome, 
They  left  their  bones  beneath  unfriendly  skies, 
His  worthless  absolution  all  the  prize. 
Thou  wast  the  veriest  slave  in  days  of  yore, 
That  ever  dragged  a  chain  or  tugged  an  oar  j 
Thy  monarchs,  arbitrary,  fierce,  unjust, 
Themselves  the  slaves  of  bigotry  or  lust, 
Disdained  thy  counsels,  only  in  distress 
Found  thee  a  goodly  sponge  for  power  to  press. 
Thy  chiefs,  the  lords  of  many  a  petty  fee, 
Provoked  and  harassed,  in  return  plagued  thee; 
Called  thee  away  from  peaceable  employ, 
Domestic^  happiness  and  rural  joy, 
To  waste  thy  life  in  arms,  or  lay  it  down 
In  causeless  feuds  and  bickerings  of  their  own. 
Thy  parliaments  adored  on  bended  knees 
The  sovereignty  they  were  convened  to  please  j 
Whate'er  was  asked,  too  timid  to  resist, 
Complied  with,  and  were  graciously  dismissed; 
And  if  some  Spartan  soul  a  doubt  expressed, 
And,  blushing  at  the  tameness  of  the  rest, 
Dared  to  suppose  the  subject  had  a  choice, 
He  was  a  traitor  by  the  general  voice. 


•  Which  maj  be  found  at  Doctors'  CommoiMt 


36 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


O  slave !  with  powers  thou  didst  not  dare  exert, 
Verse  can  not  stooj)  so  low  as  thy  desert ; 
It  shakes  the  sides  of  splenetic  Disdain, 
Thou  self-entitled  ruler  of  the  main, 
To  trace  tliee  to  the  date  when  yon  fair  sea, 
That  clii)s  thy  shores,  had  no  such  charms  for  thee 
When  other  nations  flew  from  coast  to  coast. 
And  thou  hadst  neither  fleet  nor  flag  to  boast. 

Kneel  now,  and  lay  thy  forehead  in  the  dust ; 
Blush,  if  thou  canst ;  not  petrified,  thou  must : 
Act  but  an  honest  and  a  faithful  part ; 
Compare  what  then  thou  wast  with  what  thou  art 
And  God's  disposing  providence  confessed, 
Obduracy  itself  must  yield  the  rest- 
Then  thou  art  bound  to  serve  him,  and  to  prove, 
Hour  after  hour,  thy  gratitude  and  love. 

Has  he  not  bid  thee,  and  thy  favoured  land, 
For  ages  safe  beneath  his  sheltering  hand. 
Given  thee  his  blessing  on  the  clearest  proof. 
Bid  nations  leagued  against  thee  stand  aloof, 
And  charged  Hostility  and  Hate  to  roar 
Where  else  they  would,  but  not  upon  thy  shore  ? 
His  power  secured  thee,  when  presumptuous  Spain 
Baptized  her  fleet  invincible  in  vain  ; 
Her  gloomy  monarch,  doubtful  and  resigned 
To  every  pang  that  racks  an  anxious  mind. 
Asked  of  the  waves,  that  broke  upon  his  coast. 
What  tidings  1  and  the  surge  replied— All  lost ! 
And  when  the  Stuart  leaning  on  the  Scot, 
Then  too  much  feared,  and  now  too  much  forgot 
Pierced  to  the  very  centre  of  the  realm, 
And  hoped  to  seize  his  abdicated  helm, 
'Twas  but  to  prove  how  quickly  with  a  frown 
He  that  had  raised  thee  could  have  pluck'd  thee  dovra. 
Peculiar  is  the  grace  by  thee  possessed, 
Thy  foes  implacable,  thy  land  at  rest ; ' 
Thy  thunders  travel  over  earth  and  seas, 
And  all  at  home  is  pleasure,  wealth,  and  ease. 
'Tis  thus,  extending  his  tempestuous  arm, 
Thy  Maker  fills  the  nations  wdth  alarm,  ' 
While  his  own  Heaven  surveys  the  troubled  scene 
And  feels  no  change,  unshaken  and  serene. 
Freedom,  in  other  lands  scarce  known  to  shine, 
Pours  out  a  flood  of  splendour  upon  thine; 
Thou  hast  as  bright  an  interest  in  her  rays 
As  ever  Roman  had  in  Rome's  best  days. 
True  freedom  is  where  no  restraint  is  known, 
That  Scripture,  justice,  and  good  sense  disow'n, 
Where  only  vice  and  injury  are  tied,  ' 
And  all  from  shore  to  shore  is  free  beside. 
Such  freedom  is— and  Windsor's  hoary  towers 
Stood  trembling  at  the  boldness  of  thy  powers. 
That  won  a  nymph  on  that  immortal  plain  ' 
Like  her  the  fabled  Phcebus  wooed  in  vainj 
He  found  the  laurel  only— happier  you 
Th'  unfading  laurel,  and  the  virgin  too  !* 


t^L^^r^''^^l°  '^^^^''ant  of  Magna  Charta,  which  was  ex- 
wSdJr""    ^"^  ^""^  atRunnymedenear 


Now  thmk,  if  Pleasure  have  a  thought  to  spare ; 
If  God  himself  be  not  beneath  her  care; 
If  business,  constant  as  the  wheels  of  tiiie, 
Can  pause  an  hour  te  read  a  serious  rhyme; 
If  the  new  mail  thy  merchants  now  receive' 
Or  expectation  of  the  next,  give  leave; 
Oh  think!  if  chargeable  with  deep  arrears 
For  such  indulgence  gilding  all  thy  years. 
How  much,  though  long  neglected,  shining  yet, 
The  beams  of  heavenly  truth  have  sweUed  the 
debt. 

When  persecuting  zeal  made  royal  sport 
With  tortured  innocence  in  Mary's  court, 
And  Bonner,  blithe  as  shepherd  at  a  wake, 
Enjoyed  the  show,  and  danced  about  the  stake 
The  sacred  Book,  its  value  understood. 
Received  the  seal  of  martyrdom  in  blood. 
Those  holy  men,  so  full  of  truth  and  grace, 
Seem  to  reflection  of  a  different  race; 
Meek,  modest,  venerable,  wise,  sincere. 
In  such  a  cause  they  could  not  dare  to  fear; 
They  could  not  purchase  earth  with  such  a  prize, 
Or  spare  a  life  too  short  to  reach  the  skies. 
From  them  to  thee  conveyed  along  the  tide. 
Their  streaming  hearts  poured  freely  when  they 
died; 

Those  truths,  which  neither  use  nor  years  impair, 
Invite  thee,  woo  thee,  to  the  bliss  they  share.  ' 
What  dotage  will  not  vanity  maintain  1 
What  web  too  weak  to  catch  a  modern  brain  1  . 
The  moles  and  bats  in  full  assembly  find. 
On  special  search,  the  keen  eyed  eagle  blind. 
And  did  they  dream,  and  art  thou  wiser  now? 
Prove  it— if  better,  I  submit  and  bow. 
Wisdom  and  goodness  are  twin-bom,  one  heart 
Must  hold  both  sisters,  never  seen  apart. 
So  then — as  darkness  overspread  the  deep, 
Ere  Nature  rose  from  her  eternal  sleep, 
And  this  delightful  earth,  and  that  fair  sky, 
Leaped  out  of  nothing,  called  by  the  Most  High; 
By  such  a  change  thy  darkness  is  made  light. 
Thy  chaos  o|der,  and  thy  weakness  might; 
And  He,  whose  power  mere  nullity  obeys,  , 
Who  found  thee  nothing,  formed  thee  for  his  praise. 
To  praise  him  is  to  serve  him,  and  fulfil. 
Doing  and  suffering,  his  unquestioned  will; 
'Tis  to  believe  what  men  inspired  of  old. 
Faithful,  and  faithfully  informed,  unfold ; 
Candid  and  just,  with  no  false  aim  in  view, 
To  take  for  truth,  what  can  not  be  but  true; 
To  learn  in  God's  own  school  the  Christian  part, 
And  bind  the  task  assigned  thee  to  thine  heart: 
Happy  the  man  there  seeking  and  there  found, 
Happy  the  nation  where  such  men  abound. 


How  shall  a  verse  impress  theel  by  what  name 
Shall  I  adjure  thee  not  to  court  thy  shame? 
By  theirs,  whose  bright  example  unimpeached 
I  Directs  thee  to  that  eminence  they  reached  ' 


EXPOSTULATION. 


Heroes  and  worthies  of  days  past,  thy  sires? 
Or  his,  who  touched  their  hearts  with  hallowed  fires 
Their  names,  alas !  in  vain  reproach  an  age. 
Whom  all  the  vanities  they  scorned  engage ! 
And  His,  that  seraphs  tremble  at,  is  hung 
Disgracefully  on  every  trifler's  tongue, 
Or  serves  the  champion  in  forensic  war, 
To  flourish  and  parade  with  at  the  bar. 
Pleasure  herself  perhaps  suggests  a  plea, 
If  interest  move  thee,  to  persuade  e'en  thee; 
By  every  charm  that  smiles  upon  her  face, 
By  joys  possessed,  and  joys  still  held  in  chase, 
If  dear  society  be  worth  a  thought. 
And  if  the  feast  of  freedom  cloy  thee  not. 
Reflect  that  these,  and  all  that  seem  thine  own, 
Held  by  the  tenure  of  his  will  alone. 
Like  angels  in  the  service  of  their  Lord, 
Remain  with,  thee,  or  leave  thee  at  his  word; 
That  gratitude  and  temperance  in  our  use 
Of  what  he  gives,  unsparing  and  profuse. 
Secure  the  favour,  and  enhance  the  joy. 
That  thankless  waste  and  wild  abuse  destroy. 
But  above  all  reflect,  how  cheap  soe'er 
Those  rights,  that  millions  envy  thee,  appear, 
And,  though  resolved  to  risk  them,  and  swim  down 
The  tide  of  pleasure,  heedless  of  His  frown, 
That  blessings  truly  sacred,  and  when  given 
Marked  with  the  signature  and  stamp  of  Heaven, 
The  word  of  prophecy,  those  truths  divine, 
Which  make  that  Heaven,  if  thou  desire  it,  thine, 
(Awful  alternative !  believed,  beloved, 
Thy  glory,  and  thy  shame  if  unimproved,) 
Are  never  long  vouchsafed,  if  pushed  aside 
With  cold  disgust  or  philosophic  pride ! 
And  that,  judicially  withdrawn,  disgrace. 
Error,  and  darkness  occupy  their  place. 

A  world  is  up  in  arms,  and  thou,  a  spot 
Not  quickly  found,  if  negligently  sought,  I 


Thy  soul  as  ample  as  thy  bounds  are  small, 
Endures  the  brunt,  and  darest  defy  them  all. 
And  wilt  shou  join  to  this  bold  enterprise 
A  bolder  stUl,  a  contest  with  the  skies  1 
Remember,  if  He  guard  thee  and  secure, 
Whoe'er  assails  thee,  thy  success  is  sure; 
But  if  He  leave  thee,  though  the  skill  and  power 
Of  nations  sworn  to  spoil  thee  and  devour, 
Were  all  collected  in  thy  single  arm. 
And  thou  couldst  laugh  away  the  fear  of  harm, 
That  strength  would  fail,  opposed  against  the  push 
And  feeble  onset  of  a  pigmy  rush. 

Say  not  (and  if  the  thought  of  such  defence 
Should  spring  within  thy  bosom,  drive  it  thence) 
What  nation  amongst  all  my  foes  is  free 
From  crimes  as  base  as  any  charged  on  mel 
Their  measure  filled,  they  too  shall  pay  the  debt, 
Which  God,  though  long  forborne,  will  not  forget. 
But  know  what  virrath  divine,  when  most  severe, 
Makes  justice  still  the  guide  of  his  career. 
And  will  not  punish,  in  one  mingled  crowd, 
Them  without  light,  and  thee  without  a  cloud. 

Muse,  hang  this  harp  upon  yon  aged  beach, 
Still  murmuring  wdth  the  solemn  truths  I  teach; 
And  while  at  intervals  a  cold  blast  sings 
Through  the  dry  leaves,  and  pants  upon  the  strings, 
My  soul  shall  sigh  in  secret,  and  lament 
A  nation  scourged,  yet  tardy  to  repent. 
I  know  the  warning  song  is  sung  in  vain; 
That  few  will  hear,  and  fewer  heed  the  strain; 
But  if  a  sweeter  voice,  and  one  designed 
A  blessing  to  my  country  and  mankind. 
Reclaim  the  wandering  thousands,  and  bring  home 
A  flock  so  scattered  and  so  wont  to  roam. 
Then  place  it  once  again  between  my  knees; 
The  sound  of  truth  will  then  be  sure  to  please: 
And  truth  alone,  where'er  my  life  be  cast, 
In  scenes  of  plenty,  or  the  pining  waste. 
Shall  be  my  chosen  theme,  my  glory  to  the  last. 


....  doceas  iter,  et  sacra  ostia  pandas.  Virg.  Mn.  6. 


Ask  what  is  human  life— the  sage  replies, 
With  disappointment  lowering  in  his  eyes, 
A  painful  passage  o'er  a  restless  flood, 
A  vain  pursuit  of  fugitive  false  good, 
A  scene  of  fancied  bliss  and  heart-felt  care. 
Closing  at  last  in  darlaiess  and  despair. 
The  poor  inured  to  drudgery  and  distress. 
Act  without  aim,  think  little,  and  feel  less. 
And  no  where,  but  in  feigned  Arcadian  scenes, 
T  aste  happiness,  or  know  what  pleasure  means. 
Riches  are  passed  away  from  hand  to  hand, 
As  fortuyie,  vice,  or  folly  may  command; 

D 


As  in  a  dance  the  pair  that  take  the  lead 

Turn  downward,  and  the  lowest  pair  succeed, 

So  shifting  and  so  various  is  the  plan, 

By  which  Heaven  rules  the  mixed  affairs  of  man; 

Vicissitude  wheels  round  the  motley  crowd, 

The  rich  grow  poor,  the  poor  become  purse-proud; 

Business  is  labour,  and  man's  weakness  such, 

Pleasure  is  labour  too,  and  tires  as  much. 

The  very  sense  of  it  foregoes  its  use. 

By  repetition  palled,  by  age  obtuse. 

Youth  lost  in  dissipation  we  deplore, 

Through  life's  sad  remnant,  what  no  sighs  restore; 


28 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Out  years,  a  fruitless  race  without  a  prize, 
Too  many,  yet  too  few  to  make  us  wise. 

Dangling  his  cane  about,  and  taking  snufF, 
Lothario  cries.  What  philosophic  stuff— 
O  querulous  and  weak  ! — whose  useless  brain 
Once  thought  of  nothing,  and  now  thinks  in  vain ; 
Whose  eyes  reverted  weeps  o'er  all  the  past. 
Whose  prospect  shows  thee  a  disheartening  waste; 
Would  age  in  thee  resign  his  wintry  reign, 
And  youth  invigorate  that  frame  again. 
Renewed  desire  would  grace  with  other  speech, 
Joys  always  prized,  when  placed  within  our  reach. 

For  Uft  thy  palsied  head,  shake  off  the  gloom 
That  overhangs  the  borders  of  thy  tomb. 
See  Nature  gay,  as  when  she  first  began, 
With  smiles  alluring  her  admirer  man ; 
She  spreads  the  morning  over  eastern  hills, 
Earth  glitters  ^iththe  drops  the  night  distils; 
The  Sun  obedient  af,  her  call  appears. 
To  fling  his  glories  o'er  the  robe  she  wears; 
Banks  clothed  vdth  flowers,  groves  filled  with 

sprightly  sounds, 
The  yellow  tilth,  green  meads,  rocks,  rising 
grounds, 

Streams  edged  with  osiers,  fattening  every  field, 
Where'er  they  flow,  now  seen  and  now  concealed; 
From  the  blue  rim,  where  skies  and  mountains  meet, 
Down  to  the  very  turf  beneath  thy  feet. 
Ten  thousand  charms,  that  only  fools  despise, 
Or  pride  can  look  at  with  indifferent  eyes, 
All  speak  one  language,  all  with  one  sweet  voice 
Cry  to  her  universal  realm,  Rejoice! 
Man  feels  the  spur  of  passions  and  desires. 
And  she  gives  largely  more  than  he  requires; 
Not  that  his  hours  devoted  all  to  Care, 
Hollow-eyed  Abstinence,  and  lean  Despair, 
The  wretch  ma;y  pine,  while  to  his  smell,  taste, 
sight. 

She  holds  a  paradise  of  rich  delight; 

But  gently  to  rebuke  his  awkward  fear. 

To  prove  that  what  she  gives,  she  gives  sincere; 

To  banish  hesitation,  and  proclaim 

His  happiness,  her  dear,  her  only  aim. 

'Tis  grave  philosophy's  absurdest  dream, 

That  Heaven's  intentions  are  not  what  they  seem. 

That  only  shadows  are  dispensed  below, 

And  earth  has  no  reality  but  wo. 

Thus  things  terrestrial  wear  a  different  hue. 
As  youth  or  age  persuades;  and  neither  true. 
So  Flora's  wreath  through  coloured  crystal  seen, 
The  rose  or  lily  appears  blue  or  green, 
But  still  th'  imputed  tints  are  those  alone 
The  medium  represents,  and  not  their  own. 

To  rise  at  noon,  sit  slipshod  and  undressed, 
To  read  the  news,  or  fiddle,  as  seems  best. 
Till  half  the  world  comes  rattling  at  his  door, 
To  fill  the  dull  vacuity  till  four; 
And,  just  when  evening  turns  the  blue  vault  gray. 
To  spend  two  hours  in  dressing  for  the  day; 


To  make  the  sun  a  bauble  without  use, 

Save  for  the  fruits  his  heavenly  beams  produce; 

Gtuite  to  forget,  or  deem  it  worth  no  thought. 

Who  bids  him  shine,  or  if  he  shine  or  not; 

Through  mere  necessity  to  close  his  eyes 

Just  when  the  larks  and  when  the  shepherds  rise;- 

Is  such  a  life,  so  tediously  the  same, 

So  void  of  all  utility  or  aim, 

That  poor  Jonquil,  with  almost  every  breath 

Sighs  for  his  exit,  vulgarly  called  death ; 

For  he,  with  all  his  follies,  has  a  mind 

Not  yet  so  blank,  or  fashionably  blind. 

But  now  and  then  perhaps  a  feeble  ray 

Of  distant  wisdom  shoots  across  his  way. 

By  which  he  reads,  that  life  without  a  plan, 

As  useless  as  the  moment  it  began. 

Serves  merely  as  a  soil  for  discontent 

To  thrive  in;  an  encumbrance  ere  half  spent 

Oh  weariness  beyond  what  asses  feel, 

That  tread  ths  circuit  of  the  cistern  wheel; 

A  dull  rotation,  never  at  a  stay. 

Yesterday's  face  tvdn  image  of  to-day; 

While  conversation,  an  exhausted  stock. 

Grows  drowsy  as  the  clicking  of  a  clock. 

No  need,  he  cries,  of  gravity  stuffed  out 

With  academic  dignity  devout, 

To  read  wise  lectures,  vanity  the  text: 

Proclaim  the  remedy,  ye  learned,  next; 

For  truth  self-evident,  with  pomp  impressed, 

Is  vanity  surpassing  all  the  rest. 

That  remedy,  not  hid  in  deeps  profound, 
Yet  seldom  sought  where  only  to  be  found, 
While  poison  turns  aside  from  its  due  scope 
Th'  inquirer's  aim,  that  remedy  is  hope. 
Life  is  His  gift,  from  whom  whate'er  life  needs 
With  every  good  and  perfect  gifl;,  proceeds; 
Bestowed  on  man,  like  all  that  we  partake, 
Royally,  freely,  for  his  bounty's  sake; 
Transient  indeed,  as  is  the  fleeting  hour, 
And  yet  the  seed  of  an  immortal  flower; 
Designed  in  honour  of  his  endless  love, 
To  fill  with  fragrance  his  abode  above; 
No  trifle,  howsoever  short  it  seem, 
And,  howsoever  shadowy,  no  dream! 
Its  value,  what  no  thought  can  ascertain, 
Nor  all  an  angel's  eloquence  explain; 
Men  deal  with  life  as  children  with  their  play, 
Who  first  misuse,  then  cast  their  toys  away 
Live  to  no  sober  purpose,  and  contend 
That  their  Creator  had  no  serious  end. 
When  God  and  man  stand  opposite  in  view, 
Man's  disappomtment  must  of  course  ensue. 
The  just  Creator  condescends  to  vmte, 
In  beams  of  inextinguishable  light, 
His  names  of  wisdom,  goodness,  power,  and  love 
On  all  that  blooms  below,  or  shines  above, 
To  catch  the  wandering  notice  of  mardiind, 
And  teach  the  world,  if  not  perversely  blind, 


HOPE. 


29 


His  gracious  attributes,  and  prove  the  share 
His  offspring  hold  in  his  paternal  carf^. 
If,  led  from  earthly  things  to  things  divine, 
His  creature  thwart  not  his  august  design, 
Then  praise  is  heard  instead  of  reasoning  pride, 
And  captious  cavil  and  complaint  subside. 
Natvire,  employed  in  her  allotted  place, 
Is  hand-maid  to  the  purposes  of  Grace ; 
By  good  vouchsafed  makes  known  superior  good, 
And  bhss  not  seen  by  blessings  understood : 
That  bliss,  revealed  in  Scripture,  with  a  glow 
Bright  as  the  covenant-ensuring  bow, 
Fires  all  his  feeUngs  with  a  noble  scorn 
Of  sensual  evil,  and  thus  Hope  is  born. 

Hope  sets  the  stamp  of  vanity  on  all 
That  men  have  deemed  substantial  since  the  fall, 
Yet  has  the  wondrous  virtue  to  educe 
From  emptiness  itself  a  real  use ; 
And  while  she  takes,  as  at  a  father's  hand. 
What  health  and  sober  appetite  demand, 
From  fading  good  derives,  with  chymic  art, 
That  lasting  happiness,  a  thankful  heart. 
Hope,  with  uplifted  foot  set  free  from  earth. 
Pants  for  the  place  of  her  ethereal  birth, 
On  steady  wings  sails  through  th'  immense  abyss, 
Plucks  amaranthine  joys  from  bowers  of  bliss. 
And  crowns  the  soul,  while  yet  a  mourner  here. 
With  wreaths  like  those  triumphant  spirits  wear. 
Hope,  as  an  anchor  firm  and  sure,  holds  fast 
The  Christian  vessel,  and  defies  the  blast. 
Hope !  nothing  else  can  nourish  and  secure 
His  new-born  virtues,  and  preserve  him  pure. 
Hope !  let  the  wretch,  once  conscious  of  the  joy, 
Whom  now  despairing  agonies  destroy, 
Speak,  for  he  can,  and  none  so  well  as  he, 
What  treasures  centre,  what  delights  in  thee. 
Had  he  the  gems,  the  spices,  and  the  land 
That  boasts  the  treasure,  all  at  his  command ; 
The  fragrant  grove,  th'  inestimable  mine. 
Were  light,  when  weighed  against  one  smile  of 
thine. 

Though,  clasped  and  cradled  in  his  nurse's  arms, 
He  shines  with  all  a  cherub's  artless  charms, 
Man  is  the  genuine  offspring  of  revolt, 
Stubborn  and  sturdy,  as  a  wild  ass'  colt; 
His  passions,  like  the  watery  stores  that  sleep 
Beneath  the  smiUng  surface  of  the  deep, 
Wait  but  the  lashes  of  a  wintry  storm, 
To  frown  and  roar,  and  shake  his  feeble  form. 
From  infancy  through  childhood's  giddy  maze, 
Froward  at  school,  and  fretful  in  his  plays, 
The  puny  tyrant  burns  to  subjugate 
\  The  free  republic  of  the  whip-gig  state. 
If  one,  his  equal  in  athletic  frame, 
Or,  more  provoking  still,  of  nobler  name, 
Dare  step  across  his  arbitrary  views, 
An  Iliad,  only  not  in  verse,  ensues: 
The  little  Greeks  look  trembUng  at  the  scales. 
Till  the  best  tongue,  or  heaviest  hand,  prevails. 


Now  see  him  launched  into  the  world  at  large  j 
If  priest,  supinely  droning  o'er  his  charge, 
Their  fleece  his  pillow,  and  his  weekly  drawl, 
Though  short,  too  long,  the  price  he  pays  for  all. 
If  lawyer,  loud,  whatever  cause  he  plead. 
But  proudest  of  the  worst,  if  that  succeed. 
Perhaps  a  grave  physician,  gathering  fees, 
Punctually  paid  for  lengthening  out  disease; 
No  Cotton,  whose  humanity  sheds  rays, 
That  make  superior  skill  his  second  praise. 
If  arms  engage  him,  he  devotes  to  sport 
His  date  of  life,  so  likely  to  be  short; 
A  soldier  may  be  any  thing,  if  brave. 
So  may  a  tradesman,  if  not  quite  a  knave. 
Such  stuff"  the  world  is  made  of ;  and  mankind 
To  passion,  interest,  pleasure,  whim  resigned. 
Insist  on,  as  if  each  were  his  own  pope. 
Forgiveness,  and  the  privilege  of  hope. 
But  Conscience,  in  some  awful  silent  hour, 
When  captivating  lusts  have  lost  their  power. 
Perhaps  when  sickness,  or  some  fearful  dream, 
Reminds  him  of  religion,  hated  theme ! 
Starts  from  the  down,  on  which  she  lately  slept-, 
And  tells  of  laws  despised,  at  least  not  kept: 
Shows  with  a  pointing  finger,  but  no  noise, 
A  pale  procession  of  past  sinful  joys. 
All  witnesses  of  blessings  foully  scorned, 
And  life  abused,  and  not  to  be  suborned. 
Mark  these,  she  says;  these  summoned  from  afar, 
Begin  their  march  to  meet  thee  at  the  bar; 
There  find  a  Judge  inexorably  just. 
And  perish  there,  as  all  presumption  must. 

Peace  be  to  those  (such  peace  as  Earth  can  give) 
Who  live  in  pleasure,  dead  e'en  while  they  live; 
Born  capable  indeed  of  heavenly  truth; 
But  down  to  latest  age,  from  earliest  youth 
Their  mind  a  wilderness  through  want  of  care, 
The  plough  of  wisdom  never  entering  there. 
Peace,  (if  in  sensibility  may  claim 
A  right  to  the  meek  honours  of  her  name) 
To  men  of  pedigree,  their  noble  race, 
Emulous  always  of  the  nearest  place 
To  any  throne,  except  the  throne  of  Grace. 
Let  cottagers  and  unenlightened  swains 
Revere  the  laws  they  dream  that  Heaven  ordains: 
Resort  on  Sundays  to  the  house  of  prayer, 
And  ask,  and  fancy  they  find  blessings  there. 
Themselves,  perhaps,  when  weary  they  retreat 
T'  enjoy  cool  nature  in  a  country  seat, 
T'  exchange  the  centre  of  a  thousand  trades. 
For  clumps,  and  lawns,  and  temples,  and  cascades, 
May  now  and  then  their  velvet  cushions  take, 
And  seem  to  pray  for  good  example's  sake; 
Judging,  in  charity  no  doubt,  the  town 
Pious  enough,  and  having  need  of  none. 
Kind  souls !  to  teach  their  tenantry  to  prize 
What  they  themselves,  without  remorse,  despise : 
Nor  hope  have  they,  nor  fear,  of  aught  to  come, 
As  well  for  them  had  prophecy  been  dumbj 


30 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


They  could  have  held  the  conduct  they  pursue, 
Had  Paul  of  Tarsus  lived  and  died  a  Jew; 
And  truth,  proposed  to  reasoners  wise  as  they, 
Is  a  pearl  cast — completely  cast  away. 

They  die — Death  lends  them,  pleased,  and  as  in 
sport, 

All  the  grim  honours  of  his  ghastly  court. 
Far  other  paintings  grace  the  chamber  now, 
Where  late  we  saw  the  mimic  landscape  glow: 
The  busy  heralds  hang  the  sable  scene 
With  mournful  'scutcheons,  and  dim  lamps  be- 
tween ; 

Proclaim  their  titles  to  the  crowd  around, 
But  they  that  wore  them  move  not  at  the  sound; 
The  coronet,  placed  idly  at  their  head, 
Adds  nothing  now  to  the  degraded  dead; 
And  e'en  the  star,  that;  glitters  on  the  bier, 
Can  only  say — Nobility  lies  here. 
Peace  to  all  such — 'twere  pity  to  offend, 
By  useless  censure,  whom  we  can  not  mend ; 
Life  without  hope  can  close  but  in  despair, 
'Twas  there  we  found  them,  and  must  leave  them 
there. 

As,  when  two  pilgrims  in  a  forest  stray. 
Both  may  be  lost,  yet  each  in  his  own  way; 
So  fares  it  with  the  multitudes  beguiled 
In  vain  Opinion's  waste  and  dangerous  wild ; 
Ten  thousand  rove  the  brakes  and  thorns  among, 
Some  eastward,  and  some  westward,  and  all  wrong. 
But  here,  alas !  the  fatal  difference  lies. 
Each  man's  belief  is  right  in  his  own  eyes; 
And  he  that  blames  what  they  have  blindly  chose. 
Incurs  resentment  for  the  love  he  shows. 

Say,  botanist,  within  whose  province  fall 
The  cedar  and  the  hyssop  on  the  wall. 
Of  all  that  deck  the  lanes,  the  fields,  the  bowers. 
What  parts  the  kindred  tribes  of  weeds  and 
flowers^ 

Sweet  scent,  or  lovely  form,  or  both  combined, 
Distinguish  every  cultivated  kind; 
The  want  of  both  denotes  a  meaner  breed. 
And  Chloe  from  her  garland  picks  the  weed. 
Thus  hopes  of  every  sort,  whatever  sect 
Esteem  them,  sow  them,  rear  them,  and  protect, 
If  wild  in  nature,  and  not  duly  found, 
Gethsemane !  in  thy  dear  hallowed  ground. 
That  can  not  bear  the  blazs  of  Scripture  light, 
Nor  cheer  the  spirit,  nor  refresh  the  sight, 
Nor  animate  the  soul  to  Christian  deeds, 
(Oh  cast  them  from  thee!)  are  weeds,  arrant 
weeds. 

Ethelred's  house,  the  centre  of  six  ways, 
Diverging  each  from  each,  hke  equal  rays, 
Himself  as  bountiful  as  April  rains, 
Lord  paramount  of  the  surrounding  plains, 
Would  give  relief  of  bed  ^nd  board  to  none 
But  guests  that  sought  it  in  th'  appointed  One; 
And  they  might  enter  at  his  open  door, 
E'en  till  his  spacious  nail  would  hold  no  more. 


He  sent  a  servant  forth  by  every  road. 
To  sound  his  horn,  and  publish  it  abroad. 
That  all  might  mark — knight,  menial,  high,  ami 
low. 

An  ordinance  it  concerned  them  all  to  know. 
If,  after  all,  some  headstrong  hardy  lout 
Would  disobey,  though  sure  to  be  shut  out, 
Could  he  with  reason  murmur  at  his  case, 
Himself  sole  author  of  his  own  disgrace? 
No !  the  decree  was  just  and  without  flaw ; 
And  he,  that  made,  had  right  to  make,  the  law; 
His  sovereign  power  and  pleasure  unrestrained. 
The  wrong  was  his  who  wrongfully  complained. 

Yet  half  mankind  maintain  a  churlish  strife 
With  Him,  the  donor  of  eternal  life. 
Because  the  deed,  by  which  his  love  confirms 
The  largess  he  bestows,  prescribes  the  terms. 
Compliance  with  his  will  your  lot  ensures, 
Accept  it  only,  and  the  boon  is  yours. 
And  sure  it  is  as  kind  to  smile  and  give, 
As  with  a  frown  to  say.  Do  this,  and  Uve. 
Love  is  not  pedler's  trumpery  bought  and  sold  : 
He  will  give  freely,  or  he  will  withhold ; 
His  soul  abhors  a  mercenary  thought. 
And  him  as  deeply  who  abhors  it  not ; 
He  stipulates  indeed,  but  merely  this. 
That  man  will  freely  take  an  unbought  bliss. 
Will  trust  him  for  a  faithful  generous  part, 
Nor  set  a  price  upon  a  willing  heart. 
Of  all  the  ways  that  seems  to  promise  fair. 
To  place  you  where  his  saints  his  presence  share, 
This  only  can ;  for  this  plain  cause,  expressed 
In  terms  as  plain.  Himself  has  shut  the  rest. 
But  oh  the  strife,  the  bickering,  and  debate. 
The  tidings  of  unpurchased  Heaven  create ! 
The  flirted  fan,  the  bridje,  and  the  toss. 
All  speakers,  yet  all  language  at  a  loss. 
From  stuccoed  walls  smart  argument  rebound ; 
And  beaux,  adepts  in  every  thing  profound, 
Die  of  disdain,  or  whistle  off  the  sound. 
Such  is  the  clamour  of  rooks,  daws,  and  kites, 
Th'  explosion  of  the  levelled  tube  excites. 
Where  mouldering  abbey-walls  o'erhang  the  glade, 
And  oaks  coeval  spread  a  mournftd  shade ; 
The  screaming  nations,  hovering  in  mid  E«ir, 
Loudly  resent  the  stranger's  freedom  there, 
And  seem  to  warn  him  never  to  repeat 
His  bold  intrusion  on  their  dark  retreat. 

Adieu,  Vinosa  cries,  ere  yet  he  sips 
The  purple  bumper  trembUng  at  his  lips, 
Adieu  to  all  morality !  if  Grace 
Make  works  a  vain  ingredient  in  the  case. 
The  Christian  hope  is— Waiter,  draw  the  cork — 
If  I  mistake  not — Blockhead !  with  a  fork ! 
Without  good  works,  whatever  some  may  boast, 
Mere  folly  and  delusion — Sir,  your  toast. 
My  firm  persuasion  is,  at  least  sometimes. 
That  Heaven  will  weigh  man's  virtues  and  his 
crimes 


HOPE. 


31 


With  nice  attention,  in  a  righteous  scale, 
And  save  or  damn  as  these  or  those  prevail. 
I  plant  my  foot  upon  this  ground  of  trust. 
And  silence  every  fear  with — God  is  just. 
But  if  perchance  on  some  dull  drizzling  day 
A  thought  intrude,  that  says,  or  seems  to  say, 
If  thus  th'  important  cause  is  to  be  tried, 
Suppose  the  beam  should  dip  on  the  vs^rong 
I  soon  recover  from  these  needless  frights, 
And  God  is  merciful — sets  all  to  rights. 
Thus  between  justice,  as  my  prime  support, 
And  mercy,  fled  to  as  the  last  resort, 
I  glide  and  steal  along  with  Heaven  in  view, 
And, — pardon  me,  the  bottle  stands  with  you. 

I  never  will  beUeve,  the  Colonel  cries, 
The  sanguinary  schemes,  that  some  devise 
Who  make  the  good  Creator  on  their  plan 
A  being  of  less  equity  than  man. 
If  appetite,  or  what  divines  call  lust. 
Which  men  comply  with,  e'en  because  they  must, 
Be  punished  with  perdition,  who  is  pure  7 
Then  theirs,  no  doubt,  as  well  as  mine,  is  sure. 
If  sentence  of  eternal  pain  belong 
To  every  sudden  slip  and  transient  wrong, 
Then  Heaven  enjoins  the  fallible  and  frail 
A  hopeless  task,  and  damns  them  if  they  fail. 
My  creed  (whatever  some  creed-makers  mean 
By  Athanasian  nonsense,  or  Nicene) — 
My  creed  is,  he  is  safe  that  does  his  best. 
And  death's  a  doom  sufficient  for  the  rest. 

Right,  says  an  ensign;  and,  for  aught  I  see, 
Your  faith  and  mine  substantially  agree ; 
The  best  of  every  man's  performance  here 
Is  to  discharge  the  duties  of  his  sphere. 
A  lawyer's  dealings  should  be  just  and  fair. 
Honesty  shines  with  great  advantage  there. 
Fasting  and  prayer  sit  well  upon  a  priest, 
A  decent  caution  and  reserve  at  least. 
A  soldier's  best  is  courage  in  the  field. 
With  nothing  here  that  wants  to  be  concealed  j 
Manly  deportment,  gallant,  easy,  gay; 
A  hand  as  liberal  as  the  light  of  day. 
The  soldier  thus  endowed  who  never  shrinks, 
Nor  closets  up  his  thoughts,  whate'er  he  thinks. 
Who  scorns  to  do  an  injury  by  stealth. 
Must  go  to  Heaven — and  I  must  drink  his  health. 
Sir  Smug,  he  cries,  (for  lowest  at  the  board, 
Just  made  fifth  chaplain  of  his  patron  lord, 
His  shoulders  witnessing,  by  many  a  shrug. 
How  much  his  feelings  suflfered,  sat  Sir  Smug,) 
Your  office  is  to  winnow  false  from  true ; 
Come,  prophet,  drink,  and  tell  us  what  think  you  1 

Sighinj^  and  smiling  as  he  takes  his  glass, 
Which  thpy  that  woo  preferment  rarely  pass, 
ti^allible  ma/i,  the  church-bred  youth  replies, 
*s  still  foanii  fallible,  however  wise ; 
\nd  dilfenng  judgments  serve  but  to  declare, 
That  truth  lies  somewhere,  if  we  knew  but  where, 

s  2 


Of  all  it  ever  was  my  lot  to  read, 
Of  critics  now  alive,  or  long  since  dead, 
The  book  of  all  the  world  that  charmed  me  most 
Was, — welladay,  the  title-page  was  lost ; 
The  writer  well  remarks,  a  heart  that  knows 
To  take  with  gratitude  what  Heaven  bestows. 
With  prudence  always  ready  at  our  call. 
To  guide  our  use  of  it,  is  all  in  all. 
Doubtless  it  is. — To  which  of  my  own  store, 
I  superadd  a  few  essentials  more ; 
But  these,  excuse  the  liberty  I  take, 
I  waive  just  now,  for  conversation's  sake. — 
Spoke  hke  an  oracle,  they  all  exclaim. 
And  add  Right  Reverend  to  Smug's  honoured 
name. 

And  yet  our  lot  is  given  us  in  a  land. 
Where  busy  arts  are  never  at  a  stand; 
Where  Science  points  her  telescopic  eye,  ' 
Familiar  with  the  wonders  of  the  sky; 
Where  bold  Inquiry,  diving  out  of  sight. 
Brings  many  a  precious  pearl  of  truth  to  light; 
Where  nought  eludes  the  persevering  quest 
That  fashion,  taste,  or  luxury,  suggest. 

But,  above  all,  in  her  own  light  arrayed, 
See  Mercy's  grand  apocalypse  displayed ! 
The  sacred  book  no  longer  suflfers  wrong. 
Bound  in  the  fetters  of  an  unknovm  tongue : 
But  speaks  with  plainness,  art  could  never  mend, 
What  simplest  minds  can  soonest  comprehend. 
God  gives  the  word,  the  preachers  throng  around, 
Live  from  his  lips,  and  spread  the  glorious  sound:. 
That  sound  bespeaks  Salvation  on  her  way, 
The  trumpet  of  a  life-restoring  day;  ' 
'Tis  heard  where  England's  eastern  glory  shines, 
And  in  the  gulfs  of  her  Cornubian  mines. 
And  still  it  spreads.    See  Germany  send  forth 
Her  sons*  to  pour  it  on  the  farthest  north: 
Fired  with  a  zeal  peculiar,  theij  defy 
The  rage  and  vigour  of  a  polar  sky. 
And  plant  successfully  sweet  Sharon's  rose 
On  icy  plains,  and  in  eternal  snows. 

O  blest  within  th'  enclosure  of  your  rocks. 
Nor  herds  have  ye  to  boast,  nor  bleating  flocks  j 
No  fertilizing  streams  your  fields  divide. 
That  show  reversed  the  villas  on  their  side; 
No  groves  have  ye ;  no  cheerful  sound  of  bird, 
Or  voice  of  turtle,  in  your  land  is  heard: 
Nor  grateful  eglantine  regales  the  smeU 
Of  those,  that  walk  at  evening  where  ye  dwell: 
But  Winter,  armed  with  terrors  here  unknown^ 
Sits  absolute  on  his  unshaken  throne ; 
Piles  up  his  stores  amidst  the  frozen  waste, 
And  bids  the  mountains  he  has  built  stand  fast; 
Beckons  the  legions  of  his  storms  away 
From  happier  scenes,  to  make  your  land  a  prey, 
Proclaims  the  soil  a  conquest  he  has  won. 
And  scorns  to  share  it  with  the  distant  sun. 


•The  Moravian  Missionaries  in  Greenland.  See  KrantZi 


32 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Yet  Trutli  is  yours,  remote,  unenvied  isle ! 
And  Peace,  the  genuine  offspring  of  her  smile; 
The  pride  of  lettered  Ignorance,  that  binds 
In  chains  of  error  our  accomplished  minds, 
That  decks,  with  all  the  splendour  of  the  true, 
A  false  religion,  is  unknown  to  you. 
Nature,  indeed,  vouchsafes  for  our  delight  • 
The  sweet  vicissitudes  of  day  and  night: 
Soft  airs  and  genial  moisture  feed  and  cheer 
Field,  fruit,  and  flower,  an^  every  creature  here ; 
But  brighter  beams  than  his  who  fires  the  skies, 
Have  risen  at  length  on  your  admiring  eyes, 
That  shoot  into  your  darkest  caves  the  day, 
From  which  our  nicest  optics  turn  away. 

Here  see  th'  encouragement  Grace  gives  to  vice 
The  dire  effect  of  mercy  without  price ! 
What  were  they'?  what  some  fools  are  made  by 

art,  ; 
They  were  by  nature,  atheists,  head  and  heart 
The  gross  idolatry  blind  heathens  teach 
Was  too  refined  for  them,  beyond  their  reach. 
Not  e'en  the  glorious  Sun,  though  men  revere 
The  monarch  most,  that  seldom  will  appear. 
And  though  his  beams  that  quicken  where  they 
shine. 

May  claim  some  right  to  be  esteemed  divine, 
Not  e'en  the  sun,  desirable  as  rare. 
Could  bend  one  knee,  engage  one  votary  there; 
They  were,  what  base  Credulity  believes 
True  Christians  are,dissemblers,drunkards,  thieves. 
The  full-gorged  savage,  at  his  nauseous  feast, 
Spent  half  the  darkness,  and  snored  out  the  rest, 
Was  one  whom  Justice,  on  an  equal  plan, 
Denouncing  death  upon  the  sins  of  man. 
Might  almost  have  indulged  with  an  escape, 
Chargeable  only  with  a  human  shape. 

What  are  they  now? — Morality  may  spare 
Her  grave  concern,  her  kind  suspicions  there: 
The  wretch,  who  once  sang  wUdly,  danced  and 
laughed 

And  sucked  in  dizzy  madness  with  his  draught, 
Has  wept  a  silent  flood,  reversed  his  ways. 
Is  sober,  meek,  benevolent,  and  prays, 
Feeds  sparingly,  communicates  his  store. 
Abhors  the  craft  he  boasted  of  before, 
And  he  that  stole,  has  learned  to  steal  no  more. 
Well  spake  the  prophet.  Let  the  desert  sing, 
Where  sprang  the  thorn,  the  spiry  fir  shall  spring. 
And  where  unsightly  and  rank  thistles  grew. 
Shall  grow  the  myrtle  and  luxuriant  yew. 

Go  now,  and  with  important  tone  demand 
On  what  foundation  virtue  is  to  stand. 
If  self-exalting  claims  be  turned  adrift, 
And  grace  be  grace  indeed,  and  life  a  gift; 
The  poor  reclaimed  inhabitant,  his  eyes 
Glistening  at  once  with  pity  and  surprise. 
Amazed  that  shadows  should  obscure  the  sight 
Of  one,  whose  bjrth  was  in  a  land  of  light, 


Shall  answer,  Hope,  sweet  Hope,  has  set  me  free. 
And  made  all  pleasures  else  mere  dross  to  me. 

These,  amidst  scenes  as  waste  as  if  denied 
The  common  care  that  waits  on  all  beside, 
Wild  as  if  Nature  there,  void  of  all  good, 
Played  only  gambols  in  a  frantic  mood, 
(Yet  charge  not  heavenly  skill  with  having  planned 
A  plaything  world,  unworthy  of  his  hand,) 
Can  see  his  love,  though  secret  evil  lurks 
In  all  we  touch,  stamped  plainly  on  his  works, 
Deem  life  a  blessing  with  its  numerous  woes, 
Nor  spurn  away  a  gift  a  G  od  bestows. 
Hard  task,  indeed,  o'er  arctic  seas  to  roam ! 
Is  hope  exotic?  grows  it  not  at  home? 
Yes,  but  an  object,  bright  as  orient  morn, 
May  press  the  eye  too  closely  to  be  borne; 
A  distant  virtue  we  can  all  confess, 
It  hurts  our  pride,  and  moves  our  envy,  less. 

Leuconomus  (beneath  well  sounding  Greek 
I  slur  a  name  a  poet  must  not  speak) 
Stood  pilloried  on  Infamy's  high  stage, 
And  bore  the  pelting  scorn  of  half  an  age; 
The  very  butt  of  Slander,  and  the  blot 
For  every  dart  that  Malice  ever  shot. 
The  man  that  mentioned  him  at  once  dismissed 
All  mercy  from  his  lips,  and  sneered  and  hissed; 
His  crimes  were  such  as  Sodom  never  knew, 
And  Perjury  stood  up  to  swear  all  true; 
His  aim  was  mischief,  and  his  zeal  pretence, 
His  speech  rebeUion  against  common  sense; 
A  knave,  when  tried  on  honesty's  plain  rule; 
And  when  by  that  of  reason,  a  mere  fool; 
The  world's  best  comfort  was,  his  doom  was  passed; 
Die  when  he  might,  he  must  be  damned  at  last. 

Now,  Truth,  perform  thine  office;  waft  aside 
The  curtain  drawn  by  Prejudice  and  Pride, 
Reveal  (the  man  is  dead)  to  wondering  eyes 
This  more  than  monster,  in  his  proper  guise. 
He  loved  the  world  that  hated  him:  the  tear 
That  dropt  upon  his  Bible  was  sincere: 
Assailed  by  scandal  and  the  tongue  of  strife, 
His  only  answer  was  a  blameless  life ; 
And  he  that  forged,  and  he  that  threw  the  dart, 
Had  each  a  brother's  interest  in  his  heart. 
Paul's  love  of  Christ,  and  steadiness  unbribed. 
Were  copied  close  in  him,  and  well  transcribed. 
He  followed  Paul,  his  zeal  a  kindred  flame, 
His  apostolic  cha,rity  the  same. 
Like  him,  crossed  cheerfully  tempestuous  seas, 
Forsaking  country,  kindred,  friends,  and  ease; 
Like  him  he  laboured,  and  like  him  content 
To  bear  it,  suffered  shame  where'er  he  went. 
Blush,  Calumny!  and  write  upon  his  tomb, 
If  honest  Eulogy  can  spare  thee  room, 
Thy  deep  repentance  of  thy  thousand  lies,. 
Which,  aimed  at  him,  have  pierced  the  offended 
skies ! 

And  say,  blot  out  my  sin,  confessed,  deplored, 
Against  thine  image,  in  thy  saint,  0  Lordl 


HOPE. 


33 


No  blinder  bigot,  I  maintain  it  still, 
Than  he  who  must  have  pleasure,  come  what  will : 
Me  laughs,  whatever  weapon  Truth  may  draw, 
And  deems  her  sharp  artillery  mere  straw. 
Scripture  indeed  is  plain;  but  God  and  he 
On  Scripture  ground  are  sure  to  disagree; 
Some  wiser  rule  must  teach  him  how  to  live, 
Than  this  his  Maker  has  seen  fit  to  give; 
Supple  and  flexible  as  Indian  cane, 
To  take  the  bend  his  appetites  ordain; 
Contrived  to  suit  fraU  Nature's  crazy  case, 
And  reconcile  his  lusts  with  saving  grace. 
By  this,  with  nice  precision  of  design, 
He  draws  upon  life's  map  a  zigzag  line, 
That  shows  how  far  'tis  safe  to  follow  sin, 
And  where  his  danger  and  God's  wrath  begin. 
By  this  he  forms,  as  pleased  he  sports  along. 
His  well-poised  estimate  of  right  and  wrong; 
And  finds  the  modish  manners  of  the  day. 
Though  loose,  as  harmless  as  an  infant's  play. 

Bmld  by  whatever  plan  Caprice  decrees. 
With  what  materials,  on  what  ground  you  please; 
Your  hope  shall  stand  unblamed,  perhaps  admired, 
If  not  that  hope  the  Scripture  has  required. 
The  strange  conceits,  vain  projects  and  wild  dreams, 
With  which  hypocrisy  for  ever  teems, 
(Though  other  follies  strike  the  public  eye 
And  raise  a  laugh,)  pass  unmolested  by ; 
But  if,  unblameable  in  word  or  thought, 
A  man  arise,  a  man  whom  God  has  taught. 
With  all  Elijah's  dignity  of  tone. 
And  all  the  love  of  the  beloved  John, 
To  storm  the  citadels  they  build  in  air, 
Agid  smite  the  uhtempered  wall;  'tis  death  to  spare. 
To  sweep  away  all  refuges  of  lies, 
And  place,  instead  of  quirks  themselves  devise. 
Lama  Sabacthani  before  their  eyes; 
To  prove,  that  vnthout  Christ  all  gain  is  loss, 
All  hope  despair,  that  stands  not  on  his  cross ; 
Except  the  few  his  God  may  have  impressed,' 
A  tenfold  frenzy  seizes  all  the  rest. 

Throughout  mankind,  the  Christian  kind  at  Ipast, 
There  dwells  a  consciousness  in  every  breast. 
That  folly  ends  where  genuine  hope  begins. 
And  he  that  finds  his  Heaven  must  lose  his  sins. 
Nature  opposes  with  her  utmost  force 
This  riving  stroke,  this  ultimate  divorce; 
And,  while  religion  seems  to  be  her  view, 
Hates  with  a  deep  sincerity  the  trite : 
For  this,  of  all  that  ever  influenced  man, 
Since  Abel  worshipped,  or  the  wor-d  began. 
This  only  spares  no  lust,  admits  no  plea,  I 
But  makes  him,  if  at  all,  completely  free ; 
Sounds  forth  the  signal,  as  she  mounts  her  car,  '. 
Of  an  eternal,  universal  war ; 
Rejects  all  treaty,  penetrates  all  wdles,  ( 
Scorns  with  the  same  indifference  frowns  and  smiles ;  ] 
Drives  through  the  realms  of  Sin,  where  riot  reels'  ! 
And  grinds  his  crown  beneath  her  burning  wheels !  ] 


Hence  all  that  is  in  man,  pride,  pdssion,  art, 
:  Powers  of  the  mind,  and  feelings  of  the  heart, 
Insensible  of  Truth's  almighty  charms, 
Starts  at  her  first  approach,  and  sounds  to  armsJ 
While  Bigotry,  with  well-dissembled  fears. 
His  eyes  shut  fast,  his  fingers  in  his  ears, 
Mighty  to  parry  and  push  by  God's  word, 
With  senseless  noise,  his  argument  the  sword, 
Pretends  a  zeal  for  godUness  and  grace. 
And  spits  abhorrence  in  the  Christian's  face. 

Parent  of  Hope,  immortal  Truth !  make  known 
Thy  deathless  wreaths,  and  triumphs  all  thine  own: 
The  silent  progress  of  thy  power  is  such, 
Thy  '.  neans  so  feeble,  and  despised  so  much 
That'few  beHeve  the  wonders  thou  hast  wrought, 
And  none  can  teach  them,  but  whom  thou  hast 
taught. 

O  see  me  sworn  to  serve  thee,  and  command 
A  painter's  skill  into  a  poet's  hand. 
That,  while  I  trembling  trace  a  work  divine, 
Fancy  may  stand  aloof  from  the  design, 
And  Ught,  and  shade,  and  every  stroke  be  thine. 

If  ever  thou  hast  felt  another's  pain, 
If  ever  when  he  sighed  hast  sighed  again, 
If  ever  on  thy  eyelid  stood  the  tear, 
That  pity  had  engendered,  drop  one  here. 
This  man  was  happy — had  the  world's  good  word, 
And  with  it  every  joy  it  can  afford ; 
Friendship  and  love  seemed  tenderly  at  strife. 
Which  most  should  sweeten  his  untroubled  life ; 
Pohtely  learned,  and  of  a  gentle  race. 
Good  breeding  and  good  sense  gave  all  a  grace. 
And  whether  at  the  toilette  of  the  fair. 
He  laughed  and  trifled,  made  him  welcome  there,, 
Or  if  in  mascuhne  debate  he  shared. 
Ensured  him  mute  attention  and  regard. 
Alas,  how  changed !  Expressive  of  his  mind. 
His  eyes  are  sunk,  arms  folded,  head  recUned  ; 
Those  awful  syllables,  hell,  death,  and  sin, 
Though  whispered,  plainly  tell  what  works  within ; 
That  conscience  there  performs  her  proper  part, 
And  vsrites  a  doomsday  sentence  on  his  heart ; 
Forsaking,  and  forsaken  of  all  friends, 
He  now  perceives  where  earthly  pleasure  ends; 
Hard  task !  for  one  who  lately  knew  no  care, 
And  harder  still  as  learnt  beneath  despair ; 
His  hours  no  longer  pass  unmarked  away, 
A  dark  importance  saddens  every  day ; 
He  hears  the  notice  of  the  clock  perplexed, 
And  cries,  perhaps  eternity  strikes  next; 
Sweet  music  is  no  longer  music  here, 
And  laughter  sounds  like  madness  in  his  ear : 
His  grief  the  world  of  all  her  power  disarms. 
Wine  has  no  taste,  and  beauty  has  no  charms: 
God's  holy  word,  once  trivial  in  his  view, 
Now  by  the  voice  of  his  experience  true, 
Seems,  as  it  is,  the  fountain  whence  alone 
Must  spring  that  hope  he  pants  to  make  his  own. 


34 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Now  let  the  bright  reverse  be  known  abroad 
Say  man's  a  worm,  and  power  belongs  to  God. 

As  when  a  felon,  whom  his  country's  laws 
Have  justly  doomed  for  some  atrocious  cause, 
Expects  in  darkness  and  heart-chilling  fears, 
The  shameful  close  of  all  his  mispent  years- 
If  chance,  on  heavy  pinions  slowly  borne, 
A  tempest  usher  in  the  dreaded  morn. 
Upon  his  dungeon  walls  the  lightning  play, 
The  thunder  seems  to  summon  him  away, ' 
The  warder  at  the  door  his  key  applies. 
Shoots  back  the  bolt,  and  all  his  courage  dies: 
If  then,  just  then,  all  thoughts  of  mercy  lost. 
When  hope,  long  lingering,  at  last  yields  the  ghost 
The  sound  of  pardon  pierce  his  startled  ear, 
He  drops  at  once  his  fetters  and  his  fear; 
A  transport  glows  in  all  he  looks  and  speaks, 
And  the  first  thankful  tears  bedew  his  cheeks. 
Joy,  far  superior  joy,  that  much  outweighs 
The  comfort  of  a  few  poor  added  days, 
Invades,  possesses,  and  o'erwhelms  the  soul 
Of  him,  whom  Hope  has  with  a  touch  made  whole. 
'Tis  Heaven,  all  Heaven  descending  on  the  wings 
Of  the  glad  legions  of  the  King  of  kings; 
'Tis  more— 'tis  God  diffused  through  every  part, 
'Tis  God  himself  triumphant  in  his  heart. 
O  ^^elcome  now  the  sun's  once  hated  light. 
His  noonday  beams  were  never  half  so  bright. 
Not  kindred  minds  alone  are  called  t'  employ 
Their  hours,  their  days,  in  listening  to  his  joy; 
Unconscious  nature,  all  that  he  surveys,  ' 
Rocks,  groves,  and  streams,  must  join  him  in  his 
praise.  ^ 


These  are  thy  glorious  works,  eternal  Truth 
Ihc  scoff  of  withered  age  and  beardless  youth- 
1  hese  move  the  censure  and  illiberal  grin 
Of  fools,  that  hate  thee  and  delight  in  sin  • 
But  these  shall  last  when  night  has  quenched  the 
pole. 

And  Heaven  is  all  departed  as  a  scroll ; 
And  when,  as  Justice  has  long  since  decreed, 
This  earth  shall  blaze,  and  a  new  worid  succeed, 
Then  these  thy  glorious  works,  and  they  who 
share 

That  hope  which  can  alone  exclude  despair, 
Shall  live  exempt  from  weakness  and  decay,'  • 
The  brightest  wonders  of  an  endless  day. 

Happy  the  bard,  (if  that  fair  name  belong 
To  him,  that  blends  no  fable  with  his  song,) 
Whose  lines  uniting,  by  an  honest  art, 
The  faithful  monitor's  and  poet's  part. 
Seek  to  delight,  that  they  may  mend  mankind, 
And,  while  they  captivate,  inform  the  mind: 
Still  happier,  if  he  till  a  thankful  soil, 
And  fruit  reward  his  honourable  toil :' 
But  happier  far,  who  comfort  those,  that  wait 
To  hear  plain  truth  at  Judah's  hallowed  gate: 
Their  language  simple,  as  their  manners  meek, 
No  shining  ornaments  have  they  to  seek ; 
Nor  labour  they,  nor  time  nor  talents  waste. 
In  sorting  flowers  to  suit  a  fickle  taste ; 
But  while  they  speak  the  wisdom  of  the  skies. 
Which  art  can  only  darken  and  disguise, 
Th'  abundant  harvest,  recompense  divine, 
Repays  their  work— the  gleaning  only  mine. 


Quo  nihil  majus  melius ve  terris 
Fata  donavere,  bonique  divi : 
Nec  dabunt,  quamvis  redeant  in  aurum 

Tempora  priscum.  Hor.  Lib.  iv.  Ode  2. 


Fairrst  and  foremost  of  the  train,  that  wait 
On  man's  most  dignified  and  happiest  state, 
Whether  we  name  thee  charity  or  love, 
Chief  grace  below,  and  all  in  all  above. 
Prosper  (I  press  thee  with  a  powerful  plea^ 
A  task  I  venture  on,  impelled  by  thee; 
O  never  seen  but  in  thy  blest  effects. 
Or  felt  but  in  the  soul  that  heaven  selects ; 
Who  seeks  to  praise  thee,  and  to  make  thee  known 
To  other  hearts,  must  have  thee  in  his  own. 
Come,  prompt  me  with  benevolent  desires. 
Teach  me  to  kindle  at  thy  gentle  fires, 
And,  though  disgraced  and  slighted,  to  redeem 
A  poet's  name,  by  making  thee  the  theme. 

God,  working  ever  on  a  social  plan, 
By  various  ties  attaches  man  to  man : 


He  made  at  first,  though  free  and  unconfined, 
One  man  the  common  father  of  the  kind ; 
That  every  tribe,  though  placed  as  he  sees  best 
Where  seas  or  deserts  part  them  from  the  rest 
Differing  in  language,  manners,  or  in  face. 
Might  feel  themselves  allied  to  all  the  race. 
When  Cook— lamented,  and  with  tears  as  just 
As  ever  mingled  with  heroic  dust,— 
Steered  Britain's  oak  into  a  world  unknown. 
And  in  his  country's  glory  sought  his  own. 
Wherever  he  found  man,  to  nature  true, 
The  rights  of  man  were  sacred  in  his  view; 
He  soothed  vdth  gifts,  and  greeted  with  a  smile. 
The  simple  native  of  the  new-found  isle; 
He  spurned  the  wretch,  that  slighted  or  withstood 
The  tender  argument  of  kindred  blood, 


CHARITY. 


35 


Nor  would  endure,  that  any  should  control 
His  freeborn  brethren  of  the  southern  pole. 

But  though  some  nobler  minds  a  law  respect, 
That  none  shall  with  impunity  neglect, 
In  baser  souls  unnumbered  evils  meet, 
To  thwart  its  influence,  and  its  end  defeat. 
While  Cook  is  loved  for  savage  lives  he  saved, 
See  Cortez  odious  for  a  world  enslaved! 
Where  wast  thou  then,  sweet  Charity  1  where  then. 
Thou  tutelary  friend  of  helpless  men'? 
Wast  thou  in  monkish  cells  and  nunneries  found. 
Or  building  hospitals  on  English  ground'? 
JNTo. — Mammon  makes  the  world  his  legatee 
Through  fear,  not  love;  and  Heaven  abhors  the 
fee, 

Wherever  found,  (and  all  men  need  thy  care,) 
Nor  age  nor  infancy  could  find  thee  there. 
The  hand,  that  slew  till  it  could  slay  no  more, 
Was  glued  to  the  sword  hilt  with  Indian  gore. 
Their  prince,  as  justly  seated  on  his  throne 
As  vain  imperial  Philip  on  his  own. 
Tricked  out  of  all  his  royalty  by  art, 
That  stripped  him  bare,  and  broke  his  honest  heart, 
Died  by  the  sentence  of  a  shaven  priest. 
For  scorning  what  they  taught  him  to  detest. 
How  dark  the  veil,  that  intercepts  the  blaze 
Of  Heaven's  mysterious  purposes  and  ways ; 
God  stood  not,  though  he  seemed  to  stand,  aloof; 
And  at  this  hour  the  conqueror  feels  the  proof: 
The  wreath  he  won  drew  down  an  instant  curse, 
The  fretting  plague  is  in  the  public  purse. 
The  cankered  spoil  corrodes  the  pining  state, 
Starved  by  that  indolence  their  mines  create. 

O  could  their  ancient  Incas  rise  again. 
How  would  they  take  up  Israel's  taunting  strain  *? 
Art  thou  too  fallen,  Iberia'?  Do  we  see 
The  robber  and  the  murderer  weak  as  we'? 
Thou,  that  hast  wasted  earth,  and  dared  despise 
Alike  the  wrath  and  mercy  of  the  skies, 
Thy  pomp  is  in  the  grave,  thy  glory  laid 
Low  in  the  pits  thine  avarice  has  made. 
We  come  with  joy  from  our  eternal  rest, 
To  see  the  oppressor  in  his  turn  oppressed. 
Art  thou  the  god,  the  thunder  of  whose  hand 
Rolled  over  all  our  desolated  land. 
Shook  principalities  and  kingdoms  down, 
And  made  the  mountains  tremble  at  his  frown! 
The  sword  shall  light  upon  thy  boasted  powers. 
And  waste  them,  as  thy  sword  has  wasted  ours. 
'Tis  thus  Omnipotence  his  law  fulfils. 
And  Vengeance  executes  what  Justice  wills. 

Again — the  band  of  commerce  was  designed 
T'  associate  all  the  branches  of  mankind : 
And  if  a  boundless  plenty  be  the  robe. 
Trade  is  the  golden  girdle  of  the  globe. 
Wise  to  promote  whatever  end  he  means, 
God  opens  fruitful  nature's  various  scenes: 
Each  climate  needs  what  other  climes  produce, 
And  offers  something  to  the  general  use; 


No  land  but  listens  to  the  common  call, 
And  in  return  receives  supply  from  all. 
This  genial  intercourse,  and  mutual  aid. 
Cheers  what  were  else  a  universal  shade, 
Calls  Nature  from  her  ivy-mantled  den, 
And  softens  himian  rock-work  into  men 
Ingenious  Art,  with  her  expressive  face. 
Steps  forth  to  fashion  and  refine  the  race; 
Not  only  fills  Necessity's  demand, 
But  overcharges  her  capacious  hand : 
Capricious  Taste  itself  can  crave  no  more. 
Than  she  supplies  from  her  abounding  store; 
She  strikes  out  all  that  luxury  can  ask, 
And  gains  new  vigour  at  her  endless  task. 
Hers  is  the  spacious  arch,  the  shapely  spire, 
The  painter's  pencil,  and  the  poet's  lyre ; 
From  her  the  canvass  borrows  light  and  shade, 
And  verse,  more  lasting,  hues  that  never  fade. 
She  guides  the  fingers  o'er  the  dancing  keys. 
Gives  difficulty  all  the  grace  of  ease. 
And  pours  a  torrent  of  sweet  notes  around. 
Fast  as  the  thirsting  ear  can  drink  the  sound. 

These  are  the  gifts  of  Art,  and  Art  thrives  most 
Where  commerce  has  enriched  the  busy  coast; 
He  catches  all  improvements  in  his  flight. 
Spreads  foreign  wonders  in  his  country's  sight, 
Imports  what  others  have  invented  well, 
And  stirs  his  own  to  match  them,  or  excel, 
'Tis  thus  reciprocating,  each  with  each. 
Alternately  the  nations  learn  and  teach; 
While  Providence  enjoins  to  every  soul 
A  union  with  the  vast  terraqueous  whole. 

Heaven  speed  the  canvass,  gallantly  unfurled 
To  furnish  and  accommodate  a  world, 
To  give  the  pole  the  produce  of  the  sun. 
And  knit  th'  unsocial  chmates  into  one. — 
Soft  airs  and  gentle  heavings  of  the  wave 
Impel  the  fleet,  whose  errand  is  to  save. 
To  succour  wasted  regions,  and  replace 
The  smile  of  Opulence  in  Sorrow's  face. 
Let  nothing  adverse,  nothing  unforeseen. 
Impede  the  bark,  that  ploughs  the  deep  serene. 
Charged  with  a  freight  transcending  in  its  worth 
The  gems  of  India,  Nature's  rarest  birth. 
That  flies,  like  Gabriel  on  his  Lord's  commands, 
A  herald  of  God's  love  to  pagan  lands. 
But  ah;  what  wish  can  prosper,  or  what  prayer,  * 
For  merchants  rich  in  cargoes  of  despair. 
Who  drive  a  loathsome  traffic,  guage,  and  span, 
And  buy  the  muscles  and  the  bones  of  man! 
The  tender  ties  of  father,  husband,  friend, 
All  bonds  of  nature  in  that  moment  end  ; 
And  each  endures,  while  yet  he  draws  his  breath, 
A  stroke  as  fatal  as  the  scythe  of  Death. 
The  sable  warrior,  frantic  with  regret 
Of  her  he  loves,  and  never  can  forget,. 
Loses  in  tears  the  far-receding  shore. 
But  not  the  thought,  that  they  must  meet  no  more; 


36 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Deprived  of  her  and  freedom  at  a  blow, 
What  has  he  left  that  he  can  yet  forego^ 
Yes,  to  deep  sadness  sullenly  resigned, 
He  feels  his  body's  bondage  in  his  niind ; 
Puts  off  his  generous  nature;  and,  to  suit 
His  manners  with  his  fate,  puts  on  the  brute. 

O  most  degrading  of  all  ills,  that  wait 
On  man,  a  mourner  in  his  best  estate ! 
All  other  sorrows  Virtue  may  endure, 
And  find  submission  more  than  half  a  cure; 
Grief  is  itself  a  medicine,  and  bestowed 
T'  improve  the  fortitude  that  bears  the  load, 
To  teach  the  wanderer,  as  his  woes  increase, 
'The  path  of  Wisdom,  all  whose  paths  are  peace; 
But  slavery ! — Virtue  dreads  it  as  her  grave: 
Patience  itself  is  meanness  in  a  slave : 
Or  if  the  will  and  sovereignty  of  God 
Did  sufier  it  a  while,  and  kiss  the  rod, 
Wait  for  the  dawning  of  a  brighter  day, 
And  snap  the  chain  tlie  moment  when  you  may. 
Nature  impriats  upon  whate'er  we  see. 
That  has  a  heart  and  life  in  it,  Be  free; 
The  beasts  are  chartered — neither  age  nor  force 
Can  quell  the  love  of  freedom  in  a  horse: 
He  breaks  the  cord  that  held  him  at  the  rack; 
And,  conscious  of  an  unencumbered  back. 
Snuffs  up  the  morning  air,  forgets  the  rein; 
Loose  fly  his  forelock  and  his  ample  mane. 
Responsive  to  the  distant  neigh  he  neighs; 
Nor  stops  till,  overleaping  all  delays. 
He  finds  the  pasture  where  his  fellows  graze. 

Canst  thou,  and  honoured  with  a  Christian 
name, 

Buy  what  is  woman-born,  and  feel  no  shame ; 

Trade  in  the  blood  of  innocence,  and  plead 

Expedience  as  a  warrant  for  the  deed  1 

So  may  the  wolf,  whom  famine  has  made  bold, 

To  quit  the  forest  and  invade  the  fold: 

So  may  the  ruffian,  who,  with  ghostly  glide, 

Dagger  in  hand,  steals  close  to  your  bed  side ; 

Not  he,  but  his  emergence  forced  the  door, 

He  found  it  inconvenient  to  be  poor. 

Has  God  then  given  its  sweetness  to  the  cane, 

Unless  his  laws  be  trampled  on — in  vain  1 

Built  a  brave  world,  which  can  not  yet  subsist, 

Unless  his  right  to  rule  it  be  dismissed  1 

Impudent  blasphemy !  So  Folly  pleads. 

And,  Avarice  being  judge,  with  ease  succeeds. 

But  grant  the  plea,  and  let  it  stand  for  just. 
That  man  make  man  his  prey,  because  he  must  ; 
Still  there  is  room  for  pity  to  abate. 
And  sooth  the  sorrows  of  so  sad  a  state. 
A  Briton  knows,  or  if  he  knows  it  not, 
The  Scripture  placed  within  his  reach,  he  ought, 
That  souls  have  no  discriminating  hue, 
Alike  important  in  their  Maker's  view; 
That  none  are  free  from  blemish  since  the  fall, 
And  Love  divine  has  paid  one  price  for  all. 


The  wretch,  that  works  and  weeps  without  relief, 
Has  one  tliat  notices  his  silent  grief. 
He,  from  whose  hands  alone  all  power  proceeds, 
Ranks  its  abuse  among  the  foulest  deeds. 
Considers  all  injustice  vj^ith  a  frown ; 
But  marks  the  man  thaf  treads  his  fellow  down. 
Begone— the  whip  and  bell  in  that  hard  hand 
Are  hateful  ensigns  of  usurped  command. 
Not  Mexico  could  purchase  kings  a  claim 
To  scourge  him,  weariness  his  only  blame. 
Remember  Heaven  has  an  avenging  rod : 
To  smite  the  poor  is  treason  against  God. 

Trouble  is  grudgingly  and  hardly  brooked. 
While  life's  sublimest  joys  are  overlooked 
We  wander  o'er  a  sunburnt  thirsty  soil, 
Murmuring  and  weary  of  our  daily  toil, 
Forget  t'  enjoy  the  palm-tree's  offered  shade. 
Or  taste  the  fountain  in  the  neighbouring  glade: 
Else  who  would  lose,  that  had  the  power  t'  im 
prove. 

The  occasion  of  transmuting  fear  to  love  1 

0  'tis  a  god-like  privilege  to  save, 
And  that  s(^orns  it  is  himself  a  slave. 
Inform  his  mind ;  one  flash  of  heavenly  day 
Would  heal  his  heart,  and  melt  his  chains  away. 
"  Beauty  for  ashes"  is  a  gift  indeed. 

And  slaves,  by  truth  enlarged,  are  doubly  freed. 
Then  would  he  say,  submissive  at  thy  feet, 
While  gratitude  and  love  made  service  sweet,— 
My  dear  deliverer  out  of  hopeless  night. 
Whose  bounty  bought  me  but  to  give  me  light, 

1  was  a  bondman  on  my  native  plain. 

Sin  forged,  and  Igriorance  made  fast,  the  chain; 
Thy  lips  have  shed  instruction  as  the  dew, 
Taught  me  what  path  to  shun,  and  what  pursue; 
Farewell  my  former  joys !  I  sigh  no  more 
For  Africa's  once  loved,  benighted  shore; 
Serving  a  benefactor  I  am  free; 
At  my  best  home,  if  not  exiled  from  thee. 

Some  men  make  gain  a  fountain,  whence  pro^ 
ceeds 

A  stream  of  liberal  and  heroic  deeds; 
The  swell  of  pity,  not  to  be  confined 
Within  the  scanty  limits  of  the  mind, 
Disdains  the  bank,  and  throws  the  golden  sands, 
A  rich  deposite,  on  the  bordering  lands : 
These  have  an  ear  for  his  paternal  call. 
Who  makes  some  rich  for  the  supply  of  all ; 
God's  gift  with  pleasure  in  his  praise  employ; 
And  Thornton  is  familiar  with  the  joy. 

O  could  I  worship  aught  beneath  the  skies, 
That  earth  has  seen,  or  fancy  can  devise. 
Thine  altar,  sacred  Liberty,  should  stand. 
Built  by  no  mercenary  vulgar  hand, 
With  fragrant  turf,  and  flowers  as  wild  and  fair 
As  ever  dressed  a  bank,  or  scented  summer  air. 
Duly,  as  ever  on  the  mountain's  height 
The  peep  of  Morning  shed  a  dawning  light, 


CHARITY. 


37 


Again,  when  Evening,  in  her  sober  vest, 
Drew  the  gray  curtain  of  the  fading  west. 
My  soul  should  yield  thee  wiUing  thanks  and 
praise. 

For  the  chief  blessings  of  my  fairest  days: 
But  that  were  sacrilege — ^praise  is  not  thine, 
But  his  who  gave  thee,  and  preserves  thee  minej 
Else  I  would  say,  and  as  I  spake  bid  fly 
A  captive  bird  into  the  boundless  sky. 
This  triple  realm  adores  thee — thou  art  come 
From  Sparta  hither,  and  art  here  at  home. 
We  feel  thy  force  still  active,  at  this  hour 
Enjoy  immunity  from  priestly  power, 
While  Conscience,  happier  than  in  ancient  years. 
Owns  no  superior  but  the  God  she  fears. 
Propitious  spirit!  yet  expunge  a  wrong 
Thy  rights  have  suffered,  and  our  land,  too  long. 
Teach  mercy  to  ten  thousand  hearts,  that  share 
The  fears  and  hopes  of  a  commercial  care. 
Prisons  expect  the  wicked,  and  were  built 
1^0  bind  the  lawless,  and  to  punish  guilt; 
But  shipwreck,  earthquake,  battle,  fire,  and  flood. 
Are  mighty  mischiefs,  not  to  be  withstood; 
And  honest  merit  stands  on  slippery  ground, 
Where  covert  guile  and  artifice  abound. 
Let  just  restraint,  for  public  peace  designed, 
Chain  up  the  wolves  and  tigers  of  manldnd; 
The  foe  of  virtue  has  no  claim  to  thee, 
But  let  insolvent  Innocence  go  free. 


Drinks  wisdom  at  the  milky  stream  of  light, 
That  cheers  the  silent  journey  of  the  night, 
And  brings  at  his  return  a  bosom  charged 
With  rich  instruction,  and  a  soul  enlarged. 
The  treasured  sweets  of  the  capacious  plan. 
That  Heaven  spreads  wide  before  the  view  of  man, 
All  prompt  his  pleased  pursuit,  and  to  pursue 
Still  prompt  him,  with  a  pleasure  always  new; 
He  too  has  a  connecting  power,  and  draws 
Man  to  the  centre  of  the  common  cause, 
Aiding  a  dubious  and  deficient  sight 
With  a  new  medium  and  a  purer  light. 
All  truth  is  precious,  if  not  all  divine; 


Patron  of  else  the  most  despised  of  men, 
Accept  the  tribute  of  a  stranger's  pen; 
Verse,  like  the  laurel ;  its  immortal  meed, 
Should  be  the  guerdon  of  a  noble  deed; 
I  may  alarm  thee,  but  I  fear  the  shame 
(Charity  chosen  as  my  theme  and  aim) 
I  must  incur,  forgetting  Howard's  name. 
Blest  with  all  wealth  can  give  thee,  to  resign 
Joys  doubly  sweet  to  feeUngs  quick  as  thine, 
To  quit  the  bliss  thy  rural  scenes  bestow, 
To  seek  a  nobler  amidst  scenes  of  wo. 
To  traverse  seas,  range  kingdoms,  and  bring  home, 
Not  the  proud  monuments  of  Greece  or  Rome, 
But  knowledge  such  as  only  dungeons  teach, 
And  only  sympathy  like  thine  could  reach; 
That  grief  sequestered  from  the  public  stage, 
Might  smoothlier  feathers,  and  enjoy  her  cage;  • 
Speaks  a  divine  ambition,  and  a  zeal, 
The  boldest  patriot  might  be  proud  to  feel. 
O  that  the  voice  of  clamour  and  debate, 
That  pleads  for  peace  till  it  disturbs  the  state, 
Were  hushed  in  favour  of  thy  generous  plea, 
The  poor  thy  clients,  and  Heaven's  smile  thy  fee? 
Philosophy,  that  does  not  dream  or  stray, 
Walks  arm  in  arm  with  nature  all  his  way; 
Compasses  earth,  dives  into  it,  ascends 
Whatever  steep  Inquiry  recommends. 
Sees  planetary  wonders  smoothly  roll 
Round  other  systems  under  her  control, 


And  what  dilates  the  powers  must  needs  refine. 
He  reads  the  skies,  and,  watching  every  change, 
Provides  the  facidties  an  ampler  range; 
And  wins  mankind,  as  his  attempts  prevail, 
A  prouder  station  on  the  general  scale. 
But  Reason  still,  unless  divinely  taught, 
Whate'er  she  learns,  learns  nothing  as  she  ought; 
The  lamp  of  revelation  only  shows, ^ 
What  human  wisdom  can  not  but  oppose, 
That  man,  in  nature's  richest  mantle  clad 
And  graced  with  all  philosophy  can  add, 
Though  fair  without  and  luminous  within, 
Is  still  the  progeny  and  heir  of  sin. 
Thus  taught,  down  falls  the  plumage  of  his  pride; 
He  feels  his  need  of  an  unerring  guide. 
And  knows  that  falling  he  shall  rise  no  more, 
Unless  the  power  that  bade  him  stand  restore. 
This  is  indeed  philosophy;  this  known 
Makes  wisdom,  worthy  of  the  name,  his  own; 
And,  without  this,  whatever  he  discuss; 
Whether  the  space  between  the  stars  and  us; 
Whether  he  measure  earth,  compute  the  sea; 
Weigh  sunbeams,  carve  a  fly,  or  spit  a  flea; 
The  solemn  trifler  with  his  boasted  skill 
Toils  much,  and  is  a  solemn  trifler  still: 
Blind  was  he  born,  and  his  misguided  eyes 
Grown  dim  in  trifling  studies,  blind  he  dies. 
Self-knowledge  truly  learned  of  course  implies 
The  rich  possession  of  a  nobler  prize ; 
For  self  to  self,  and  God  to  man  revealed, 
(Two  themes  to  Nature's  eye  for  ever  sealed) 
Are  taught  by  rays,  that  fly  with  equal  pace 
From  the  same  centre  of  enlightening  grace. 
Here  stay  thy  foot;  how  copious,  and  how  clear, 
Th'  o'erflowing  well  of  Charity  springs  here! 
Hark !  'tis  the  music  of  a  thousand  rills. 
Some  through  the  groves,  some  down  the  sloping 
hills. 

Winding  a  secret  or  an  open  course. 
And  all  supplied  from  an  eternal  source. 
The  ties  of  Nature  do  but  feebly  bind. 
And  Commerce  partially  reclaims  mankind ; 
Philosophy,  without  his  heavenly  guide. 
May  blow  up  self-conceit,  and  nourish  pride 
But,  while  his  promise  is  the  reasoning  part, 
Has  still  a  veil  of  midnight  on  his  heart; 


38 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


'Tis  Truth  divine,  exhibited  on  earth, 
Gives  Charity  her  being  and  her  birth. 

Suppose  (when  thought  is  warm  and  fancy  flows, 
"What  will  not  argument  sometimes  supposed 
An  isle  possessed  by  creatures  of  our  kind, 
Endued  with  reason,  yet  by  nature  Wind, 
Let  supposition  lend  her  aid  once  more. 
And  land  some  grave  optician  on  the  shore: 
He  claps  his  lens,  if  haply  they  may  see, 
Close  to  the  part  where  vision  ought  to  be; 
But  finds,  that,  though  his  tubes  assist  the  sight, 
They  caa  not  give  it,  or  make  darkness  light. 
He  reads  wise  lectures,  and  describes  aloud 
A  sense  they  know  not,  to  the  wondering  crowd; 
He  talks  of  light,  and  the  prismatic  hues, 
As  men  of  depth  in  erudition  use; 

But  all  he  gains  for  his  harangue  is — Well,  

What  monstrous  lies  some  travellers  will  tell ! 

The  soul,  whose  sight  all-quickening  grace  re- 
news. 

Takes  the  r^emblance  of  the  good  she  views, 
As  diamonds,  stripped  of  their  opaque  disguise, 
Reflect  the  noonday  glory  of  the  skies. 
She  speaks  of  him,  her  authoi,  guardian,  friend, 
Whose  love  knew  no  beginning,  knows  no  end, 
In  language  warm  as  all  that  love  inspires, 
And  in  the  glow  of  her  intense  desires, 
Pants  to  communicate  her  noble  fires. 
She  sees  a  world  stark  blind  to  what  employs 
Her  eager  thought,  and  feeds  her  flowing  joys ; 
Though  Wisdom  hail  them,  heedless  of  her  call, 
Flies  to  save  some,  and  feels  a  pang  for  all: 
Herself  as  weak  as  her  support  is  strong. 
She  feels  that  frailty  she  denied  so  long; 
And,  from  a  knowledge  of  her  own  disease, 
Learns  to  compassionate  the  sick  she  sees. 
Here  see,  acquitted  of  all  vain  pretence. 
The  reign  of  genuine  Charity  commence. 
Though  scorn  repay  her  sympathetic  tears, 
She  still  is  kind,  and  still  she  perseveres; 
The  truth  she  loves  a  sightless  world  blaspheme, 
'Tis  childish  dotage,  a  delirious  dream; 
The  danger  they  discern  not,  they  deny; 
Laugh  at  their  only  remedy,  and  die. 
But  Still  a  soul  thus  touched  can  never  cease, 
Whoever  threatens  war,  to  speak  of  peace. 
Pure  in  her  aim,  and  in  her  temper  mild. 
Her  wisdom  seems  the  weakness  of  a  child : 
She  makes  excuses  where  she  might  condemn, 
Reviled  by  those  that  hate  her,  prays  for  them: 
Suspicion  lurks  not  in  her  artless  breast. 
The  worst  suggested,  she  believes  the  best; 
Not  soon  provoked,  however  stung  and  teased, 
And,  if  perhaps  made  angry,  soon  appeased ; 
She  rather  waives  than  will  dispute  her  right, 
And,  injured,  makes  forgiveness  her  delight. 

Such  was  the  portrait  an  apostle  drew. 
The  bright  original  was  one  he  knew; 
Heaven  held  his  hand,  the  likeness  must  be  true. 


When  one,  that  holds  communion  with  the  skies, 
Has  filled  his  urn  where  these  pure  waters  riso, 
And  once  more  mingles  with  us  meaner  things, 
'Tis  e'en  as  if  an  angel  shook  his  wings; 
Immortal  fragrance  fills  the  circuit  wide, 
That  tells  us  whence  his  treasures  are  supplied. 
So  when  a  ship,  well  freighted  with  the  stores 
The  sun  matures  on  India's  spicy  shores. 
Has  dropped  her  anchor,  and  her  canvass  furled, 
In  some  safe  haven  of  our  western  world, 
'Twere  vain  inquiry  to  what  port  she  went 
The  gale  informs  us,  laden  with  the  scent. 

Some  seek,  when  queasy  conscience  has  its 
qualms. 

To  lull  the  painful  malady  with  alms; 

But  charity  not  feigned  intends  alone 

Another's  good — theirs  centres  in  their  own ; 

And,  too  short  lived  to  reach  the  realms  of  peace, 

Must  cease  for  ever  when  the  poor  shall  cease. 

Flavia,  most  tender  of  her  own  good  name, 

Is  rather  careless  of  her  sister's  fame : 

Her  superfluity  the  poor  supplies, 

But,  if  she  touch  a  character,  it  dies. 

The  seeming  virtue  weighed  against  the  vice, 

She  deems  all  safe,  for  she  has  paid  the  price : 

No  charity  but  alms  aught  values  she. 

Except  in  porcelain  on  her  mantel-tree. 

How  many  deeds,  with  which  the  world  has  rung : 

From  Pride,  in  league  with  Ignorance,  have  sprung  , 

But  God  o'errules  all  human  follies  still. 

And  bends  the  tough  materials  to  his  will. 

A  conflagration,  or  a  wintry  flood, 

Has  left  some  hundreds  without  home  or  food  ; 

Extravagance  and  Avarice  shall  subscribe, 

While  fame  and  self-complacence  are  the  bribe. 

The  brief  proclaimed,  it  visits  every  pew. 

But  first  the  squire's,  a  comphment  but  due: 

With  slow  deliberation  he  unties 

His  glittering  purse,  that  envy  of  all  eyes. 

And,  while  the  clerk  just  puzzles  out  the  psalm, 

Slides  guinea  behind  guinea  in  his  palm; 

Till  finding,  what  he  might  have  found  before, 

A  smaller  piece  amidst  the  precious  store, 

Pinched  close  between  his  finger  and  his  thimib, 

He  half  exhibits,  and  then  drops  the  sum. 

Gold  to  be  sure ! — Throughout  the  town  'tis  told, 

How  the  good  squire  gives  never  less  than  gold, 

From  motives  such  as  his,  though  not  the  best. 

Springs  in  due  time  supply  for  the  distressed  j 

Not  less  eflfectual  than  what  love  bestows, 

Except  that  office  clips  it  as  it  goes. 

But  lest  I  seem  to  sin  against  a  friend, 
And  wound  the  grace  I  mean  to  recommend, 
(Though  vice  derided  with  a  just  design 
Implies  no  trespass  against  love  divine,) 
Once  more  I  would  adopt  the  graver  style, 
A  teacher  should  be  sparing  of  his  smUe. 
Unless  a  love  of  virtue  light  the  flame. 
Satire  is,  moTe  than  those  he  brands,  to  blame; 


CHARITY. 


He  hides  behind  a  magisterial  air 
His  own  offences,  and  strips  others  bare; 
Affects,  indeed,  a  most  humane  concern, 
That  men,  if  gently  tutored,  will  not  learn; 
That  mulish  Folly,  not  to  be  reclaimed 
By  softer  methods,  must  be  made  ashamed; 
But  (I  migh^  instance  in  St.  Patrick's  dean) 
Too  often  rails  to  gratify  his  spleen. 
Most  satirists  are  indeed  a  public  scourge; 
Their  mildest  physic  is  a  farrier's  purge; 
Their  acrid  temper  turns,  as  soon  as  stirred, 
The  milk  of  their  good  purpose  all  to  curd. 
Their  zeal  begotten,  as  their  works  rehearse, 
By  lean  despair  upon  an  empty  purse. 
The  wild  assassins  start  into  the  street. 
Prepared  to  poniard  whomsoe'er  they  meet. 
No  skill  in  swordmanship,  however  just. 
Can  be  secure  against  a  madman's  thrust; 
And  even  Virtue,  so  unfairly  matched. 
Although  immortal,  may  be  pricked  or  scratched. 
When  scandal  has  new  minted  an  old  he, 
Or  taxed  invention  for  a  fresh  supply, 
'Tis  called  a  satire,  and  the  world  appears 
Gathering  around  it  with  erected  ears: 
A  thousand  names  are  tossed  into  the  crowd; 
Some  whispered  softly,  and  some  twanged  aloud ; 
Just  as  the  sapience  of  an  author's  brain 
Suggests  it  safe  or  dangerous  to  be  plain. 
Strange!  how  the  frequent  interjected  dash 
Quickens  a  market  and  helps  oft' the  trash; 
The  important  letters,  that  include  the  rest. 
Serve  as  a  key  to  those  that  are  suppressed; 
Conjecture  gripes  the  victims  in  his  paw. 
The  world  is  charmed,  and  Scrib  escapes  the  law. 
So,  when  the  cold  damp  shades  of  night  prevail, 
Wonns  may  be  caught  by  either  head  or  tail; 
Forcibly  drawn  from  many  a  close  recess. 
They  meet  with  little  pity,  no  redress; 
Plunged  in  the  stream,  they  lodge  upon  the  mud. 
Food  for  the  famished  rovers  of  the  flood. 

All  zeal  for  a  reform,  that  gives  offence 
To  peace  and  charity,  is  mere  pretence: 
A  bold  remark,  but  which,  if  well  applied, 
Would  humble  many  a  towering  poet's  pride. 
Perhaps  the  man  was  in  a  sportive  fit. 
And  had  no  other  play-place  for  his  wit; 
Perhaps  enchanted  with  the  love  of  fame. 
He  sought  the  jewel  in  his  neighbour's  shame ; 
Perhaps— whatever  end  he  might  pursue, 
The  cause  of  virtue  could  not  be  his  view. 
At  every  stroke  wit  flashes  in  our  eyes; 
The  turns  are  quick,  the  polished  points  surprise. 
But  shine  with  cruel  and  tremendous  charms. 
That,  while  they  please,  possess  us  with  alarms; 
So  have  I  seen  (and  hastened  to  the  sight 
On  all  the  wings  of  holiday  delig'.t,) 
Where  stands  that  monument  of  ancient  power 
Named,  with  emphatic  di-mity,  the  Tower 
4  E 


Guns,  halberts,  swords,  and  pistols,  great  and 
small. 

In  starry  forms  disposed  upon  the  wall; 
We  wonder,  as  we  gazing  stand  below, 
That  brass  and  steel  should  make  so  fine  a  show; 
But  though  we  praise  th'  exact  designer's  skill, 
Account  them  implements  of  mischief  still. 

No  works  shall  find  acceptance  in  that  day. 
When  all  disguises  shall  be  rent  away, 
That  square  not  truly  with  the  Scripture  plan, 
Nor  spring  from  love  to  God,  or  love  to  man. 
As  he  ordains  things  sordid  in  their  birth 
To  be  resolved  into  their  parent  earth; 
And,  though  the  soul  shall  seek  superior  orbs, 
Whate'er  this  world  produces,  it  absorbs; 
So  self  starts  nothing,  but  what  tends  apace 
Home  to  the  goal,  where  it  began  the  race. 
Such  as  our  motive  is,  our  aim  must  be; 
If  this  be  servile,  that  can  ne'er  be  free: 
If  self  employ  us,  whatsoe'er  is  wrought, 
We  glorify  that  self,  not  him  we  ought: 
Such  virtues  had  need  prove  their  own  reward, 
The  J udge  of  all  men  owes  them  no  regard. 
True  Charity,  a  plant  divinely  nursed, 
Fed  by  the  love  from  which  it  rose  at  first, 
Thrives  against  hope,  and,  in  the  rudest  scene, 
Storms  but  enliven  its  unfading  green: 
Exuberant  is  the  shadow  it  supplies. 
Its  fruits  on  earth,  its  growth  above  the  skies. 
To  look  at  Him,  who  formed  vis  and  redeemed, 
So  glorious  now,  though  once  so  disesteemed,  ^ 
To  see  a  God  stretch  forth  his  human  hand,  - 
T'  uphold  the  boundkss  scenes  of  his  command* 
To  recollect,  that,  in  a  for  m  like  ours;, 
He  bruised  beneath  his  feet  th'  mfernal  powers, 
Captivity  led  captive,  rojse  to  claim  ' 
The  wreath  he  won  so  dearly  in  our  name; 
That,  throned  above  all  height,  fee  condescends 
To  call  the  few  that  tmstin  him  his  friends- 
That,  in  the  Heaven  of  heavens,  that  space  he 


Too  scanty  for  th'  exextion  of  his  beams, 
And  shines  as  if  impatient  to  bestow 
Life  and  a  kingdom  upon  worms  below; 
That  sight  imparts  a  never-dying  flame 
T  hough  feeble  in  degree,  in  kind  the  same. 
Like  him  the  soul,  thus  kindled  from  above. 
Spreads  wide  her  arms  of  universal  love; 
And,  still  enlarged  as  she  receives  the  grace 
Includes  creation  in  her  close  embrace.  ' 
Behold  a  Christian!  and  without  the  fires 
The  founder  of  that  name  alone  inspires. 
Though  all  accomplishment,  all  knowledge  meet, 
To  make  the  shining  prodigy  complete 
Whoever  boasts  that  name — behold  a  cheat! 
Were  love,  in  these  the  world's  last  doting  years 
As  frequent  as  the  want  of  it  appears,  ' 
The  churches  warmed,  they  would  no  longer  hold 
Such  frozen  figures,  stiff  as  they  are  cold; 


40 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Relenting  forms  would  lose  their  power  or  cease; 
And  e'en  the  dipped  and  sprinkled  live  in 
peace: 

Each  heart  would  quit  its  prison  in  the  breast, 
And  flow  in  free  communion  with  the  rest. 
The  statesman,  skilled  in  projects  dark  and  deep, 
Might  burn  his  useless  Machiavel,  and  sleep; 
His  budget  often  filled,  yet  always  poor. 
Might  swing  at  ease  behind  his  study  door, 
No  longer  prey  upon  our  annual  rents. 
Or  scare  the  nation  with  its  big  contents: 
Disbanded  legions  freely  might  depart, 
And  slaying  man  would  cease  to  be  an  art. 
No  learned  disputants  would  take  the  field, 
Sure  not  to  conquer,  and  sure  not  to  yield; 


Both  sides  deceived,  if  rightly  understood, 

Pelting  each  other  for  the  public  good. 

Did  Charity  prevail,  the  press  would  prove 

A  vehicle  of  virtue,  truth,  and  love; 

And  I  might  spare  myself  the  pains  to  show 

What  few  can  learn,  and  all  suppose  they  know. 

Thus  I  have  sought  to  grace  a  serious  lay 

With  many  a  wild,  indeed,  but  flowery  spray, 

In  hopes  to  gain,  what  else  I  must  have  lost, 

Th'  attention  pleasure  has  so  much  engrossed. 

But  if,  unhappily  deceived,  I  dream, 

And  prove  too  weak  for  so  divine  a  theme, 

Let  Charity  forgive  me  a  mistake, 

That  zeal,  not  vanity,  has  chanced  to  make, 

And  spare  the  poet  for  his  subject's  sake. 


Nam  neque  me  tantum  venientis  sibilus  austri, 
Nec  percussa  juvant  fluctu  tam  litora,  nec  quas 
Saxosas  inter  decurrunt  flumina  valles.  Virg.  Eel.  5. 


Though  Nature  weigh  our  talents,  and  dispense 
To  every  man  his  modicum  of  sense, 
And  conversation  in  its  better  part 
May  be  esteemed  a  gift,  and  not  an  art. 
Yet  much  depends,  as  in  the  tiller's  toil. 
On  culture,  and  the  sowing  of  the  soil. 
Words  learned  by  rote  a  parrot  may  rehearse, 
But  talking  is  not  always  to  converse; 
Not  more  distinct  from  harmony  divine, 
The  constant  creaking  of  a  country  sign. 
As  alphabets  in  ivory  employ. 
Hour  after  hour,  the  yet  unlettered  boy, 
Sorting  and  puzzling  with  a  deal  of  glee 
Those  seeds  of  science  called  his  a  b  c; 
So  language  in  the  mouths  of  the  adult, 
Witness  its  insignificant  result. 
Too  ofl;en  proves  an  implement  of  play, 
A  toy  to  sport  with,  and  pass  time  away. 
Collect  at  evening  what  the  day  brought  forth, 
Compress  the  sum  into  its  solid  worth. 
And  if  it  weigh  th'  importance  of  a  fly, 
The  scales  are  false,  or  algebra  a  lie, 
Sacred  interpreter  of  human  thought. 
How  few  respect  or  use  thee  as  they  ought  I 
But  all  shall  give  account  of  every  wrong. 
Who  dare  dishonour  or  defile  the  tongue ; 
Who  prostitute  it  in  the  cause  of  vice. 
Or  sell  the  glory  at  the  market-price ; 
Who  vote  for  hire,  or  point  it  with  lampoon. 
The  dear-bought  placeman,  and  the  cheap  buffoon 

There  is  a  prurience  in  the  speech  of  some, 
Wrath  stays  him,  or  else  God  would  strike  them 
dumb: 

His  wise  forbearance  has  their  end  in  view. 
They  fill  their  measure,  and  receive  their  due 


The  heathen  law-givers  of  ancient  days. 
Names  almost  worthy  of  a  Christian's  praise. 
Would  drive  them  forth  from  the  resort  of  men, 
And  shut  up  every  satyr  in  his  den, 
O  come  not  ye  near  innocence  and  truth, 
Ye  worms  that  eat  into  the  bud  of  youth ! 
Infectious  as  impure,  your  blighting  power 
Taints  in  its  rudiments  the  promised  flower, 
Its  odour  perished  and  its  charming  hue, 
Thenceforth  'tis  hateful,  for  it  smells  of  you. 
Not  e'en  the  vigorous  and  headlong  rage 
Of  adolescence,  or  a  firmer  age. 
Affords  a  plea  allowable  or  just 
For  making  speech  the  pamperer  of  lust; 
But  when  the  breath  of  age  commits  the  fault, 
'Tis  nauseous  as  the  vapour  of  a  vault. 
So  withered  stumps  disgrace  the  sylvan  scene, 
No  longer  fruitful,  and  no  longer  green ; 
The  sapless  wood,  divested  of  the  bark, 
Grows  fungous,  and  takes  fire  at  every  spark. 


Oaths  terminate,  as  Paul  observes,  all  strife- 
Some  men  have  surely  then  a  peaceful  life ; 
Whatever  subject  occupy  discourse. 
The  feats  of  Vestris,  or  the  naval  force, 
Asseveration  blustering  in  your  face 
Makes  contradiction  such  a  hopeless  ease : 
In  every  tale  they  tell,  or  false  or  true. 
Well  known,  or  such  as  no  man  ever  knew, 
They  fix  attention,  heedless  of  your  pain, 
With  oaths  like  rivets  forced  into  the  brain; 
And  e'en  when  sober  truth  prevails  throughout, 
They  swear  it,  till  affirmance  breeds  a  doubt. 
A  Persian,  humble  servant  of  the  sun, 
1  Who,  though  devout,  yet  bigotry  had  none, 


CONVERSATION. 


41 


Hearing  a  lawyer,  grave  in  his  address, 
With  abjuration  every  vv^ord  impress, 
Supposed  the  man  a  bishop,  or,  at  least, 
God's  name  so  much  upon  his  lips,  a  priest  ; 
Bovs^ed  at  the  close  with  all  his  graceful  airs, 
And  begged  an  interest  in  his  frequent  prayers. 

Go,  quit  the  rank  to  which  ye  stood  preferred, 
Henceforth  associate  in  one  common  herd; 
ReHgion,  virtue,  reason,  common  sense, 
Pronounce  your  human  form  a  false  pretence; 
A  mere  disguise,  in  which  a  devil  lurks, 
Who  yet  betrays  his  secret  by  his  works. 

Ye  powers  who  rule  the  tongue,  if  such  there  are 
And  make  colloquial  happiness  your  care, 
Preserve  me  from  the  thing  I  dread  and  hate, 
A  duel  in  the  form  of  a  debate. 
The  clash  of  arguments  and  jar  of  words. 
Worse  than  the  mortal  brunt  of  rival  swords, 
Decide  no  question  with  their  tedious  length, 
For  opposition,  gives  opinion  strength. 
Divert  the  champions  prodigal  of  breath ; 
And  put  the  peaceably-disposed  to  death. 

0  thwart  me  not,  sir  Soph,  at  every  turn, 
Nor  carp  at  every  flaw  you  may  discern ; 
Though  syllogisms  hang  not  on  my  tongue, 

1  am  not  surely  always  in  the  wrong ; 

'Tis  hard  if  all  is  false  that  I  advance, 

A  fool  must  now  and  then  be  right  by  chance. 

Not  that  all  freedom  of  dissent  I  blame ; 

No — there  I  grant  the  privilege  I  claim. 

A  disputable  point  is  no  man's  ground ; 

Rove  where  you  please,  'tis  common  all  around 

Discourse  may  want  an  animated — No, 

To  brush  the  surface,  and  to  make  it  flow ; 

But  still  remember,  if  you  mean  to  please, 

To  press  your  point  with  modesty  and  ease. 

The  mark,  at  which  my  juster  aim  I  take, 

Is  contradiction  for  its  own  dear  sake. 

Set  your  opinion  at  whatever  pitch. 
Knots  and  impediments  make  something  hitch ; 
Adopt  his  own,  'tis  equally  in  vain. 

Your  thread  of  argument  is  snapped  again ; 
The  wrangler,  rather  than  accord  with  you. 
Will  judge  himself  deceived,  and  prove  it  too. 
Vociferated  logic  kills  me  quite, 
A  noisy  man  is^always  in  the  right : 
I  twirl  my  thumbs,  fall  back  into  my  chair. 
Fix  on  the  wainscot  a  distressful  stare. 
And,  when  I  hope  his  blunders  are  all  out. 
Reply  discreetly— To  be  sure— no  doubt ! 

Dubius  is  such  a  scrupulous  good  man — 
Yes— you  may  catch  him  tripping  if  you  can. 
He  would  not,  with  a  peremptory  tone, 
Assert  the  nose  upon  his  face  his  own ; 
With  hesitation  admirably  slow, 
He  humbly  hopes— presumes— it  may  be  so. 
His  evidence,  if  he  were  called  by  law 
To  swear  to  some  enormity  he  saw, 


For  want  of  prominence  and  just  relief 
Would  hang  an  honest  man,  and  save  a  thief. 
Through  constant  dread  of  giving  truth  oflfence, 
He  ties  up  all  his  hearers  in  suspense ; 
Knows  what  he  knows,  as  if  he  knew  it  not; 
What  he  remembers,  seems  to  have  forgot; 
His  sole  opinion,  whatsoe'er  befall. 
Centering  at  last  in  having  none  at  all. 
Yet,  though  he  tease  and  baulk  your  listening  ear, 
He  makes  one  useful  point  exceeding  clear; 
Howe'er  ingenious  on  his  darling  theme 
A  sceptic  in  philosophy  may  seem. 
Reduced  to  practice,  his  beloved  rule 
Would  only  pfove  him  a  consummate  fool ; 
Useless  in  him  ahke  both  brain  and  speech, 
Fate  having  placed  all  truth  above  his  reach. 
His  ambiguities  his  total  sum. 
He  might  as  well  be  blind,  and  deaf,  and  dumb. 

Where  men  of  judgment  creep  and  feel  their  way. 
The  positive  pronounce  without  dismay ; 
Their  want  of  light  and  intellect  supplied 
By  sparks  absurdity  strikes  out  of  pride. 
Without  the  means  of  knowing  right  from  wrong, 
They  always  are  decisive,  clear,  and  strong ; 
Where  others  toil  with  philosophic  force. 
Their  nimble  nonsense  takes  a  shorter  course  ; 
Flings  at  your  head  conviction  in  the  lump, 
And  gains  remote  conclusions  at  a  jump : 
Their  own  defect,  invisible  to  them. 
Seen  in  another,  they  at  once  condemn ; 
And,  though  self-idohzed  in  every  case. 
Hate  their  own  likeness  in  a  brother's  face. 
The  cause  is  plain,  and  not  to  be  denied. 
The  proud  are  always  most  provoked  by  pride  • 
Few  competitions  but  engender  spite ;  ' 
And  those  the  most  where  neither  has  a  right. 

The  point  of  honour  has  been  deemed  of  use^ 
To  teach  good  manners,  and  to  curb  abuse ; 
Admit  it  true,  the  consequence  is  clear, 
Our  pohshed  manners  are  a  mask  we  wear. 
And  at  the  bottom  barbarous  still  and  rude. 
We  are  restrained,  indeed,  but  not  subdued. 
The  very  remedy,  however  sure, 
Springs  from  the  mischief  it  intends  to  cure, 
And  savage  in  its  principle  appears, 
Tried,  as  it  should  be,  by  the  fruit  it  bears. 
'Tis  hard,  indeed,  if  nothing  will  defend 
Mankind  from  quarrels  but  their  fatal  end; 
That  now  and  then  a  hero  must  decease. 
That  the  surviving  world  may  live  in  peace. 
Perhaps  at  last  close  scrutiny  may  show 
The  practice  dastardly,  and  mean,  and  low ; 
That  men  engage  in  it  compelled  by  force. 
And  fear,  not  courage,  is  its  proper  source ; 
The  fear  of  tyrant  custom,  and  the  fear 
Lest  fops  should  censure  us,  and  fools  should  sneer.  ' 
At  least,  to  trample  on  our  Maker's  laws, 
And  hazard  life  for  any  or  no  cause, 


42 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


To  rush  into  a  fixed  eternal  state 
Out  of  the  very  llames  of  rage  and  hate, 
Or  send  another  shivering  to  the  bar 
With  all  the  guilt  of  such  unnatural  war, 
Whatever  use  may  urge,  or  honour  plead, 
On  reason's  verdict  is  a  madman's  deed. 
Am  I  to  set  my  Ufe  upon  a  throvsr, 
Because  a  bear  is  rude  and  surly'?  No— 
A  moral,  sensible  and  well-bred  man 
Will  not  affront  me;  and  no  other  can. 
Were  I  empowered  to  regulate  the  lists, 
They  should  encounter  with  well-loaded  fists; 
A  Trojan  combat  would  be  something  new, 
Let  Dares  beat  Entellus  black  and  blue; 
Then  each  might  show,  to  his  admiring  friends, 
In  honourable  bumps  his  rich  amends. 
And  carry  in  contusions  of  his  skull, 
A  satisfactory  receipt  i^  full. 

A  story,  in  which  native  humour  reigns. 
Is  often  useful,  always  entertains: 
A  graver  fact,  enlisted  on  your  side, 
May  furnish  illustration,  well  applied; 
But  sedentary  weavers  of  long  tales 
Give  me  the  fidgets,  and  my  patience  fails. 
'Tis  the  most  asinine  employ  on  earth, 
To  hear  them  tell  of  parentage  and  birth, 
And  echo  conversations  dull  and  dry, 
EmbeUishedwith— He  said,  and  So  said  I. 
At  every  interview  their  rcmte  the  same, 
The  repetition  makes  attention  lame: 
We  bustle  up  with  unsuccessful  speed, 
And  in  the  saddest  part  cry— Droll  indeed 
The  path  of  narrative  with  care  pursue. 
Still  making  probabiUty  your  clew: 
On  all  the  vestiges  of  truth  attend, 
And  let  them  guide  you  to  a  decent  end. 
Of  all  ambitions  man  may  entertain. 
The  worst  that  can  invade  a  sickly  brain. 
Is  that,  which  angles  hourly  %>r  surprise. 
And  baits  its  hook  with  prodigies  and  lies. 
Credulous  infancy,  or  age  as  weak, 
Are  fittest  auditors  for  such  to  seek, 
Who  to  please  others  will  themselves  disgrace. 
Yet  please  not,  but  affront  you  to  your  face, 
A  great  retailer  of  this  curious  ware 
Having  unloaded  and  made  many  stare, 
Can  this  be  true'?— an  arch  observer  cries, 
Yes,  (rather  moved)  I  saw  it  with  these  eyes 
Sir!  I  believe  it  on  that  ground  alone; 
I  could  not,  had  I  seen  it  with  my  own. 

A  tale  should  be  judicious,  clear,  succinct 
The  language  plain,  and  incidents  well  linked 
Tell  not  as  new  what  every  body  knows. 
And,  new  or  old,  still  hasten  to  a  close; 
There,  centering  in  a  focus  round  and  neat 
Let  all  your  rays  of  information  meet. 
What  neither  yields  us  profit  nor  delight 
Is  like  a  nurse's  lullaby  at  night; 


I  Guy  Earl  of  Warwick  and  fair  Eleanorc, 
Or  giant-killing  Jack,  would  please  me  more. 
,    The  pipe,  with  solemn  interposing  puff", 
Makes  half  a  sentence  at  a  time  enough; 
The  dozing  sages  drop  the  drowsy  strain, 
Then  pause,  and  puff— and  speak,  and  piuae 
again. 

Such  often,  like  the  tube  they  so  admire, 
Important  triflers:  have  more  smoke  than  fire. 
Pernicious  weed !  whose  scent  the  fair  annoys. 
Unfriendly  to  society's  chief  joys. 
Thy  worst  effect  is  banishing  for  hours 
The  sex,  whose  presence  civilizes  ours: 
Thou  art  indeed  the  drug  a  gardener  wants, 
j  To  poison  vermin  that  infest  his  plants; 
But  are  we  so  to  wit  and  beauty  blind, 
As  to  despise  the  glory  of  our  kind, 
And  show  the  softest  minds  and  fairest  forma 
As  little  mercy,  as  the  grubs  and  worms'? 
j  They  dare  not  wait  the  riotous  abuse. 
Thy  thirst-creating  steams  at  length  produce. 
When  wine  has  given  indecent  language  birth, 
And  forced  the  flood-gates  of  licentious  mirth; 
For  sea-born  Venus  her  attachment  shows 
Still  to  that  element,  from  which  she  rose, 
And  with  a  quiet,  which  no  fumes  disturb, 
Sips  meek  infusions  of  a  milder  herb. 

Th'  emphatic  speaker  dearly  loves  t'  oppose 
In  contact  inconvenient,  nose  to  nose. 
As  if  the  gnomon  on  his  neighbour's  phiz,  ^ 
Touched  with  the  magnet,  had  attracted  his. 
His  whispered  theme,  dilated  and  at  large, 
Proves  after  all  a  wind-gun's  airy  charge, 
An  extract  of  his  diary— no  more, 
A  tasteless  journal  of  the  day  before.  ^ 
He  walked  abroad,  o'ertaken  in  the  rain. 
Called  on  a  friend,  drank  tea,  stepped  home  again, 
Resumed  his  purpose,  had  a  world  of  talk 
1  With  one  he  stumbled  on,  and  lost  his  walk. 
I  interrupt  him  with  a  sudden  bow, 
I  Adieu,  dear  sir!  lest  you  should  lose  it  now. 

I  can  not  talk  with  civet  in  the  room, 
A  fine  puss-gentleman  that's  all  perfume; 
The  sight's  enough— no  need  to  smell  a  beau-  - 
I  Who  thrusts  his  nose  into  a  rareeshow'? 
His  odoriferous  attempts  to  please, 
I  Perhaps  might  prosper  with  a  swarm  of  bees,  ^ 
But  we  that  make  no  honey,  though  we  sting, 
Poets,  are  sometimes  apt  to  maul  the  thing. 
'Tis  wrong  to  bring  into  a  mixed  resort, 
I  What  makes  some  sick,  and  others  a  la-mort'. 
An  argument  of  cogence,  we  may  say. 
Why  such  a  one  should  keep  himself  away. 

A  graver  coxcomb  we  may  sometimes  see; 
,auite  as  absurd,  though  not  so  light  as  he; 
A  shallow  brain  behind  a  serious  mask, 
An  oracle  within  an  empty  cask. 
The  solemn  fop;  significant  and  budge; 
I A  fool  with  judges,  amongst  fools  a  judge  j 


He  says  but  little,  and  that  little  said 
Owes  all  its  weight,  like  loaded  dice,  to  lead. 
His  wit  invites  you  by  his  looks  to  come, 
But  when  you  knock,  it  never  is  at  home. 
'Tis  like  a  parcel  sent  you  by  the  stage. 
Some  handsome  present,  as  your  hopes  presage; 
'Tis  heavy,  bulky,  and  bids  fair  to  prove 
An  absent  friend's  fidelity  and  love ; 
But  when  unpacked,  your  disappointment  groans 
To  find  it  stuffed  with  brickbats,  earth,  and  stones. 

Some  men  employ  their  health,  an  ugly  trick 
In  making  known  how  oft  they  have  been  sick, 
And  give  us  in  recitals  of  disease 
A  doctor's  trouble,  but  without  the  fees; 
Relate  how  many  weeks  they  kept  their  bed, 
How  an  emetic  or  cathartic  sped ; 
Nothing  is  slightly  touched,  much  less  forgot, 
Nose,  ears,  and  eyes,  seem  present  on  the  spot. 
Now  the  distemper,  spite  of  draught  or  pill. 
Victorious  seemed,  and  now  the  doctor's  skill ; 
And  now — alas  for  unforeseen  mishaps  ! 
They  put  on  a  damp  nightcap  and  relapse ; 
They  thought  they  must  have  died,  they  were  so 
bad; 

Their  peevish  hearers  almost  vvdsh  they  had. 

Some  fretful  tempers  wince  at  every  touch, 
You  always  do  too  little  or  too  much : 
You  speak  with  life,  in  hopes  to  entertain, 
Your  elevated  voice  goes  through  the  brain; 
You  fall  at  once  into  a  lower  key, 
That's  worse — the  drone-pipe  of  an  bumblebee. 
The  southern  sash  admits  too  strong  a  light, 
You  rise  and  drop  the  curtain— now  'tis  night. 
He  shakes  with  cold— you  stir  the  fire  and  strive 
To  make  a  blaze — that's  roasting  him  alive. 
Serve  him  with  venison,  and  he  chooses  fish; 
With  soal — that's  just  the  sort  he  does  not  wish. 
He  takes  what  he  at  first  professed  to  loath, 
And  in  due  time  feeds  heartily  on  both ; 
Yet  still,  o'erclouded  with  a  constant  frown, 
He  does  not  swallow,  but  he  gulps  it  down. 
Your  hope  to  please  him  vain  on  every  plan, 

Himself  should  work  that  wonder  if  he  can  

Alas !  his  efl^brts  double  his  distress. 
He  likes  yours  little,  and  his  own  still  less. 
Thus  always  teasing  others,  always  teased, 
His  only  pleasure  is— to  be  displeased. 

I  pity  bashful  men,  who  feel  the  pain 
Of  fancied  scorn  and  undeserved  disdain, 
And  bear  the  marks  upon  a  blushing  face 
Of  needless  shame,  and  self-imposed  disgrace. 
Our  sensibilities  are  so  acute. 
The  fear  of  being  silent  makes  us  mute. 
We  sometimes  think  we  could  a  speech  produce 
Much  to  the  purpose,  if  our  tongues  were  loose  • 
But  being  tried,  it  dies  upon  the  hp, 
Faint  as  a  chicken's  note  that  has  the  pip: 
Our  wasted  oil  unprofitably  burn&, 
Like  hidden  lamps  in  old  sepulchral  ums. 


CONVERSATION. 


43 


£2 


Few  Frenchmen  of  this  evil  have  complained; 
It  seems  as  if  we  Britons  were  ordained. 
By  way  of  wholesome  curb  upon  our  pride; 
To  fear  each  other,  fearing  none  beside. 
The  cause  perhaps  inquiry  may  descry, 
Self-searching  with  an  introverted  eye. 
Concealed  within  an  unsuspected  part. 
The  vainest  corner  of  our  own  vain  heart; 
For  ever  aiming  at  the  world's  esteem, 
Our  self-importance  ruins  its  own  scheme; 
In  other  eyes  our  talents  rarely  shown, 
Become  at  length  so  splendid  in  our  own,  , 
We  dare  not  risk  them  into  public  view,  ' 
Lest  they  miscarry  of  what  seems  their  due. 
True  modesty  is  a  discerning  grace. 
And  only  blushes  in  the  proper  place; 
But  counterfeit  is  blind,  and  skulks  through  fear. 
Where  'tis  a  shame  to  be  ashamed  t'  appear : 
Humility  the  parent  of  the  first, 
The  last  by  vanity  produced  and  nursed. 
The  circle  formed,  v^e  sit  in  silent  state, 
Like  figures  drawn  upon  a  dial  plate; 
Yes  ma'am  and  no  ma'am,  uttered  softly  show 
Every  five  minutes  how  the  minutes  go; 
Each  individual  suffering  a  constraint 
Poetry  may,  but  colours  can  not  paint; 
As  if  in  close  committee  on  the  sky. 
Reports  it  hot  or  cold,  or  wet  or  dry; 
And  finds  a  changing  clime  a  happy  source 
Of  wise  reflection,  and  well  timed  discourse. 
We  next  inquire,  but  softly  and  by  stealth. 
Like  conservators  of  the  public  health, 
Of  epidemic  throats,  if  such  there  are. 
And  coughs,  and  rheums,  and  phthisic,  and  catarrh. 
The  theme  exhausted,  a  wide  chasm  ensues. 
Filled  up  at  last  with  interesting  news. 
Who  danced  with  whom,  and  who  are  like  to  wed, 
And  who  is  hanged,  and  who  is  brought  to  bed : 
But  fear  to  call  a  more  important  cause. 
As  if  'twere  treason  against  English  laws. 
The  visit  paid,  with  ecstacy  we  come. 
As  from  a  seven  years  transportation,  home. 
And  there  resume  an  unembarrassed  brow, 
Recovering  what  we  lost  we  know  not  how, 
The  faculties,  that  seemed  reduced  to  nought, 
Expression  and  the  privilege  of  thought. 

The  reeking,  roaring  hero  of  the  chase, 
I  give  him  over  as  a  desperate  case. 
Physicians  write  in  hopes  to  work  a  cure, 
Never,  if  honest  ones,  when  death  is  sure; 
And  though  the  fox  he  follows  may  be  tamed, 
A  mere  fox -follower  never  is  reclaimed. 
Some  farrier  should  prescribe  his  proper  course, 
Whose  only  fit  companion  is  his  horse ; 
Or  if,  deserving  of  a  better  doom. 
The  noble  beast  judge  otherwise,  his  groom. 
Yet  e'en  the  rogue  that  serves  him,  though  he  stand, 
To  take  his  honour's  orders,  cap  in  hand, 


44 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Prefers  his  fellow-grooms  with  much  good  sense, 
Their  skill  a  truth,  his  master's  a  pretence. 
If  neither  horse  nor  groom  affect  the  squire, 
Where  can  at  last  his  jockcyship  retired 
O  to  the  club,  the  scene  of  savage  joys. 
The  school  of  coarse  good  fellowship  and  noise; 
There  in  the  sweet  society  of  those, 
Whose  friendship  from  his  boyish  years  he  chose, 
Let  him  improve  his  talent  if  he  can. 
Till  none  but  beasts  acknowledge  him  a  man. 

Man's  heart  had  been  impenetrably  sealed, 
Like  theirs  that  cleave  the  flood  or  graze  the  field. 
Had  not  his  Maker's  all-bestowing  hand 
Given  him  a  soul,  and  bade  him  understand; 
The  reasoning  power  vouchsafed  of  course  inferred 
The  power  to  clothe  that  reason  with  his  word ; 
For  all  is  perfect,  that  God  works  on  earth, 
And  he,  that  gives  c6nception,  aids  the  birth. 
If  this  be  plain,  'tis  plainly  understood, 
What  uses  of  his  boon  the  Giver  would.  ^ 
The  Mind,  despatched  upon  her  busy  toil, 
Should  range  where  Providence  has  blessed  the 
soil; 

Visiting  every  flower  with  labour  meet. 
And  gathering  ail  her  treasures  sweet  by  sweet. 
She  should  imbue  the  tongue  with  what  she  sips, 
And  shed  the  balmy  blessing  on  the  lips. 
That  good  diffused  may  more  abundant  grow, 
And  speech  may  praise  the  power  that  bids  it  flow, 
Will  the  sweet  warbler  of  the  livelong  liight. 
That  fills  the  listening  lover  with  delight. 
Forget  his  harmony  with  rapture  heard. 
To  learn  the  twittering  of  a  meaner  bird'? 
Or  make  the  parrot's  mimicry  his  choice, 
That  odious  libel  on  a  human  voice'? 
No — Nature,  unsophisticate  by  man. 
Starts  not  aside  from  her  Creator's  plan; 
The  melody,  that  was  at  first  designed 
To.  cheer  the  rude  forefathers  of  mankind, 
Is  note  for  note  delivered  in  our  ears, 
In  the  last  scene  of  her  six  thousand  years. 
Yet  Fashion,  leader  of  a  chattering  train. 
Whom  man,  for  his  own  hurt,  permits  to  reign. 
Who  shifl;s  and  changes  all  things  but  his  shape 
And  would  degrade  her  votary  to  an  ape. 
The  fruitful  parent  of  abuse  and  wrong. 
Holds  a  usurped  dominion  o'er  his  tongue; 
There  sits  and  prompts  him  with  his  own  disgrace. 
Prescribes  the  theme,  the  tone,  and  the  grimace. 
And  when  accomplished  in  her  wayward  school, 
Calls  gentleman  whom  she  has  made  a  fool. 
'Tis  an  unalterable  fixed  decree, 
That  none  could  frame  or  ratify  but  she. 
That  heaven  and  hell,  and  righteousness  and  sin, 
Snares  in  his  path,  and  foes  that  lurk  within, 
God  and  his  attributes  (a  field  of  day 
Where  'tis  an  angel's  happiness  to  stra,y,) 
Fruits  of  his  love  and  wonders  of  his  might, 
Be  never  named  in  ears  esteemed  polite. 


That  he  who  dares,  when  she  forbids,  be  grave, 
Shall  stand  proscribed,  a  madman  or  a  knave, 
A  close  designer  not  to  be  believed, 
Or,  if  excused  that  charge,  at  least  deceived. 
Oh  folly  worthy  of  the  nurse's  lap. 
Give  it  the  breast,  or  stop  its  mouth  with  pap! 
Is  it  incredible,  or  can  it  seem 
A  dream  to  any,  except  those  that  dream. 
That  man  should  love  his  Maker,  and  that  fire, 
Warming  his  heart,  should  at  his  lips  transpire! 
Know  then,  and  modestly  let  fall  your  eyes. 
And  veil  your  daring  crest  that  braves  the  skies; 
That  air  of  insolence  affronts  your  God, 
You  need  his  pardon,  and  provoke  his  rod: 
Now,  in  a  posture  that  becomes  you  more 
Than  that  heroic  strut  assumed  before, 
Know,  your  arrears  with  every  hour  accrue 
For  mercy  shown,  while  wrath  is  justly  due. 
The  time  is  short,  and  there  are  souls  on  earth, 
Thfliugh  future  pain  may  serve  for  present  mirth, 
Acquainted  with  the  woes,  that  fear  or  shame. 
By  fashion  taught  forbade  them  once  to  name, 
And,  having  felt  the  pangs  you  deem  a  jest. 
Have  proved  them  truths  too  big  to  be  expressed 
Go  seek  on  revelation's  hallowed  ground. 
Sure  to  succeed,  the  remedy  they  found: 
Touched  by  that  power  that  you  have  dared  to 
mock. 

That  makes  seas  stable,  and  dissolves  the  rock, 
Your  heart  shall  yield  a  life-renewing  stream. 
That  fools,  as  you  have  done,  shall  call  a  dream. 

It  happened  on  a  solemn  eventide. 
Soon  after  He  that  was  our  surety  died. 
Two  bosom  friends,  each  pensively  inclined. 
The  scene  of  all  those  sorrows  left  behind. 
Sought  their  own  village,  busied  as  they  went 
In  musings  worthy  of  the  great  event : 
They  spake  of  him  they  loved,  of  him  whose  life, 
Though  blameless,  had  incurred  perpetual  strife, 
Whose  deeds  had  left,  in  spite  of  hostile  arts, 
A  deep  memorial  graven  on  their  hearts. 
The  recollection,  Ukea  vein  of  ore. 
The  farther  traced,  enriched  them  still  the  more; 
They  thought  him,  and  they  justly  thought  hinv 
one 

Sent  to  do  more  than  he  appeared  t'  have  done; 
T'  exalt  a  people,  and  to  place  them  high 
Above  all  else,  and  wondered  he  should  die. 
Ere  yet  they  brought  their  journey  to  an  end, 
A  stranger  joined  them,  courteous  as  a  friend, 
And  asked  them  with  a  kind,  engaging  air. 
What  their  affliction  was,  and  begged  to  share. 
Informed,  he  gathered  up  the  broken  thread, 
And,  truth  and  wisdom  gracing  all  he  said. 
Explained,  illustrated,  and  searched  so  well  . 
The  tender  theme  on  which  they  chose  to  dwell, 
That,  reaching  home.  The  night,  they  said,  is 
near. 

We  must  not  now  be  pa,rted,  sojourn  here- 


CONVERSATION. 


45 


The  new  acquaintance  soon  became  a  guest, 
And,  made  so  welceme  at  their  simple  feast, 
He  tilessed  the  bread,  but  vanished  at  the  word, 
And  left  them  both  exclaiming,  'Twas  the  Lord! 
Did  ndt  our  hearts  feel  all  he  deigned  to  say'? 
Did  thej  not  burn  within  us  on  the  way'? 

Now  theirs  was  converse,  such  as  it  behoves 
Man  to  maintain,  and  such  as  God  approves: 
Their  views,  indeed,  were  indistinct  and  dim, 
But  yet  successful,  being  aimed  at  him, 
Christ  and  his  character  their  only  scope. 
Their  object,  and  their  subject,  and  their  hope, 
They  felt  what  it  became  them  much  to  feel, 
And,  wanting  him  to  loose  the  sacred  seal, 
Found  him  as  prompt,  as  their  desire  was  true, 
To  spread  the  new  born  glories  in  their  view. 

Well — what  are  ages  and  the  lapse  of  time, 
Matched  against  truths,  as  lasting  as  sublime'? 
Can  length  of  years  on  God  himself  exact '? 
Or  make  that  fiction,  which  was  once  a  facf? 
No-.— marble  and  recording  brass  decay, 
^  And,  like  the  graver's  memory,  pass  away; 
The  works  of  man  inherit,  as  is  just. 
Their  author's  frailty,  and  return  to  dust: 
But  truth  divine  for  ever  stands  secure, 
Its  head  is  guarded,  and  its  base  is  sure. 
Fixed  in  the  rolhng  flood  of  endless  years, 
The  pillar  of  th'  eternal  plan  appears. 
The  raving  storm  and  dashing  wave  defies. 
Built  by  that  architect  who  built  the  skies. 
Hearts  may  be  found,  "that  harbour  at  this  hour 
That  love  of  Christ,  and  all  its  quickening  power; 
And  lips  imstained  by  folly  or  by  strife, 
Whose  wisdom,  drawn  from  the  deep  well  of  life. 
Tastes  of  its  healthful  origin,  and  flows 
A  Jordan  for  th'  ablution  of  our  woes. 
O  days  of  heaven  and  nights  of  equal  praise. 
Serene  and  peaceful  as  those  heavenly  days, 
When  souls  drawn  upwards  in  communion  sweet, 
Enjoy  the  stillness  of  some  close  retreat. 
Discourse,  as  if  released  and  safe  at  home. 
Of  dangers  past,  and  wonders  yet  to  come, 
And  spread  the  sacred  treasures  of  the  breast 
Upon  the  lap  of  covenanted  Rest. 

What,  always  dreaming  over  heavenly  things. 
Like  angel-heads  in  stone  with  pigeon -wings'? 
Canting  and  whining  out  all  day  the  word, 
And  half  the  nights  Fanatic  and  absurd! 
Mine  be  the  frieud  less  frequent  in  his  prayers, 
Who  makes  no  bustle  with  his  soul's  affairs. 
Whose  wit  can  brighten  up  a  wintry  day. 
And  chase  the  splenetic  dull  hours  away; 
Content  on  earth  in  earthly  things  to  shine. 
Who  waits  for  heaven  ere  he  becomes  divine 
Leave  saints  t'  enjoy  those  altitudes  they  teach, 
And  plucks  the  fruit  placed  more  within  his  reach, 

Well  spoken,  advocate  of  sin  and  shame. 
Known  by  thy  bleating.  Ignorance  thy  name. 


Is  sparkling  wit  the  world's  exclusive  right  1 

The  fixed  fee-simple  of  the  vain  and  light '? 

Can  hopes  of  heaven,  bright  prospects  for  an  hour. 

That  come  to  waft  us  out  of  Sorrow's  power, 

Obscure  or  quench  a  faculty,  that  finds 

Its  happiest  soil  in  the  serenest  minds'? 

Religion  curbs  indeed  its  wanton  play, 

And  brings  the  trifler  under  rigorous  sway, 

But  gives  it  usefulness  unknown  before. 

And,  purifying,  makes  it  shine  the  more. 

A  Christian's  wit  is  inoffensive  light, 

A  beam  that  aids,  but  never  grieves  the  sight ; 

Vigorous  in  age  as  in  the  flush  of  youth, 

'Tis  always  active  on  the  side  of  truth ; 

Temperance  and  peace  ensure  its  healthful  state, 

And  make  it  brightest  at  its  latest  date. 

Oh  I  have  seen  (nor  hope  perhaps  in  vain. 

Ere  life  go  down,  to  see  such  sights  again) 

A  veteran  warrior  in  the  Chistian  field, 

Who  never  saw  the  sword  he  could  not  wield ; 

Grave  without  dullness,  learned  without  pride, 

Exact,  yet  not  precise,  though  meek,  keen-eyed; 

A  man  that  would  have  foiled  at  their  own  play 

A  dozen  would-be's  of  the  modern  day ; 

Who,  when  occasion  justified  its  use. 

Had  wit  as  bright  as  ready  to  produce, 

Could  fetch  from  records  of  an  earlier  age, 

Or  from  philosophy's  enlightened  page, 

His  rich  materials,  and  regale  your  ear 

With  strains  it  was  a  privilege  to  hear : 

Yet,  above  all,  his  luxury  supreme, 

And  his  chief  glory,  was  the  Gospel  theme: 

There  he  was  copious  as  old  Greece  or  Rome, 

His  happy  eloquence  seemed  there  at  home, 

Ambition  not  to  shine  or  to  excel. 

But  to  treat  justly  what  he  loved  so  well. 

It  moves  me  more  perhaps  than  folly  ought, 
When  some  green  heads,  as  void  of  wit  as  thought, 
Suppose  themselves  monopolists  of  sense, 
And  wiser  men's  ability  pretence. 
Though  time  will  wear  us  and  we  must  grow  old 
Such  men  are  not  forgot  as  soon  as  cold; 
Their  fragrant  memory  will  outlast  their  tomb, 
Embalmed  for  ever  in  its  own  perfume. 
And  to  say  truth,  though  in  its  early  prime. 
And  when  unstained  with  any  grosser  crime, 
Youth  has  a  sprightliness  and  fire  to  boast. 
That  in  the  valley  of  decline  are  lost. 
And  Virtue  with  pecuhar  charms  appears, 
Crowned  with  the  garland  of  life's  blooming  years* 
Yet  Age,  by  long  experience  well  informed. 
Well  read,  well  tempered,  with  religion  warmed, 
That  fire  abated,  which  impels  rash  yquth, 
Proud  of  his  speed,  to  overshoot  the  truth. 
As  time  improves  the  grape's  authentic  juice, 
Mellows  and  makes  the  speech  more  fit  for  use, 
And  claims  a  reverence  in  its  shortening  day, 
That  'tis  an  honour  and  a  joy  to  pay. 


4G 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


The  fruits  of  age,  less  fair,  are  yet  more  sound, 
Than  those  a  brighter  season  pours  around; 
And,  hke  the  stores  autumnal  suns  mature, 
Througli  wintry  rigours  unimpaired  endure. 

What  is  fanatic  frenzy,  scorned  so  much, 
And  dreaded  more  than  a  contagious  touch  1 
I  grant  it  dangerous,  and  approve  your  fear, 
That  fire  is  catching  if  you  draw  too  near ; 
But  sage  observers  oft  mistake  the  flame, 
And  give  true  piety  that  odious  name. 
To  tremble  (as  the  creature  of  an  hour 
Ought  at  the  view  of  an  almighty  power) 
Before  his  presence,  at  whose  awful  throne 
All  tremble  in  all  worlds,  except  our  own. 
To  supplicate  his  mercy,  love  his  ways, 
And  prize  them  above  pleasure,  wealth,  or  praise. 
Though  common  sense,  allowed  a  casting  voice, 
And  free  from  bias,  must  approve  the  choice. 
Convicts  a  man  fanatic  in  th'  extreme, 
And  wild  as  madness  in  the  world's  esteem. 
But  that  disease,  when  soberly  defined, 
Is  the  false  fire  of  an  o'erheated  mind ; 
It  views  the  truth  with  a  distorted  eye, 
And  either  warps  or  lays  it  useless  by ; 
'Tis  narrow,  selfish,  arrogant,  and  draws 
Its  sordid  nourishment  from  man's  applause; 
And  while  at  heart  sin  unrelinquished  lies, 
Presumes  itself  chief  favourite  of  the  skies. 
'Tis  such  a  light  as  putrefaction  breeds 
In  fly-blown  flesh,  whereon  the  maggot  feeds, 
Shines  in  the  dark,  but,  ushered  into  day. 
The  stench  remains,  the  lustre  dies  away. 

True  bliss,  if  man  may  reach  it,  is  composed 
Of  hearts  in  union  mutually  disclosed: 
And,  farewell  else  all  hopes  of  pure  delight. 
Those  hearts  should  be  reclaimed,  renewed,  up- 
right. 

Bad  men,  profaning  friendship's  hallowed  name, 
Form,  in  its  stead,  a  covenant  of  shame, 
A  dark  confederacy  against  the  laws 
Of  virtue,  and  religion's  glorious  cause : 
They  build  each  other  up  with  dreadful  skill, 
As  bastions  set  point  blank  against  God's  will; 
Enlarge  and  fortify  the  dread  redoubt. 
Deeply  resolved  to  shut  a  Saviour  out ; 
Call  legions  up  from  hell  to  back  the  deed ; 
And,  cursed  with  conquest,  finally  succeed. 
But  souls,  that  carry  on  a  blest  exchange 
Of  joys,  they  meet  within  their  heavenly  range. 
And  with  a  fearless  confidence  make  known 
The  sorrows  sympathy  esteems  its  own, 
Daily  derive  increasing  light  and  force 
From  such  communion  in  their  pleasant  course. 
Feel  less  the  journey's  roughness  and  its  length. 
Meet  their  opposers  with  united  strength. 
And,  one  in  heart,  in  interest,  and  design. 
Gird  up  each  other  to  the  race  divine. 

But  conversation,  choose  what  theme  we  may, 
And  chiefly  when  religion  leads  the  way, 


Should  flow,  like  waters  after  summer  showers, 
Not  as  if  raised  by  mere  mechanic  powers. 
The  Christian,  in  whose  soul,  though  now  distressed, 
Lives  the  dear  thought  of  joys  he  once  possessed, 
When  all  his  glowing  language  issued  forth 
With  God's  deep  stamp  upon  its  current  worth, 
Will  speak  without  disguise,  and  must  impart, 
Sad  as  it  is,  his  undissembling  heart. 
Abhors  constraint,  and  dares  not  feign  a  zeal. 
Or  seem  to  boast  a  fire  he  does  not  feel. 
The  song  of  Zion  is  a  tasteless  thing. 
Unless,  when  rising  on  a  joyful  wing, 
The  soul  can  mix  with  the  celestial  bands, 
And  give  the  strain  the  compass  it  demands. 

Strange  tidings  these  to  tell  a  world,  who  treat 
All  but  their  own  experience  as  deceit ! 
Will  they  beheve,  though  credulous  enough 
To  swallow  much  upon  much  weaker  proof. 
That  there  are  blest  inhabitants  on  earth, 
Partakers  of  a  new  ethereal  birth. 
Their  hopes,  desires,  and  purposes  estranged 
From  things  terrestrial,  and  divinely  changed, 
Their  very  language,  of  a  kind,  that  speaks 
The  soul's  sure  interest  in  the  good  she  seeks, 
Who  deal  with  Scripture,  its  importance  felt, 
As  Tully  with  philosophy  once  dealt, 
And  in  the  silent  watches  of  the  night. 
And  through  the  scenes  of  toil-renevnng  light. 
The  social  walk,  or  solitary  ride. 
Keep  still  the  dear  companion  at  their  side ! 
No— shame  upon  a  self-disgracing  age, 
God's  work  may  serve  an  ape  upon  a  stage 
With  such  a  jest,  as  filled  with  hellish  glee 
Certain  invisibles  as  shrewd  as  he ; 
But  veneration  or  respect  finds  none. 
Save  from  the  subjects  of  that  work  alone. 
The  world  grown  old  her  deep  discernment  shows, 
Claps  spectacles  on  her  sagacious  nose, 
Peruses  closely  the  true  Christian's  face, 
And  finds  it  a  mere  mask  of  sly  grimace : 
Usurps  God's  otiRice,  lays  his  bosom  bare, 
And  finds  hypocrisy  close  lurking  there ; 
And,  serving  God  herself  through  mere  constraint, 
Concludes  his  unfeigned  love  of  him  a  feint. 
And  yet,  God  knows,  look  human  nature  through, 
(And  in  due  time  the  world  shall  know  it  too) 
That  since  the  flowers  of  Eden  felt  the  blast. 
That  after  man's  defection  laid  all  waste. 
Sincerity  towards  the  heart-searching  God 
Has  made  the  new-born  creature  her  abode, 
Nor  shall  be  found  in  unregenerate  souls, 
Till  the  last  fire  burn  all  between  the  poles. 
Sincerity !  why  'tis  his  only  pride,  . 
Weak  and  imperfect  in  all  grace  beside. 
He  knows  that  God  demands  his  heart  entire, 
And  gives  him  all  his  just  demands  require. 
Without  it  his  pretensions  were  as  vain, 
As  having  it  he  deems  the  world's  disdain ; 


CONVERSATION. 


47 


That  great  defect  would  cost  Mm  not  alone 
Man's  favourable  judgment,  but  his  own ; 
His  birthright  shaken,  and  no  longer  clear, 
Than  while  his  conduct  proves  his  heart  sincere. 
Retort  the  charge,  and  let  the  world  be  told 
She  boasts  a  confidence  she  does  not  hold ; 
That,  conscious  of  her  crimes,  she  feels  instead 
A  cold  misgiving,  and  a  killing  dread : 
That  while  in  health  the  ground  of  her  support 
Is  madly  to  forget  that  Ufe  is  short ; 
That  sick  she  trembles,  knowing  she  must  die, 
Her  hope  presumption,  and  her  faith  a  lie ; 
That  while  she  dotes,  and  dreams  that  she  believes, 
She  mocks  her  Maker,  and  herself  deceives, 
Her  utmost  reach,  historical  assent, 
The  doctrines  warped  to  what  they  never  meant ; 
That  truth  itself  is  in  her  head  as  dull 
And  useless  as  a  candle  in  a  scull, 
And  all  her  love  of  God  a  groundless  claim, 
A  trick  upon  the  canvass,  painted  flame. 
Tell  her  again,  the  sneer  upon  her  face. 
And  all  her  censures  of  the  work  of  grace, 
Are  insincere,  meant  only  to  conceal 
A  dread  she  would  not,  yet  is  forced  to  feel : 
That  in  her  heart  the  Christian  she  reveres. 
And  while  she  seems  to  scorn  him,  only  fears. 

A  poet  does  not  work  by  square  or  line. 
As  smiths  and  joiners  perfect  a  design  ; 
At  least  we  moderns,  our  attention  less. 
Beyond  th'  example  of  our  sires  digress. 
And  claim  a  right  to  scamper  and  run  wide, 
Wherever  chance,  caprice,  or  fancy  guide. 
The  world  and  I  fortuitously  met ; 
I  owed  a  trifle,  and  have  paid  the  debt ; 
She  did  me  wrong,  I  recompensed  the  deed. 
And,  having  struck  the  balance,  now  proceed. 
Perhaps,  however,  as  some  years  have  passed, 
Since  she  and  I  conversed  together  last. 
And  I  have  lived  recluse  in  rural  shades, 
"Which  seldom  a  distinct  report  pervades. 
Great  changes  and  new  manners  have  occurred, 
And  blest  reforms,  that  I  have  never  heard. 
And  she  may  now  be  as  discreet  and  wise, 
As  once  absurd  in  all  discerning  eyes. 
Sobriety  perhaps  may  now  be  found. 
Where  once  Intoxication  pressed  the  ground; 
The  subtle  and  injurious  may  be  just. 
And  he  grown  chaste,  that  was  the  slave  of  lust ; 
Arts  once  esteemed  may  be  with  shame  dismissed  ; 
Charity  may  relax  the  miser's  fist ; 
The  gamester  may  have  cast  his  cards  away. 
Forgot  to  curse,  and  only  kneel  to  pray. 
It  has  indeed  been  told  me  (vnth  what  weight, 
How  credibly,  'tis  hard  for  me  to  state) 
That  fables  old,  that  seemed  for  ever  mute, 
Revived  are  hastening  into  fresh  repute. 
And  gods  and  goddesses,  discarded  long. 
Like  useless  lumber,  or  a  stroller's  song, 


Are  bringing  into  vogue  their  heathen  train, 
And  Jupiter  bids  fair  to  rule  again; 
That  certain  feasts  are  instituted  now. 
Where  Venus  hears  the  lover's  tender  vow ; 
That  all  Olympus  through  the  country  roves, 
To  consecrate  our  few  remaining  groves. 
And  Echo  learns  politely  to  repeat 
The  praise  of  names  for  ages  obsolete: 
That  having  proved  the  weakness,  it  should  seem, 
Of  revelation's  ineffectual  beam, 
To  bring  the  passions  under  sober  sway, 
And  give  the  mortal  springs  their  proper  play, 
They  mean  to  try  what  may  at  last  be  done,  ' 
By  stout  substantial  gods  of  wood  and  stone, 
And  whether  Roman  rites  may  not  produce 
The  virtues  of  old  Rome  for  English  use. 
May  such  success  attend  the  pious  plan. 
May  Mercury  once  more  embelHsh  man, 
Grace  him  again  with  long  forgotten  arts. 
Reclaim  his  taste,  and  brighten  up  his  parts, 
Make  him  athletic,  as  in  days  of  old. 
Learned  at  the  bar,  in  the  palsstra  bold, 
Divest  the  rougher  sex  of  female  airs. 
And  teach  the  softer  not  to  copy  theirs: 
The  change  shall  please,  nor  shall  it  matter  aught 
Who  works  the  wonder,  if  it  be  but  wrought. 
'Tis  time,  however,  if  the  case  stand  thus, 
For  us  plain  folks,  and  all  who  side  with  us, 
To  build  our  altar,  confident  and  bold. 
And  say  as  stern  Elijah  said  of  old, 
The  strife  now  stands  upon  a  fair  award. 
If  Israel's  Lord  be  God,  then  serve  the  Lord: 
If  he  be  silent,  faith  is  all  a  whim, 
Then  Baal  is  the  God,  and  worship  him. 

Disgression  is  so  much  in  modern  use, 
Thought  is  so  rare,  and  fancy  so  profuse. 
Some  never  seem  so  wide  of  their  intent. 
As  when  returning  to  the  theme  they  meant; 
As  mendicants,  whose  business  is  to  roam, 
Make  every  parish  but  their  own  their  home. 
Though  such  continual  zigzags  in  a  book. 
Such  drunken  reelings  have  an  awkward  look, 
And  I  had  rather  creep  to  what  is  true, 
Than  rove  and  stagger  with  no  mark  in  view; 
Yet  to  consult  a  little,  seemed  no  crime. 
The  freakish  humour  of  the  present  time; 
But  now  to  gather  up  what  seems  dispersed. 
And  touch  the  subject  I  designed  at  first, 
May  prove,  though  much  beside  the  rules  of  art. 
Best  for  the  pubhc,  and  my  wisest  part. 
And  first,  let  no  man  charge  me,  that  I  mean 
To  clothe  in  sable  every  social  scene. 
And  give  good  company  a  face  severe, 
As  if  they  met  around  a  father's  bier; 
For  tell  some  men,  that  pleasure  all  their  bent 
And  laughter  all  their  work,  is  life  mispent, 
Their  wisdom  bursts  into  the  sage  reply. 
Then  mirth  is  sin,  and  we  should  always  cry. 


48 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


To  find  the  medium  asks  some  share  of  wit, 
And  therefore  'tis  a  mark  fools  never  hit. 
But  though  Ufe's  valley  be  a  vale  of  tears, 
A  brighter  scene  beyond  that  vale  appears, 
Whose  glory,  with  a  light  that  never  fades. 
Shoots  between  scattered  rocks  and  opening  shades, 
And,  while  it  shows  the  land  the  soul  desires. 
The  language  of  the  land  she  seeks  inspires. 
Thus  touched,  the  tongue  receives  a  sacred  cure 
Gf  all  that  was  absurd,  profane,  impure; 
Held  within  modest  bounds,  the  tide  of  speech 
Pursues  the  course  that  Truth  and  Nature  teach; 
No  longer  labours  merely  to  produce 
The  pomp  of  sound,  or  tinkle  without  use: 
Where'er  it  winds,  the  salutary  stream, 
Sprightly  and  fresh,  enriches  every  theme, 


While  all  the  happy  man  possessed  before. 
The  gift  of  nature,  or  the  classic  store. 
Is  made  subservient  to  the  grand  design, 
For  which  Heaven  formed  tlic  faculty  divine, 
So  should  an  idiot,  while  at  large  he  strays. 
Find  the  sweet  lyrd,  on  which  an  artist  plays, 
With  rash  and  awkward  force  tlie  chords  he  shakes, 
And  grins  with  wonder  at  the  jar  he  makes; 
But  let  the  wise  and  well  instructed  hand 
Once  take  the  shell  beneath  his  just  command, 
In  gentle  sounds  it  seemed  as  it  complained 
Of  the  rude  injuries  it  late  sustained, 
Till  tuned  at  length  to  some  immortal  song, 
It  sounds  Jehovah's  name,  and  pours  his  praise 
along. 


studiis  fiorens  ignobilis  oti.  Virg.  Gear.  Lib.  4, 


Hackneyed  in  business,  wearied  at  the  oar 
Which  thousands,  once  fast  chained  to,  quit  no 
more. 

But  which,  when  life  at  ebb  runs  weak  and  low, 

All  wish,  or  seem  to  wish,  they  could  forego; 

The  statesman,  lawyer,  merchant,  man  of  trade. 

Pants  for  the  refuge  of  some  rural  shade. 

Where,  all  his  long  anxieties  forgot 

Amid  the  charms  of  a  sequestered  spot, 

Or  recollected  only  to  gild  o'er. 

And  add  a  smile  to  what  was  sweet  before, 

He  may  possess  the  joys  he  thinks  he  sees, 

Lay  his  old  age  upon  the  lap  of  Ease, 

Improve  the  remnant  of  his  wasted  span, 

And,  having  lived  a  trifler,  die  a  man. 

Thus  Conscience  pleads  her  cause  within  the  breast. 

Though  long  rebelled  against,  not  yet  suppressed, 

And  Qalls  a  creature  formed  for  God  alone. 

For  Heaven's  high  purposes,  and  not  his  own: 

Calls  him  away  from  selfish  ends  and  aims, 

From  what  debilitates  and  what  inflames. 

From  cities  humming  with  a  restless  crowd, 

Sordid  as  active,  ignorant  as  loud. 

Whose  highest  praise  is  that  they  live  in  vain. 

The  dupes  of  pleasure,  or  the  slaves  of  gain. 

Where  works  of  man  are  clustered  close  around. 

And  works  of  God  are  hardly  to  be  found. 

To  regions  where,  in  spite  of  sin  and  wo, 

Traces  of  Eden  are  still  seen  below, 

Where  mountain,  river,  forest,  field,  and  grove. 

Remind  him  of  his  Maker's  power  and  love. 

'Tis  well  if,  looked  for  at  so  late  a  day, 

In  the  last  scene  of  such  a  senseless  play, 

True  wisdom  will  attend  his  feeble  call. 

And  grace  his  action  ere  the  curtain  fall. 


Souls,  that  have  long  despised  their  heavenly  birth, 
Their  wishes  all  impregnated  with  earth, 
For  threescore  years  employed  with  ceaseless  care 
In  catching  smoke  and  feeding  upon  air. 
Conversant  only  with  the  ways  of  men, 
Rarely  redeem  the  short  remaining  ten. 
Inveterate  habits  choke  th'  unfruitful  heart, 
Their  fibres  penetrate  its  tenderest  part. 
And,  draining  its  nutritious  powers  to  feed 
Their  noxious  growth,  starve  every  better  seed. 

Hapi^y,  if  full  of  days— but  happier  far. 
If,  ere  we  yet  discern  life's  evening  star. 
Sick  of  the  service  of  a  world,  that  feeds 
Its  patient  drudges  with  dry  chaff  and  weeds, 
We  can  escape  from  custom's  idiot  sway. 
To  serve  the  sovereign  we  were  born  to  obey. 
Then  sweet  to  muse  upon  his  skill  displayed 
(Infinite  skill)  in  all  that  he  has  made ! 
To  trace  in  Nature's  most  minute  design 
The  signature  and  stamp  of  power  divine. 
Contrivance  intricate,  expressed  with  ease. 
Where  unassisted  sight  no  beauty  sees. 
The  shapely  limb  and  lubricated  joint, 
Within  the  small  dimensions  of  a  point, 
Muscle  and  nerve  miraculously  spun. 
His  mighty  work,  who  speaks,  and  it  is  done, 
The  invisible  in  things  scarce  seen  revealed. 
To  whom  an  atom  is  an  ample  field ; 
To  wonder  at  a  thousand  insect  forms, 
These  hatched,  and  those  resuscitated  worms, 
New  life  ordained  and  brighter  scenes  to  share. 
Once  prone  on  earth,  now  buoyant  upon  air. 
Whose  shape  would  make  them,  had  they  bulk 
and  size, 

More  hideous  foes  than  fancy  can  devise ; 


RETIREMENT. 


49 


With  helmet-heads  and  dragon-scales  adorned, 
The  mighty  myriads,  now  securely  scorned, 
Woxild  mock  the  majesty  of  man's  high  birth, 
Despise  his  bulwarks,  and  unpeople  earth. 
Then  with  a  glance  of  fancy  to  survey, 
Far  as  the  faculty  can  stretch  away, 
Ten  thousand  rivers  poured  at  his  command 
From  urns,  that  never  fail,  through  every  land; 
This  like  a  deluge  with  impetuous  force, 
Those  winding  modestly  a  sUent  course; 
The  cloud-surmounting  Alps,  the  fruitful  vales; 
Seas,  on  which  every  nation  spreads  her  sails; 
The  sun,  a  world  whence  other  worlds  drink  light, 
•  The  crescent  moon,  the  diadem  of  night; 
Stars  countless,  each  in  his  appointed  place. 
Fast  anchored  in  the  deep  abyss  of  space — 
At  such  a  sight  to  catch  the  poet's  flame, 
And  with  a  rapture  like  his  own  exclaim. 
These  are  thy  glorious  works,  thou  source  of  good, 
How  dimly  seen,  how  faintly  understood! 
Thine,  and  upheld  by  thy  paternal  care, 
This  universal  frame,  thus  wondrous  fair; 
Thy  power  divine,  and  bounty  beyond  thought. 
Adored  and  praised  in  all  that  thou  hast  wrought. 
Absorbed  in  that  immensity  I  see, 
I  shrink  abased,  and  yet  aspire  to  thee; 
Instruct  me,  guide  me  to  that  heavenly  day 
Thy  words  more  clearly  than  thy  works  display. 
That,  while  thy  truths  my  grosser  thoughts  refine, 
I  may  resemble  thee,  and  call  thee  mine. 

O  blest  proficiency !  surpassing  all 
That  men  erroneously  their  glory  call. 
The  recompense  that  arts  or  arms  can  yield, 
The  bar,  the  senate,  or  the  tented  field. 
Compared  with  this  sublimest  life  below. 
Ye  kings  and  rulers,  what  have  courts  to  show? 
Thus  studied,  used  and  consecrated  thus, 
On  earth  what  is,  seems  formed  indeed  for  us: 
Not  as  the  plaything  of  a  froward  child. 
Fretful  unless  diverted  and  beguiled. 
Much  less  to  feed  and  fan  the  fatal  fires 
Of  pride,  ambition,  or  impure  desires. 
But  as  a  scale,  by  which  the  soul  ascends 
From  mighty  means  to  more  important  ends, 
Securely,  though  by  steps  but  rarely  trod. 
Mounts  from  inferior  beings  up  to  God, 
And  sees,  by  no  fallacious  light  or  dim. 
Earth  made  for  man,  and  man  himself  for  him. 

Not  that  I  mean  t'  approve,  or  would  enforce, 
A  superstitious  and  monastic  course :  1 
Truth  is  not  local,  God  alike  pervades 
And  fills  the  world  of  traffic  and  the  shades, 
And  may  be  feared  amidst  the  busiest  scenes, 
Or  scorned  were  business  never  intervenes. 
But  'tis  not  easy  with  a  mind  like  ours, 
Conscious  of  weakness  in  its  noblest  powers, 
And  in  a  world  where,  other  ills  apart. 
The  roving  eye  misleads  the  careless  heart, 


To  limit  Thought,  by  nature  prone  to  stray 
Wherever  freakish  Fancy  points  the  way; 
To  bid  the  pleadings  of  Self-love  be  still, 
Resign  our  own  and  seek  our  Maker's  will; 
To  spread  the  page  of  Scripture,  and  compare 
Our  conduct  with  the  laws  engraven  there; 
To  measure  all  that  passes  in  the  breast, 
Faithfully,  fairly,  by  that  sacred  test; 
To  dive  into  the  secret  deeps  within, 
To  spare  no  passion  and  no  favourite  sin. 
And  search  the  themes,  important  above  all. 
Ourselves,  and  our  recovery  from  our  fall. 
But  leisure,  silence,  and  a  mind  released 
From  anxious  thoughts  how  wealth  may  be  in- 
creased, 

How  to  secure,  in  some  propitious  hour. 
The  point  of  interest  or  the  post  of  power, 
A  soul  serene,  and  equally  retired 
From  objects  too  much  dreaded  or  desired. 
Safe  from  the  clamours  of  perverse  dispute. 
At  least  are  friendly  to  the  great  pursuit. 

Opening  the  map  of  God's  extensive  plan, 
We  find  a  little  isle,  this  fife  of  man; 
Eternity's  unknown  expanse  appears 
CircKng  around  and  limiting  his  years. 
The  busy  race  examine  and  explore 
Each  creek  and  cavern  of  the  dangerous  shore. 
With  care  collect  what  in  their  eyes  excels. 
Some  shining  pebbles,  and  some  weeds  and  shells 
Thus  laden,  dream  that  they  are  rich  and  great, 
And  happiest  he  that  groans  beneath  his  weight. 
The  waves  o'ertake  them  in  their  serious  play, 
And  every  hour  sweeps  multitudes  away; 
They  shriek  and  sink,  survivors  start  and  weep, 
Pursue  their  sport,  and  follow  to  the  deep. 
A  few  forsake  the  throng:  with  lifted  eyes 
Ask  wealth  of  Heaven,  and  gain  a  real  prize. 
Truth,  wdsdom,  grace,  and  peace  like  that  above. 
Sealed  with  his  signet  whom  they  serve  and  love; 
Scorned  by  the  rest,  with  patient  hope  they  wait 
A  kind  release  from  their  imperfect  state. 
And  unregretted  are  soon  snatched  away 
From  scenes  of  sorrow  into  glorious  day. 

Now  these  alone  prefer  a  hfe  recluse. 
Who  seek  retirement  for  its  proper  use ; 
The  love  of  change,  that  lives  in  every  breast. 
Genius  and  temper,  and  desire  of  rest, 
Discordant  motives  in  one  centre  meet, 
And  each  inclines  its  votary  to  retreat. 
Some  minds  by  nature  are  averse  to  noise. 
And  hate  the  tumult  half  the  world  enjoys, 
The  lure  of  avarice,  or  the  pompous  prize. 
That  courts  display  before  ambitious  eyes ; 
The  fruits  that  hang  on  pleasure's  flowery  stem, 
Whate'er  enchants  them,  are  no  snares  to  them. 
To  them  the  deep  recess  of  dusky  groves 
Or  forest,  where  the  deer  securely  roves, 
The  fall  of  waters,  and  the  song  of  bu-ds, 
And  hills  that  echo  to  the  distant  herds, 


50 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Are  luxuries  excelling  all  the  glare 
The  world  can  boast,  and  her  chief  favourites 
share. 

With  eager  step,  and  carelessly  arrayed, 
For  such  a  cause  the  poet  seeks  the  shade, 
From  all  he  sees  he  catches  new  delight, 
Pleased  Fancy  claps  her  pinions  at  the  sight, 
The  rising  or  the  setting  orb  of  day, 
The  clouds  that  flit,  or  slowly  float  away. 
Nature  in  all  the  various  shapes  she  wears, 
Frowning  in  storms,  or  breathing  gentle  airs; 
The  snowy  robe  her  vsdntry  state  assumes. 
Her  summer  heats,  her  fruits,  and  her  perfumes: 
All,  all  alike  transport  the  glowing  bard, 
Success  in  rhyme  his  glory  and  reward. 
O  Nature !  whose  Elysian  scenes  disclose 
His  bright  perfections,  at  whose  word  they  rose. 
Next  to  that  power,  who  formed  thee  and  sustains, 
Be  thou  the  great  inspirer  of  my  strains. 
Still,  as  I  touch  the  lyre,  do  thou  expand 
Thy  genuine  charms,  and  guide  an  artless  hand, 
That  I  may  catch  a  fire  but  rarely  known. 
Give  useful  light,  though  I  should  miss  renown, 
And,  poring, on  thy  page,  whose  every  line 
Bears  proof  of  an  intelligence  divine, 
May  feel  a  heart  enriched  by  what  it  pays, 
That  builds  its  glory  on  its  Maker's  praise. 
Wo  to  the  man,  whose  wit  disclaims  its  use, 
Glittering  in  vain,  or  only  to  seduce, 
Who  studies  nature  with  a  wanton  eye. 
Admires  the  work,  but  slips  the  lesson  by; 
His  hours  of  leisure  and  recess  employs 
In  drawing  pictures  of  forbidden  joys. 
Retires  to  blazon  his  own  worthless  name, 
Or  shoot  the  careless  with  a  surer  aim. 

The  lover  too  shuns  business  and  alarms, 
Tender  idolater  of  absent  charms. 
Saints  offer  nothing  in  their  warmest  prayers, 
That  he  devotes  not  with  a  zeal  like  theirs; 
'Tis  consecration  of  his  heart,  soul,  time,^ 
And  every  thought  that  wanders  is  a  crime. 
In  sighs  he  worships  his  supremely  fair, 
And  weeps  a  sad  libation  in  despair; 
Adores  a  creature,  and,  devout  in  vain. 
Wins  in  return  an  answer  of  disdain. 
As  woodbine  weds  the  plant  within  her  reach. 
Rough  elm,  or  smooth-grained  ash,  or  glossy  beech 
In  spiral  rings  ascends  the  trunk,  and  lays 
Her  golden  tassels  on  the  leafy  sprays, 
But  does  a  mischief  while  she  lends  a  grace. 
Straitening  its  growth  by  such  a  strict  embrace ; 
So  love,  that  cUrigs  around  the  noblest  minds. 
Forbids  th'  advancement  of  the  soul  he  binds ; 
The  suitor's  air  indeed  he  soon  improves. 
And  forms  it  to  the  taste  of  her  he  loves. 
Teaches  his  eyes  a  language,  and  no  less 
Refines  his  speech,  and  fashions  his  address; 
But  farewell  promises  of  happier  fruits. 
Manly  designs,  and  learning's  grave  pursuits; 


Girt  with  a  chain  he  can  not  wish  to  breai, 
His  only  bliss  is  sorrow  for  her  sake; 
Who  will  may  pant  for  glory  and  excel. 
Her  smile  his  aim,  all  higher  aims  farewell! 
Thyrsis,  Alexis,  or  whatever  name 
May  least  oflTend  against  so  pure  a  flame, 
Though  sage  advice  of  friends  the  most  sincere 
Sounds  harshly  in  so  delicate  a  snare. 
And  lovers,  of  all  creatures,  tame  or  wild. 
Can  least  brook  management,  however  mild; 
Yet  let  a  poet  (poetry  disarms 
The  fiercest  animals  with  magic  charms) 
Risk  an  intrusion  on  thy  pensive  mood, 
And  woo  and  win  thee  to  thy  proper  good. 
Pastoral  images  and  still  retreats. 
Umbrageous  walks  and  solitary  seats. 
Sweet  birds  in  concert  with  harmonious  streams, 
Soft  airs,  nocturnal  vigils,  and  day  dreams, 
Are  all  enchantments  in  a  case  like  thine. 
Conspire  against  thy  peace  with  one  design. 
Sooth  thee  to  make  thee  but  a  surer  prey. 
And  feed  the  fire  that  wastes  thy  powers  away. 
Up— God  has  formed  thee  with  a  wiser  view, 
Not  to  be  led  in  chains,  but  to  subdue; 
Calls  thee  to  cope  with  enemies,  and  first 
Points  out  a  conflict  with  thyself,  the  worst. 
Woman  indeed,  a  gifl;  he  would  bestow, 
When  he  designed  ^  Paradise  below. 
The  richest  earthly  boon  his  hands  aflford, 
Deserves  to  be  beloved,  but  not  adored. 
Post  away  swiftly  to  more  active  scenes. 
Collect  the  scattered  truths  that  study  glean.*;, 
Mix  with  the  world,  but  with  its  wiser  part, 
No  longer  give  an  image  all  thine  heart; 
Its  empire  is  not  hers,  nor  is  it  thine, 
'Tis  God's  just  claim,  prerogative  divine. 

Virtuous  and  faithful  Heberden,  whose  skill 
Attempts  no  task  it  can  not  well  fulfil, 
Gives  melancholy  up  to  Nature's  care, 
And  sends  the  patient  into  purer  air. 
Look  where  he  comes— in  this  embowered  alcove 
Stand  close  concealed,  and  see  a  statue  move: 
Lips  busy,  and  eyes  fixed,  foot  falUng  slow. 
Arms  hanging  idly  down,  hands  clasped  below, 
Interpret  to  the  marking  eye  distress. 
Such  as  its  symptoms  can  alone  express. 
That  tongue  is  silent  now;  that  silent  tongue 
Could  argue  once,  could  jest  or  join  the  song. 
Could  give  advice,  could  censure  or  commend, 
Or  charm  the  sorrows  of  a  drooping  friend. 
Renounced  ahke  its  office  and  its  sport. 
Its  brisker  and  its  graver  strains  fall  short; 
Both  fail  beneath  a  fever's  secret  sway. 
And  like  a  summer  brook  are  past  away. 
This  is  a  sight  for  Pity  to  peruse. 
Till  she  resemble  faintly  what  she  views,  ^, 
Till  sympathy  contract  a  kindred  pain,  ^ 
Pierced  with  the  woes  that  she  laments  in  vain. 


RETIREMENT. 


5t 


This,  of  all  maladies  that  man  infest, 
Claims  most  compassion,  and  receives  the  least : 
Job  felt  it,  when  he  groaned  beneath  the  rod 
And  the  barbed  arrows  of  a  frowning  God ; 
And  such  emolhents  as  his  friends  could  spare, 
Fnends  such  as  his  for  modern  Jobs  prepare. 
Blest,  rather  curst,  with  hearts  that  never  feel, 
Kept  snug  in  caskets  of  close  hammered  steel. 
With  mouths  made  only  to  grin  vnde  and  eat. 
And  minds,  that  deem  derided  pain  a  treat. 
With  limbs  of  British  oak,  and  nerves  of  wire, 
And  wit  that  puppet-prompters  might  inspire, 
Their  sovereign  nostrum  is  a  clumsy  joke 
On  pangs  enforced  vsdth  God's  severest  stroke. 
But  with  a  soul,  that  never  felt  the  sting 
Of  sorrow,  sorrow  is  a  sacred  thing  : 
Not  to  molest,  or  irritate,  or  raise 
A  laugh  at  his  expense,  is  slender  praise ; 
He,  that  has  not  usurped  the  name  of  man, 
Does  all,  and  deems  too  little  all,  he  can, 
T'  assuage  the  throbbings  of  the  festered  part, 
And  stanch  the  bleedings  of  a  broken  heart. 
'Tis  not,  as  heads  that  never  ache  suppose, 
Forgery  of  fancy,  and  a  dream  of  woes  • 
Man  is  a  harp,  whose  chords  elude  the  sight, 
Each  yielding  harmony  disposed  aright ; 
The  screws  reversed  (a  task  which,  if  he  please, 
God  in  a  moment  executes  vidth  ease,) 
Ten  thousand  thousand  strings  at  once  go  loose. 
Lost,  till  he  tune  them,  all  their  power  and  use. 
Then  neither  heathy  wilds,  nor  scenes  as  fair 
As  ever  recompensed  the  peasant's  care, 
Nor  sofl  decHvities  with  tufled  hills, 
Nor  view  of  waters  turning  busy  mills. 
Parks  in  which  Art  preceptress  Nature  weds. 
Nor  gardens  interspersed  with  flowery  beds. 
Nor  gales,  that  catch  the  scent  of  blooming  groves 
And  waft  it  to  the  mourner  as  he  roves, 
Can  call  up  life  into  his  faded  eye, 
That  passes  all  he  sees  unheeded  by ; 
No  wounds  like  those  a  wounded  spirit  feels. 
No  cure  for  such  till  God,  who  makes  them,  heals. 
And  thou,  sad  sufferer  under  nameless  ill. 
That  yields  not  to  the  touch  of  human  skill, 
Improve  the  kind  occasion,  understand 
A  Father's  frown,  and  kiss  his  chastning  hand. 
To  thee  the  day-spring,  and  the  blaze  of  noon. 
The  purple  evening  and  resplendent  noon, 
The  stars,  that,  sprinkled  o'er  the  vault  of  night. 
Seem  drops  descending  in  a  shower  of  light, 
Shine  not,  or  undesired  and  hated  shine. 
Seen  through  the  medium  of  a  cloud  like  thine : 
Yet  seek  him,  in  his  favour  hfe  is  found. 
All  bliss  beside  a  shadow  and  a  sound  : 
Then  heaven,  eclipsed  so  long,  and  this  dull  earth. 
Shall  seem  to  start  into  a  second  birth ; 
Nature,  assuming  a  more  lovely  face. 
Borrowing  a  beauty  from  the  works  of  grace, 
F 


Shall  be  despised  and  overlooked  no  more, 
Shall  fill  thee  with  deUghts  unfelt  before, 
Impart  to  things  inanimate  a  voice, 
And  bid  her  mountains  and  her  hills  rejoice  ; 
The  sound  shall  run  along  the  winding  vales, 
And  thou  enjoy  an  Eden  ere  it  fails. 

Ye  groves  (the  statesman  at  his  desk  exclaims, 
Sick  of  a  thousand  disappointed  aims,) 
My  patrimonial  pleasure  and  my  pride. 
Beneath  your  shades  your  gray  possessor  hide, 
Receive  me  languisning  for  that  repose 
The  servant  of  the  public  never  knows. 
Ye  saw  me  once  (ah,  those  regretted  days. 
When  boyish  innocence  was  all  my  praise !) 
Hour  after  hour  delightfully  allot 
To  studies  then  famihar,  since  forgot, 
And  cultivate  a  taste  for  ancient  song. 
Catching  its  ardour  as  I  mused  along ; 
Nor  seldom,  as  propitious  Heaven  might  send, 
What  once  I  valued  and  could  boast,  a  friend,' 
Were  witnesses  how  cordially  I  pressed 
His  undissembling  virtue  to  my  breast ; 
Receive  me  now,  not  uncorrupt  as  then. 
Nor  guiltless  of  corrupting  other  men. 
But  versed  in  arts,  that,  while  they  seem  to  stay 
A  faUing  empire,  hasten  its  decay, 
To  the  fair  haven  of  my  native  home. 
The  wreck  of  what  I -was,  fatigued  I  come; 
For  once  I  can  approve  the  patriot's  voice, 
And  make  the  course  he  recommends  my  choice ; 
We  meet  at  last  in  one  sincere  desire. 
His  wish  and  mine  both  prompt  me  to  retire. 
'Tis  done— he  steps  into  the  welcome  chaise, 
Lolls  at  his  ease  behind  four  handsome  bays, 
That  whirl  away  from  business  and  debate 
The  disencumbered  atlas  of  the  state. 
Ask  not  the  boy,  who,  when  the  breeze  of  mom 
First  shakes  the  glittering  drops  from  every  thorn^ 
Unfolds  his  flock,  then  under  bank  or  bush 
Sits  linking  cherry-stones,  or  platting  rush. 
How  fair  is  freedom  l—he  was  always  free ; 
To  carve  his  rustic  name  upon  a  tree, 
To  snare  the  mole,  or  with  ill-fashioned  hook, 
To  draw  th'  incautious  minnow  from  the  brook, 
Are  life's  prime  pleasures  in  his  simple  view; 
His  flock  the  chief  concern  he  ever  knew ; 
She  shines  but  little  in  his  heedless  eyes, 
The  good  we  never  miss  we  rarely  prize : 
But  ask  the  noble  drudge  in  state  affairs. 
Escaped  from  office  and  its  constant  cares. 
What  charms  he  sees  in  Freedom's  smile  express- 
ed, 

In  Freedom  lost  so  long,  now  repossessed ; 
The  tongue,  whose  strains  were  cogent  as  com- 
mands, 

Revered  at  home,  and  felt  in  foreign  lands, 
Shall  own  itself  a  stammerer  in  that  cause 
Or  plead  its  silence  as  its  best  applause. 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


He  knows  indeed  that  whether  dressed  or  rude, 
Wild  without  art  or  artfully  subdued. 
Nature  in  every  form  inspires  delight, 
But  never  marked  her  with  so  just  a  sight, 
HcT  hedge-row  shrubs,  a  variegated  store, 
With  woodbine  and  wild  roses  mantled  o'er, 
Green  balks  and  furrowed  lands,  the  stream,  that 
spreads 

Its  cooUng  vapour  o'er  the  dewy  meads. 
Downs,  that  almost  escape  th'  inquiring  eye, 
That  melt  and  fade  into  the  distant  sky, 
Beauties  he  lately  slighted  as  he  passed. 
Seem  all  created  since  he  travelled  last. 
Master  of  all  the  enjoyments  he  designed, 
No  rough  annoyance  rankling  in  his  mind. 
What  early  philosophic  hours  he  keeps, 
How  regular  his  meals,  how  sound  he  sleeps ! 
Not  sounder  he,  that  on  the  mainmast  head, 
While  morning  kindles  with  a  windy  red. 
Begins  a  long  look-out  for  distant  land, 
Nor  quits  till  evening  watch  his  giddy  stand. 
Then  swift  descending  with  a  seaman's  haste, 
Slips  to  his  hammock,  and  forgets  the  blast. 
He  chooses  company,  but  not  the  squire's. 
Whose  wit  is  rudeness,  whose  good-breading  tires 
Nor  yet  the  parson's,  who  would  gladly  come. 
Obsequious  when  abroad,  though  proud  at  home; 
Nor  can  he  much  affect  the  neighbouring  peer, 
Whose  toe  of  emulation  treads  too  near; 
But  wisely  seeks  a  more  convenient  friend. 
With  whom,  dismissing  forms,  he  may  unbend  I 
A  man,  whom  marks  of  condescending  grace 
Teach  while  they  flatter  him,  his  proper  place; 
Who  comes  when  called,  and  at  a  word  with- 
draws. 

Speaks  with  reserve,  and  listens  with  applause ; 
Some  plain  mechanic,  who,  without  pretence 
To  birth  or  wit,  nor  gives  nor  takes  offence; 
On  whom  he  rests  well-pleased  his  weary  powers, 
And  talks  and  laughs  away  his  vacant  hours. 
The  tide  of  life,  swift  always  in  its  course, 
May  run  in  cities  with  a  brisker  force. 
But  nowhere  with  a  current  so  serene, 
Or  half  so  clear,  as  in  the  rural  scene. 
Yet  how  fallacious  is  all  earthly  bliss, 
What  obvious  truths  the  wisest  heads  may  miss ; 
Some  pleasures  live  a  month,  and  some  a  year, 
But  short  the  date  of  all  we  gather  here ; 
No  happiness  is  felt,  except  the  true. 
That  does  not  charm  the  more  for  being  new. 
This  observation,  as  it  chanced,  not  made. 
Or,  if  the  thought  occurred,  not  duly  weighed, 
He  sighs — for  after  all  by  slow  degrees 
The  spot  he  loved  has  lost  the  power  to  please ; 
To  cross  his  ambling  pony  day  by  day, 
Seems  at  the  best  but  dreaming  life  away ; 
The  prospect,  such  as  might  enchant  despair, 
He  views  it  not,  or  sees  no  beauty  there ; 


With  aching  heart,  and  discontented  looks, 

Returns  at  noon  to  billiards  or  to  books. 

But  feels,  while  grasping  at  his  faded  joys, 

A  secret  thirst  of  his  renounced  employs. 

He  chides  the  tardiness  of  every  post. 

Pants  to  be  told  of  battles  won  or  lost. 

Blames  his  own  indolence,  observes,  though  late, 

'Tis  criminal  to  leave  a  sinking  state. 

Flies  to  the  levee,  and,  received  with  grace. 

Kneels,  kisses  hands,  and  shines  again  in  place. 

Suburl>an  villas,  highway-side  retreats. 
That  dread  th'  encroachment  of  our  growing 
streets, 

Tight  boxes  neatly  sashed,  and  in  a  blaze 
With  all  a  July  sun's  collected  rays. 
Delight  the  citizen,  who,  gasping  there, 
Breathes  clouds  of  dust,  and  calls  it  country  air. 
O  sweet  retirement,  who  would  balk  the  thought, 
That  could  afford  retirement,  or  could  not  1 
'Tis  such  an  easy  walk,  so  smooth  and  straight, 
The  second  milestone  fronts  the  garden  gate; 
A  step  if  fair,  and  if  a  shower  approach. 
You  find  safe  shelter  in  the  next  stage-coach. 
There,  prisoned  in  a  parlour  snug  and  small, 
Like  bottled  wasps  upon  a  southern  wall. 
The  man  of  business  and  his  friends  compressed, 
Forget  their  labours,  and  yet  find  no  rest; 
But  still,  'tis  rural— trees  are  to  be  seen 
From  every  window,  and  the  fields  are  gteen ; 
Ducks  paddle  in  the  pond  before  the  door, 
And  what  could  a  remoter  scene  show  more 
A  sense  of  elegance  we  rarely  find 
The  portion  of  a  mean  or  vulgar  mind. 
And  ignorance  of  better  things  makes  man, 
Who  can  not  much,  rejoice  in  what  the  can. 
And  he,  that  deems  his  leisure  well  bestowed 
In  contemplation  of  a  turnpike-road. 
Is  occupied  as  well,  employs  his  hours 
As  wisely,  and  as  much  improves  his  powers 
As  he,  that  slumbers  in  pavilions  graced 
With  all  the  charms  of  an  accomplished  taste. 
Yet  hence,  alas!  insolvencies;  and  hence 
Th'  unpitied  victim  of  ill-judged  expense. 
From  all  his  wearisome  engagements  freed. 
Shakes  hands  with  business  and  retires  indeed. 

Your  prudent  grand-mammas,  ye  modern  belles 
Content  with  Bristol,  Bath,  and  Tunbridge-wella* 
When  health  required  it  would  consent  to  roam, 
Else  more  attached  to  pleasures  found  at  home. 
But  now  alike,  gay  widow,  virgin,  wife, 
Ingenious  to  diversify  dull  life. 
In  coaches,  chaises,  caravans,  and  hoys, 
Fly  to  the  coast  for  daily,  nightly  joys ; 
And  all,  impatient  of  dry  land,  agree 
With  one  consent  to  rush  into  the  sea.— 
Ocean  exhibits,  fathomless  and  broad. 
Much  of  the  power  and  majesty  of  God. 


RETIREMENT. 


53 


He  swathes  about  the  swelling  of  the  deep, 
That  shines  and  rests,  as  infants  smile  and  sleep ; 
Vast  as  it  is,  it  answers  as  it  flows 
The  breathings  of  the  hghtest  air  that  blows ; 
Curling  and  whitening  over  all  the  waste, 
The  rising  waves  obey  th'  increasing  blast, 
Abrupt  and  horrid  as  the  tempest  roars. 
Thunder  and  flash  upon  the  steadfast  shores, 
Till  he,  that  rides  the  whirl vidnd,  checks  the  rain, 
Then  all  the  world  of  waters  sleep  again. — 
Nereids  or  Dryads,  as  the  fashion  leads, 
Now  in  the  floods,  now  panting  in  the  meads. 
Votaries  of  Pleasure  still,  where'er  she  dwells, 
Near  barren  rocks,  in  palaces,  or  cells, 
O  grant  a  poet  leave  to  recommend 
(A  poet  fond  of  Nature,  and  your  friend) 
Her  slighted  works  to  your  admiring  view ; 
Her  works  must  needs  excel,  who  fashioned  you. 
Would  ye,  when  rambUng  in  your  morning  ride, 
With  some  unmeaning  coxcomb  at  your  side, 
Condemn  the  prattler  for  his  idle  pains, 
To  waste  unheard  the  music  of  his  strains. 
And,  deaf  to  all  th'  impertinence  of  tongue. 
That,  while  it  courts,  affronts  and  does  you  v/rong, 
Mark  well  the  finished  plan  without  a  fault. 
The  seas  globose  and  huge,  th'  o'erarching  vault, 
Earth's  millions  daily  fed,  a  world  employed, 
In  gathering  plenty  yet  to  be  enjoyed, 
Till  gratitude  grew  vocal  in  the  praise 
Of  God,  beneficent  in  all  his  ways ; 
Graced  with  such  wisdom,  how  would  beauty  shine ! 
Ye  want  but  that  to  seem  indeed  divine. 

Anticipated  rents,  and  bills  unpaid. 
Force  many  a  shining  youth  into  the  shade, 
Not  to  redeem  his  time,  but  his  estate. 
And  play  the  fool,  but  at  a  cheaper  rate. 
There,  hid  in  loathed  obscurity,  removed 
From  pleasures  left,  but  never  more  beloved,  ' 
He  just  endures,  and  with  a  sickly  spleen 
Sighs  o'er  the  beauties  of  the  charming  scene. 
Nature  indeed  looks  prettily  in  rhyme ; 
Streams  tinkle  sweetly  in  poetic  chime : 
The  warblings  of  the  blackbird,  clear  and  strong,  ] 
Are  musical  enough  in  Thomson's  song ; 
And  Cobham's  groves,  and  Windsor's  green  re-  ] 
treats. 

When  Pope  describes  them,  have  a  thousand  sweets ;  1 
He  Hkes  the  country,  but  in  truth  must  own  ] 
Most  likes  it,  when  he  studies  it  in  town. 

Poor  J ack — no  matter  who — for  when  I  blame  ] 
I  pity,  and  must  therefore  sink  the  name,  j 
Lived  in  his  saddle,  loved  the  chase,  the  course, 
And  always,  ere  he  mounted,  kissed  his  horse.  i 
The  estate,  his  sires  had  owned  in  ancient  years,  I 
Was  quickly  distanced,  matched  against  a  peer's.  ^ 
Jack  vanished,  was  regretted  and  forgQt ; 
'Tis  wild  good-nature's  never-failing  lot.  7 
At  length,  when  all  had  long  supposed  him  dead,  I 
By  cold  submersion,  razor,  rope,  or  lead,  ^ 


My  lord,  aUghting  at  his  usual  place, 
;  The  Crown,  took  notice  of  an  ostler's  face. 
Jack  knew  his  friend,  but  hoped  in  that  disguise 
He  might  escape  the  most  observing  eyes, 
And  whistling,  as  if  unconcerned  and  gay, 
Curried  his  nag,  and  looked  another  way. 
Convinced  at  last,  upon  a  nearer  view, 
'Twas  he,  the  same,  the  very  Jack  he  knew 
,  O'erwhelmed  at  once  with  wonder,  grief,  and  joy, 
He  pressed  him  much  to  quit  his  base  employ ; 
His  countenance,  his  purse,  his  heart,  his  hand. 
Influence  and  power  were  all  at  his  command : 
Peers  are  not  always  generous  as  well  bred. 
But  Granby  was,  meant  truly  what  he  said. 
Jack  bowed,  and  was  obliged — confessed  'twas 
strange, 

That  so  retired  he  should  not  wish  a  change. 
But  knew  no  medium  between  guzzling  beer. 
And  his  old  stint— three  thousand  pounds  a  yeai 

Thus  some  retire  to  nourish  hopeless  wo ; 
Some  seeking  happiness  not  found  below ; 
Some  to  comply  with  humour,  and  a  mind 
To  social  scenes  by  nature  disinclined ; 
Some  swayed  by  fashion,  some  by  deep  disgust ; 
Some  self-impoverished,  and  because  they  must; 
But  few,  that  court  Retirement,  are  aware 
Of  half  the  toils  they  must  encounter  there. 

Lucrative  offices  are  seldom  lost 
For  want  of  powers  proportioned  to  the  post: 
Give  e'en  a  dunce  th'  employment  he  desires, 
And  he  soon  finds  the  talents  it  requires ; 
A  business  with  an  income  at  its  heels 
Furnishes  always  oil  for  its  own  wheels. 
But  in  his  arduous  enterprise  to  close 
His  active  years  with  indolent  repose. 
He  finds  the  labours  of  that  state  exceed 
His  utmost  faculties,  severe  indeed. 
'Tis  easy  to  resign  a  toilsome  place. 
But  not  to  manage  leisure  with  a  grace ; 
Absence  of  occupation  is  not  rest, 
A  mind  quite  vacant  is  a  mind  distressed. 
The  veteran  steed,  excused  his  task  at  length, 
In  kind  compassion  of  his  failing  strength. 
And  turned  into  the  park  or  mead  to  graze, 
Exempt  from  future  service  all  his  days. 
There  feels  a  pleasure  perfect  in  its  kind. 
Ranges  at  liberty,  and  snuffs  the  wind : 
But  when  his  lord  would  quit  the  busy  road, 
To  taste  a  joy  like  that  he  had  bestowed. 
He  proves  less  happy  than  his  favoured  brute, 
A  Ufe  of  ease  a  difficult  pursuit. 
Thought,  to  the  man  that  never  thinks,  may  seem 
As  natural  as  when  asleep  to  dream ; 
But  reveries  (for  human  minds  will  act) 
Specious  in  show,  impossible  in  fact. 
Those  flimsy  webs,  that  break  as  soon  as  wrought. 
Attain  not  to  the  dignity  of  thought : 
Nor  yet  the  swarms  that  occupy  the  brain, 
Where  dreams  of  dress,  intrigue,  andpleasure  reign 


54 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Nor  such  as  useless  conversation  breeds, 
Or  lust  engenders,  and  indulgence  feeds. 
Whence,  and  what  are  we'?  to  what  end  ordained  1 
What  means  the  drama  by  the  world  sustained  1 
Business  or  vain  amusement,  care  or  mirth, 
Divide  the  frail  inhabitants  of  earth. 
Is  duty  a  mere  sport,  or  an  employ'? 
Life  an  intrusted  talent,  or  a  toy '? 
Is  there,  as  reason,  conscience.  Scripture,  say, 
Cause  to  provide  for  a  great  future  day. 
When,  earth's  assigned  duration  at  an  end, 
Man  shall  be  summoned  and  the  dead  attend  1 
The  trumpet — will  it  sound,  the  curtain  rise, 
And  show  th'  august  tribunal  of  the  skies ; 
Where  no  prevarication  shall  avail, 
Where  eloquence  and  artifice  shall  fail, 
The  pride  of  arrogant  distinctions  fall. 
And  conscience  and  our  conduct  judge  us  all '? 
Pardon  me,  ye  that,  give  the  midnight  oil 
To  learned  cares,  or  philosophic  toil. 
Though  I  revere  your  honourable  names, 
Your  useful  labours  and  important  aims. 
And  hold  the  world  indebted  to  your  aid, 
Enriched  with  the  discoveries  ye  have  made ; 
Yet  let  me  stand  excused,  if  I  esteem 
A  mind  employed  on  so  sublime  a  theme, 
Pushing  her  bold  inquiry  to  the  date 
And  outline  of  the  present  transient  state. 
And,  after  poising  her  adventurous  wings, 
Settling  at  last  upon  eternal  things, 
Far  more  intelligent  and  better  taught 
The  strenuous  use  of  profitable  thought. 
Than  ye,  when  happiest,  and  enlightened  most. 
And  highest  in  renown,  can  justly  boast, 

A  mind  unnerved,  or  indisposed  to  bear 
The  weight  of  subjects  worthiest  of  her  care. 
Whatever  hopes  a  change  of  scene  inspires. 
Must  change  her  nature,  or  in  vain  retires. 
An  idler  is  a  watch,  that  wants  both  hands, 
As  useless  if  it  goes,  as  when  it  stands. 
Books,  therefore,  not  the  scandal  of  the  shelves. 
In  which  lewd  sensuaUsts  print  out  themselves ; 
ISTor  those,  in  which  the  stage  gives  vice  a  blow, 
With  what  success  let  modern  manners  show ; 
Nor  his,  who,  for  the  bane  of  thousands  born. 
Built  God  a  church,  and  laughed  his  word  to  scorn. 
Skilful  alike  to  seem  devout  and  just. 
And  stab  religion  with  a  sly  side-thrust ; 
Nor  those  of  learned  philologists,  who  chase 
A  panting  syllable  through  time  and  space, 
Start  at  it  home,  and  hunt  it  in  the  daTk, 
To  Gaul,  to  Greece,  and  into  Noah's  ark  ; 
But  such  as  Learning  without  false  pretence. 
The  friend  of  Truth,  th'  associate  of  good  Sense, 
And  su(;h  as,  in  the  zeal  of  good  design. 
Strong  judgment  labouring  in  the  Scripture  mine. 
All  such  as  manly  and  great  souls  produce, 
Worthy  to  live,  and  of  eternal  use : 


Behold  in  these  what  leisure  hours  demand. 
Amusement  and  true  knowledge  hand  in  hand. 
Luxury  gives  the  mind  a  childish  cast. 
And,  while  she  polishes,  perverts  the  taste; 
Habits  of  close  attention,  thinking  heads, 
Become  more  rare  as  dissipation  spreads, 
Till  authors  hear  at  length  one  general  cry, — 
Tickle  and  entertain  us,  or  we  die. 
The  loud  demand,  from  year  to  year  the  same, 
Beggars  Invention,  and  makes  Fancy  lame; 
Till  farce  itself,  most  mournfully  jejune. 
Calls  for  the  kind  assistance  of  a  tune  ; 
And  novels  (witness  every  month's  review 
Behe  their  name,  and  offer  nothing  new. 
The  mind,  relaxing  into  needful  sport. 
Should  turn  to  writers  of  an  abler  sort. 
Whose  wit  well  managed,  and  whose  classic  style 
Give  truth  a  lustre,  and  make  wisdom  smile. 
Friends  (for  I  can  not  stint,  as  some  have  done. 
Too  rigid  in  my  view,  that  name  to  one ; 
Though  one,  I  grant  it,  in  the  generous  breast 
Will  stand  advanced  a  step  above  the  rest ; 
Flowers  by  that  name  promiscuously  we  call, 
But  one,  the  rose,  the  regent  of  them  all) — 
Friends,  not  adopted  with  a  schoolboy's  haste, 
But  chosen  with  a  nice  discerning  taste. 
Well-born,  well-disciplined,  who,  placed  apart 
From  vulgar  minds,  have  honour  much  at  heart. 
And,  though  the  world  may  think  th'  ingredients 
odd. 

The  love  of  virtue,  and  the  fear  of  God ! 
Such  friends  prevent  what  else  would  soon  succeed, 
A  temper  rustic  as  the  life  we  lead. 
And  keep  the  polish  of  the  manners  clean 
As  theirs  who  bustle  in  the  busiest  scene ; 
For  solitude,  however  some  may  rave. 
Seeming  a  sanfctuary,  proves  a  grave, 
A  sepulchre  in  which  the  living  lie. 
Where  all  good  qualities  grow  sick  and  die. 
I  praise  the  Frenchman,*  his  remark  was  shrewd- 
How  sweet,  how  passing  sweet,  is  solitude ! 
But  grant  me  still  a  friend  in  my  retreat. 
Whom  I  may  whisper — solitude  is  sweet. 
Yet  neither  these  delights,  nor  aught  beside. 
That  appetite  can  ask,  or  wealth  provide, 
Can  save  us  always  from  a  tedious  day. 
Or  shine  the  dullness  of  still  Ufe  away : 
Divine  communion,  carefully  enjoyed, 
Or  sought  with  energy,  must  fill  the  void. 
O  sacred  art,  to  which  alone  life  owes 
Its  happiest  seasons,  and  a  peaceful  close, 
Scorned  in  a  world,  indebted  to  that  scorn 
For  evils  daily  felt  and  hardly  borne, 
Not  knowing  thee,  we  reap  with  bleeding  hands 
Flowers  of  rank  odour  upon  thorny  lands, 
And,  while  Experience  cautions  us  in  vain. 
Grasp  seenSng  happiness,  and  find  it  pain. 


*  Bruyere. 


RETIREMENT. 


55 


Despondence,  self-deserted  in  her  grief, 
Lost  by  abandoning  her  own  relief, 
Murmuring  and  ungrateful  Discontent, 
That  scorns  afflictions  mercifully  meant. 
Those  humours,  tart  as  wine  upon  the  fret, 
Which  idleness  and  weariness  beget ; 
These,  and  a  thousand  plagues,  that  haunt  the 
breast. 

Fond  of  the  phantom  of  an  earthly  rest, 
Divine  communion  chases,  as  the  day 
Drives  to  their  dens  th'  obedient  beasts  of  prey. 
See  Judah's  promised  king  bereft  of  all. 
Driven  out  an  exile  from  the  face  of  Saul, 
To  distant  caves  the  lonely  wanderer  flies. 
To  seek  that  peace  a  tyrant's  frown  denies. 
Hear  the  sweet  accents  of  his  tuneful  voice. 
Hear  him,  o'erwhelmed  with  sorrow,  yet  rejoice; 
No  womanish  or  wailing  grief  has  part. 
No,  not  for  a  moment,  in  his  royal  heart; 
'Tis  manly  music,  such  as  martyrs  make. 
Suffering  with  gladness  fb-  a  Saviour's  sake;  ' 
His  soul  exults,  hope  animates  his  lays. 
The  sense  of  mercy  kindles  into  praise, 
And  wilds,  familiar  vdth  a  hon's  roar. 
Ring  with  ecstatic  sounds  unheard  before: 
'Tis  love  like  his,  that  can  alone  defeat 
The  foes  of  man,  or  make  a  desert  sweet. 


Religion  does  not  censure  or  exclude 
Unnumbered  pleasures  harmlessly  pursued; 
To  study  culture,  and  with  artful  toil 
To  meliorate  and  tame  the  stubborn  soil; 
To  give  dissimilar  yet  fruitful  lands 
The  grain,  or  herb,  or  plant  that  each  demands; 
To  cherish  virtue  in  an  humble  state. 
And  share  the  joys  your  bounty  may  create; 
To  mark  the  matchless  worldngs  of  the  power 
That  shuts  within  its  seed  the  future  flower, 
Bids  these  in  elegance  of  form  excel, 
In  colour  these,  and  those  delight  the  smell. 
Sends  Nature  forth  the  daughter  of  the  skies. 
To  dance  on  earth,  and  charm  all  human  eyes; 
To  teach  the  canvass  innocent  deceit. 
Or  lay  the  landscape  on  the  snowy  sheet — 
These,  these  are  arts  pursued  without  a  crime, 
That  leave  no  stain  upon  the  wing  of  Time. 

Me  poetry  (or  rather  notes  that  aim 
Feebly  and  vainly  at  poetic  fame) 
Employs,  shut  out  from  more  important  views, 
Fast  by  the  banks  of  the  slow  winding  Ouse; 
Content  if  thus  sequestered  I  may  raise 
A  monitor's  though  not  a  poet's  praise. 
And  while  I  teach  an  art  too  little  known. 
To  close  Ufe  wisely,  may  not  waste  my  own. 


BOOK  I. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

thJamhlf Sr?UvP^!l^'ll"A?Jp^^^  is  briefly  tliis :  A  lady,  fond  of  blank  vei^e,  demanded  a  poem  of  that  kind  from 
it  aS  ni  rsu^i^f^^^^  leisure,  connected  another  subject  with 

Of  t^ft?rSt^^a?L^i°^^^^^^^^  rseTSaSair^rrumf  '''''''''  '''''' 

pardciLrschoor  '  HiSfp.'nl^'^"'''"""^  "^""^^  ^"""^  '""''^  *°  ^^^"•^  suspected  of  having  aimed  his  censure  at  any 
SeSsfDait  ^SrPk  Sf,  3  '  ^  1^'"'^"^  ^P^'i^  themselves  to  schools  in  general!   If  there  were  not,  ar 

cem^le  of  the  nh?e.fi      "  ."f those  who  manage  them,  and  an  omission  even  of  such  discipline  as  they  are 
"^-^^"f  to?  numerous  for  mmme  attention;  and  the  achin-  hearts  often  thons^nrl  npmnt«  mm,r, 

01  all  disappomtments,  attest 
any  particular  insiance  of  it. 


for 


Srthe  b  ittereTof  «n  Hi^^^  numerous  lor  nimme  attention;  and  the  aching  hearts  often  thousand  parents,  fnouming 
Se:an1  nrS!h If paSrlS^  1"--''  ^^^^^f"-'  '^e  Mischief  a! 


THE  SOFA. 


ARGUMENT. 


Historical  deduction  of  seats  from  the  Stool  to  the  Sofa  .-A  Schoolboy's  ramble.-A  walk  in  the  country -The  sreno 
described  -Rural  sounds  as  well  as  sights  delightful.-Another  walk— Mistake  concerning  th^charmfof  so"S[de7oTr^^^ 
Colonnades  commended.-Alcove,  and  the  view  from  it.-The  wilderness.-The  ffrove  -^The  tSeJ  -The  nece^hv  t;;^ 
wks^  nature  superior  to,  and  in  some  instance!  inimitlble  by?fn  -tL  weSSne^^ 
ene  snmptimpB  pvnorIloi-.t      a  j  :u_  i  .  „j 


iiic  ueueiiLb  VI  exercise.— ine  worics  ol  nature  superior  to,  and  in  some  instances  inimital 
of  what  IS  commonly  called  a  life  of  pleasure.-Change  of  scene  sometimerexpernt -a"^^^^^^^ 
character  of  crazy  Kate  introduced.-Gipsies^-The  blessings  of  civilized  lile.-Th^at  state  mostZZJ!lV^^i^^^^ 

;hienV  Omai. — TTis  nrpspnt  atato  r.f  mir,^   j      /-';„:i:„.j  i:^    ^-    '  ■■, 


rter  ot  crazy  Kate  introduced.-Gipsies.-The  blessings  of  civilized  lile.-That  state  most  favourable  to  v^^^^ 
South  Sea  islanders  compassionated,  but  chiefly  Omai.-His  present  state  of  mindTppS-CiviS^^ 
virtue,  but  not  great  cit.es.-Great  cities,  and  London  in  particular,  allowed  theirXe  praiserburcensur^^^^ 
meaTi''  ""^  ""''^  ^^^^  ^^^^^'^  «f  dissipation  and  S^ac^upon  o^VubS 

I  SING  the  Sofa,  I,  who  lately  sang 
Truth,  Hope,  and  Charity,  and  touched  with  awe 
The  solemn  chords,  and  with  a  trembling  hand, 
Escaped  with  pain  from  that  adventurous  flight, 


F  2 


Now  seek  repose  upon  an  humbler  theme; 
The  theme  though  humble,  yet  august  and  proud 
Th'  occasion — for  the  Fair  commands  the  song. 
Time  was,  when  clothing  sumptuous  or  for  use, 


56 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Save  <hcir  own  painted  skins,  our  ^rcs  had  none. 
As  yet  black  breeches  were  not;  satin  smooth, 
Or  velvet  soft,  or  plush  with  shaggy  pile ; 
The  hardy  chief  upon  the  rugged  rock 
Washed  by  the  sea,  or  on  the  gravelly  bank 
Thrown  up  by  wintry  torrents  roaring  loud. 
Fearless  of  wrong,  reposed  his  weary  strength. 
Those  barbarous  ages  past,  succeeded  next 
The  birth-day  of  invention ;  weak  at  first, 
Dull  in  design,  and  clumsy  to  perform. 
Joint-stools  were  then  created ;  on  three  legs 
Upborne  they  stood.    Three  legs  upholding  firm 
A  massy  slab,  in  fashion  square  or  round. 
On  such  a  stool  immortal  Alfred  sat. 
And  swayed  the  sceptre  of  his  infant  realms : 
And  such  in  ancient  halls  and  mansions  drear 
May  still  be  seen  ;  but  perforated  sore, 
And  drilled  in  holes,  the  solid  oak  is  found, 
By  worms  voracious  eaten,  through  and  through. 

At  length  a  generation  more  refined 
Improved  the  simple  plan ;  made  three  legs  four, 
Gave  them  a  twisted  form  vermicular. 
And  o'er  the  seat  with  plenteous  wadding  stuffed, 
Induced  a  splendid  cover,  green  and  blue, 
Yellow  and  red,  of  tapestry  richly  wrought 
And  woven  close,  or  needlework  sublime. 
There  might  you  see  the  piony  spread  wide, 
The  full  blown  rose,  the  shepherd  and  his  lass, 
Lapdog  and  lambkin  vsdth  black  staring  eyes, 
And  parrots  with  twin  cherries  in  their  beak. 

Now  came  the  cane  from  India,  smooth  and  bright 
With  Nature's  varnish ;  severed  into  stripes, 
That  interlaced  each  other,  these  supplied 
Of  texture  firm  a  lattice-work,  that  braced 
The  new  machine,  and  it.became  a  chair. 
But  restless  was  the  chair ;  the  back  erect 
Distressed  the  weary  loins,  that  felt  no  ease ; 
The  slippery  seat  betrayed  the  sliding  part 
That  pressed  it,  and  the  feet  hung  danghng  down, 
Anxious  in  vain,  to  find  the  distant  floor. 
These  for  th6  rich ;  the  rest,  whom  Fate  had  placed 
In  modest  mediocrity,  content 
With  base  materials,  sat  on  well  tanned  hides, 
Obdurate  and  unyielding,  glassy  smooth, 
With  here  and  there  a  tuft  of  crimson  yarn, 
Or  scarlet  crewel,  in  the  cushion  fixed. 
If  Cushion  might  be  called,  what  harder  seemed 
Than  the  firm  oak,  of  which  the  frame  was  formed. 
No  want  of  timber  then  was  felt  or  feared 
In  Albion's  happy  isle.    The  lumber  stood 
Ponderous  and  fixed  by  its  own  massy  weight. 
But  elbows  still  were  wanting :  these,  some  say 
An  alderman  of  Cripplegate  contrived ; 
And  some  ascribe  th'  invention  to  a  priest, 
Burly,  and  big,  and  studious  of  his  ease. 
Bu+  rude  at  first,  and  not  with  easy  slope 
Receding  wide,  they  pressed  against  the  ribs, 
And  bruised  the  side ;  and,  elevated  high, 
Taught  the  raised  shoulders  to  invade  the  ears. 


Long  time  elapsed  or  e'er  our  rugged  sires 
Complained,  though  incommodiously  pent  in, 
And  ill  at  ease  behind.    The  ladies  first 
'Gan  murmur,  as  became  the  softer  sex. 
Ingenious  Fancy,  never  better  pleased, 
Than  when  employed  t'  ac^mmodate  the  fair, 
Heard  the  sweet  moan  with  pity,  and  devised 
The  soft  settee ;  one  elbow  at  each  end. 
And  in  the  midst  an  elbow  it  received, 
United  yet  divided,  twain  at  once. 
So  sit  two  kings  of  Brentford  on  one  throne; 
And  so  two  citizens,  who  take  the  air. 
Close  packed,  and  smiling,  in  a  chaise  and  one. 
But  relaxation  of  the  languid  frame, 
Was  bliss  reserved  for  happier  days.    So  slow 
The  growth  of  what  is  excellent ;  so  hard 
T'  attain  perfection  in  this  nether  world. 
Thus  first  necessity  invented  stools. 
Convenience  next  suggested  elbow  chairs, 
And  Luxury  th'  accomplished  Sofa  last. 

The  nurse  sleeps  sweetly,  hired  to  watch  the  sick. 
Whom  snoring  she  disturbs.    As  sweetly  he. 
Who  quits  the  coach-box  at  the  midnight  hour. 
To  sleep  within  the  carriage  more  secure. 
His  legs  depending  at  the  open  door. 
Sweet  sleep  enjoys  the  curate  in  his  desk, 
The  tedious  rector  drawhng  o'er  his  head; 
And  sweet  the  clerk  below.    But  neither  sleep 
Of  lazy  nurse,  who  snores  the  sick  man  dead; 
Nor  his,  who  quits  the  box  at  midnight  hour, 
To  slumber  in  the  carriage  more  secure ; 
Nor  sleep  enjoyed  by  curate  in  his  desk ; 
Nor  yet  the  dozings  of  the  clerk,  are  sweet. 
Compared  with  the  repose  the  Sofa  yields. 

O  may  I  live  exempted  (while  I  hve 
Guiltless  of  pampered  appetite  obscene) 
From  pangs  arthritic,  that  infest  the  toe 
Of  libertine  Excess.    The  Sofa  suits 
The  gouty  limb,  'tis  true :  but  gouty  limb 
Though  on  a  Sofa,  may  I  never  feel , 
For  I  have  loved  the  rural  walk  through  lanes 
Of  grassy  swarth,  close  cropped  by  nibbling  sheep 
And  skirted  thick  with  intertexture  firm 
Of  thorny  boughs ;  have  loved  the  rural  walk 
O'er  hills,  through  valleys,  and  by  rivers'  brink, 
E'er  since  a  truant  boy  I  passed  my  bounds, 
T'  enjoy  a  ramble  on  the  banks  of  Thames: 
And  still  remember  nor  without  regret 
Of  hours,  that  sorrow  since  has  much  endeared^ 
How  oft,  my  slice  of  pocket  store  consumed. 
Still  hungering,  pennyless,  and  far  from  home, 
I  fed  on  scarlet  hips  and  stony  haws. 
Or  blushing  crabs,  or  berries,  that  emboss 
The  bramble,  black  as  jet,  or  sloes  austere. 
Hard  fare !  but  such  as  boyish  appetite 
Disdains  not ;  nor  the  palate,  undepraved 
By  culinary  arts,  unsavoury  deems. 
No  Sofa  then  awaited  my  return  - 
Nor  Sofa  then  I  needed.   Youth  repairs 


THE  TASK. 


57 


His  wasted  spirits  quickly,  by  long  toil 
Incurring  short  fatigue ;  and  though  our  years, 
As  life  declines,  speed  rapidly  away, 
And  not  a  year  but  pilfers  as  he  goes 
Some  youthful  grace,  that  age  would  gladly  keep; 
A  tooth  or  auburn  lock,  and  by  degrees 
'Their  length  and  colour  from  the  locks  they  spare ; 
Th'  elastic  spring  of  an  unwearied  foot, 
That  mounts  the  stile  with  ease,  or  leaps  the  fence, 
That  play  of  lungs,  inhaling  and  again 
Respiring  freely  the  fresh  air,  that  makes 
Swift  pace  or  steep  ascent,  no  toil  to  me. 
Mine  have  not  pilfered  yet,  nor  yet  impaired 
My  relish  of  fair  prospect ;  scenes  that  soothed 
Or  charmed  me  young,  no  longer  young,  I  find 
Still  soothing,  and  of  power  to  charm  me  still. 
And  witness,  dear  companion  of  my  walks, 
Whose  arm  this  twentieth  winter  I  perceive 
Fast  locked  in  mine,  with  pleasure  such  as  love, 
Confirmed  by  long  experience  of  thy  worth 
And  well  tried  virtues  could  alone  inspire — 
Witness  a  joy  that  thou  hast  doubled  long. 
Thou  knowest  my  praise  of  nature  most  sincere, 
And  that  my  raptures  are  not  con  jured  up 
To  serve  occasions  of  poetic  pomp. 
But  genuine,  and  art  partner  of  them  all. 
How  oft  upon  yon  eminence  our  pace 
Has  slackened  to  a  pause,  and  we  have  borne 
The  ruffling  wind,  scarce  conscious  that  it  blew, 
While  admiration,  feeding  at  the  eye. 
And  still  unsated,  dwelt  upon  the  scene. 
Thence  with  what  pleasure  have  we  just  discerned 
The  distant  plough  slow  moving,  and  beside 
His  labouring  team,  that  swerved  not  from  the  track, 
The  sturdy  swain  diminished  to  a  boy ! 
Here  Ouse,  slow  winding  through  a  level  plain 
Of  spacious  meads  with  cattle  sprinkled  o'er. 
Conducts  the  eye  along  his  sinuous  course 
Delighted.    There,  fast  rooted  in  their  bank. 
Stand,  never  overlooked,  our  favourite  elms, 
That  screens  the  herdsman's  solitary  hut ; 
While  far  beyond,  and  overthwart  the  stream, 
That,  as  with  molten  glass,  inlays  the  vale. 
The  sloping  land  recedes  into  the  clouds ; 
Displaying  on  its  varied  side  the  grace 
Of  hedge-row  beauties  numberless,  square  tower, 
Tall  spire,  from  which  the  sound  of  cheerful  beHs 
J  ust  undulates  upon  the  listening  ear. 
Groves,  heaths,  and  smoking  villages,  remote. 
Scenes  must  be  beautiful,  which  daily  viewed 
Please  daily,  and  whose  novelty  survives 
Long  knowledge  and  the  scrutiny  of  years : 
Praise  justly  due  to  those  that  I  describe. 

Is  or  rural  sights  alone,  but  rural  sounds, 
Exhilarate  the  spirit  and  restore 
The  tone  of  languid  Nature.    Mighty  winds, 
That  sweep  the  skirt  of  some  far-spreading  wood 
Of  ancient  growth,  make  music  not  unlike 
The  dash  of  Ocean  on  his  winding  shore, 


And  lull  the  spirit  while  they  fill  the  mind ; 

Unnumbered  branches  waving  in  the  blast, 

And  all  their  leaves  fast  fluttering,  all  at  once. 

Nor  less  composure  waits  upon  the  roar 

Of  distant  floods,  or  on  the  softer  voice 

Of  neighbouring  fountain,  or  of  rills  that  slip 

Through  the  cleft  rock,  and,  chiming  as  they  fall 

Upon  loose  pebbles,  lose  themselves  at  length 

In  matted  grass,  that  with  a  hveher  green 

Betrays  the  secret  of  their  silent  course. 

Nature  inanimate  employs  sweet  sounds. 

But  animated  nature  sweeter  still. 

To  sooth  and  satisfy  the  human  ear. 

Ten  thousand  warblers  cheer  the  day,  and  one 

The  hvelong  night :  nor  these  alone,  whose  notes 

Nice -fingered  art  must  emulate  in  vain, 

But  cawing  rooks,  and  kites  that  swim  sublime 

In  still  repeated  circles,  screaming  loud. 

The  jay,  the  pie,  and  e'en  the  boding  owl, 

That  haUs  the  rising  moon,  have  charms  for  me. 

Sounds  inharmonious  in  themselves  and  harsh. 

Yet  heard  in  scenes  where  peace  for  ever  reigns, 

And  only  there,  please  highly  for  their  sake. 

Peace  to  the  artist  whose  ingenious  thought 

Devised  the  weather-house,  that  useful  toy ! 

Fearless  of  humid  air  and  gathering  rains, 

Forth  steps  the  man — an  emblem  of  myself! 

More  delicate  his  timorous  mate  retires. 

When  Winter  soaks  the  fields,  and  female  feet, 

Too  weak  to  struggle  with  tenacious  clay. 

Or  ford  the  rivulets,  are  best  at  home. 

The  task  of  new  discoveries  falls  on  me. 

At  such  a  season,  and  with  such  a  charge, 

Once  went  I  forth ;  and  found,  till  then  unknown, 

A  cottage,  whither  oft  we  since  repair; 

'Tis  perched  upon  the  green  hill  tops,  but  close 

Environed  with  a  ring  of  branching  elms. 

That  overhang  the  thatch,  itself  unseen 

Peeps  at  the  vale  below;  so  thick  beset 

With  fohage  of  such  dark  redundant  growth, 

I  called  the  low-roofed  lodge  the  peasant's  nest. 

And,  hidden  as  it  is,  and  far  remote 

From  such  unpleasing  sounds,  as  haunt  the  ear 

In  village  or  in  town,  the  bay  of  curs 

Incessant,  clinking  hammers,  grinding  wheels, 

And  infants  clamorous,  whether  pleased  or  pained. 

Oft  have  I  wished  the  peacefiil  covert  mine. 

Here,  I  have  said,  at  least  I  should  possess 

The  poet's  treasure,  silence,  and  indulge  , 

The  dreams  of  fancy,  tranquil  and  secure. 

Vain  thought !  the  dweller  in  that  still  retreat 

Dearly  obtains  the  refuge  it  aflfords. 

Its  elevated  site  forbids  the  wretch 

To  drink  sweet  waters  of  the  crystal  well ; 

He  dips  the  bowl  into  the  weedy  ditch. 

And,  heavy  laden,  brings  his  beverage  home. 

Far  fetched  and  little  worth ;  nor  seldom  waits, 

Dependent  on  the  baker's  punctual  call. 

To  hear  his  creaking  panniers  at  the  door, 


58 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Angry  and  sad,  and  his  last  crust  consumed, 
So  farewell  envy  of  the  peasant's  nest ! 
If  solitude  makes  scant  the  means  of  Ufe, 
Society  for  me ! — thou  seeming  sweet, 
Be  still  a  pleasing  object  in  my  view  ; 
My  visit  still,  but  never  mine  abode. 

Not  distant  far,  a  length  of  colonnade 
Invites  us.    Monument  of  ancient  taste, 
Now  scorned,  but  worthy  of  a  better  fate. 
Our  fathers  knew  the  value  of  a  screen 
From  sultry  suns :  and,  in  their  shaded  walks 
And  long  protracted  bowers,  enjoyed  at  noon 
The  gloom  and  coolness  of  decHning  day. 
We  bear  our  shades  about  us ;  self-deprived 
Of  other  screen,  the  thin  umbrella  spread, 
And  range  an  Indian  waste  without  a  tree. 
Thanks  to  Benevolus*  he  spares  me  yet 
These  chestnuts  ranged  in  corresponding  lines ; 
And,  though  himself  so  poUshed,  still  reprieves 
The  obsolete  prolixity  of  shade. 

Descending  now  (but  cautious,  lest  too  fast) 
A  sudden  steep,  upon  a  rustic  bridge 
We  pass  a  gulf,  in  which  the  willows  dip 
Their  pendent  boughs,  stooping  as  if  to  drink. 
Hence,  ankle  deep  in  moss  and  flowery  thyme, 
We  mount  again,  and  feel  at  every  step 
Our  foot  half  sunk  in  hillocks  green  and  soft, 
Raised  by  the  mole,  the  miner  of  the  soil. 
He,  not  unlike  the  great  ones  of  mankind, 
Disfigures  Earth :  and,  plotting  in  the  dark, 
Toils  much  to  earn  a  monumental  pile, 
That  may  record  the  mischiefs  he  has  done. 

The  summit  gained,  behold  the  proud  alcove 
That  crowns  it!  yet  not  all  its  pride  secures 
The  grand  retreat  from  injuries  impressed 
By  rural  carvers,  who  with  knives  deface 
The  pannels,  leaving  an  obscure,  rude  name, 
In  chaBacters  uncouch,  and  spelt  amiss. 
So  strong  the  zeal  to  immortalize  himself 
Beats  in  the  breast  of  man,  that  e'en  a  few, 
Few  transient  years,  won  from  th'  abyss  abhorred 
Of  blank  oblivion,  seem  a  glorious  prize, 
And  even  to  a  clown.    Now  roves  the  eye ; 
And,  posted  on  this  speculative  height, 
Exults  in  its  command.    The  sheepfold  here 
Pours  out  its  fleecy  tenants  o'er  the  glebe. 
At  first,  progressive  as  a  stream,  they  seek 
The  middle  field;  but  scattered  by  degrees, 
Each  to  his  choice,  soon  whiten  all  the  land. 
There  from  the  sun-burnt  hayfield  homeward 
creeps 

The  loaded  wain ;  while,  lightened  of  its  charge, 
The  wain  that  meets  it  passes  swiftly  by; 
The  boorish  driver  leaning  o'er  his  team 
Vociferous,  and  impatient  of  delay. 
Nor  less  attractive  is  the  woodland  seer*. 


Diversified  with  trees  ol  every  growth, 
Alike,  yet  various.    Here  the  gray  smooth  trunks 
Of  ash,  or  lime,  or  beech,  distmctly  shine. 
Within  the  twilight  of  their  distant  shades; 
There,  lost  behind  a  rising  ground,  the  wood 
Seems  sunk,  and  shortened  to  its  topmast  bougns. 
No  tree  in  all  the  grove  ^ut  has  its  charms, 
Though  each  its  huepecuUar;  paler  some, 
And  of  a  wanish  gray;  the  willow  such, 
And  poplar,  that  with  silver  lines  his  leaf. 
And  ash  far  stretching  his  umbrageous  arm; 
Of  deeper  green  the  elm;  and  deeper  still. 
Lord  of  the  woods,  the  long-surviving  oak. 
Some  glossy-leaved,  and  shining  in  the  sun, 
The  maple,  and  the  bee(^h  of  oily  nuts 
Prohfic,  and  the  lime  at  dewy  eve 
Diffusing  odours :  nor  unnoted  pass 
The  sycamore,  capricious  in  attire. 
Now  green,  now  tawny,  and  ere  autumn  yet 
Have  changed  the  woods,  in  scarlet  honours 
bright. 

O'er  these,  but  far  beyond  (a  spacious  map 
Of  hill  and  valley  interposed  between,) 
The  Ouse  dividing  the  well-watered  land. 
Now  gutters  in  the  sun,  and  now  retires. 
As,  bashful,  yet  impatient  to  be  seen. 

Hence  the  declivity  is  sharp  and  short. 
And  such  the  reascent;  between  them  weeps 
A  little  naiad  her  impoverished  urn 
All  summer  long,  which  winter  fills  again. 
The  folded  gates  would  bar  my  progress  now. 
But  that  the  lord*  of  this  enclosed  demesne, 
Communicative  of  the  good  he  owns. 
Admits  me  to  a  share ;  the  guiltless  eye 
Commits  no  wrong,  nor  wastes  what  it  enjoys. 
Refreshing  change !  where  now  the  blazing  suni 
By  short  transition  we  have  lost  his  glare, 
And  stepped  at  once  into  a  cooler  cUme. 
Ye  fallen  avenues!  once  more  I  mourn 
Your  fate  unmerited,  once  more  rejoice 
That  yet  a  remnant  of  your  race  survives. 
How  airy  and  how  light  the  gracefid  arch. 
Yet  awful  as  the  consecrated  roof 
Re-echoing  pious  anthems !  while  beneath 
The  checkered  earth  seems  restless  as  a  flood 
Brushed  by  the  wind.    So  sportive  is  the  light 
Shot  through  the  boughs,  it  dances  as  they  dance. 
Shadow  and  sunshine  intermingling  quick,. 
And  darkening  and  enlightening,  as  the  leaves 
Play  wanton,  every  moment,  every  spot. 

And  now,  with  nerves  new -braced  and  spirits 
cheered,  * 

We  tread  the  wilderness,  whose  well-rolled  walks, 
With  curvature  of  slow  and  easy  sweep — 
Deception  innocent— give  ample  space 
To  narrow  bounds.    The  grove  receives  us  next  • 


*  John  Courtney  Throckmorton,  Esq.  of  Weston  Under- 
wood. 


•  See  the  foregoing  note. 


THE  TASK. 


59 


Between  the  upright  shafts  of  whose  tall  elms 
We  may  discern  the  thresher  at  his  task. 
Thump  after  thump  resounds  the  constant  flail, 
That  seems  to  swing  uncertain,  and  yet  falls 
Full  on  the  destined  ear.    Wide  flies  the  chaff, 
The  rustling  straw  sends  up  a  freauent  mist 
Of  atoms,  sparkling  in  the  noonday  beam. 
Come  hither,  ye  that  press  your  beds  of  down, 
And  Sleep  not;  see  him  sweating  o'er  his  bread 
Before  he  eats  it.    'Tis  the  primal  curse, 
But  softened  into  mercy;  and  made  the  pledge 
Of  cheerful  days,  and  nights  without  a  groan. 

By  ceaseless  action  all  that  is  subsists. 
Constant  rotation  of  th'  unwearied  wheel, 
That  nature  rides  upon,  maintains  her  health. 
Her  beauty,  her  fertility.    She  dreads 
An  instant's  pause,  and  lives  but  while  she  moves. 
Its  own  revolvency  upholds  the  world. 
Winds  from  all  quarters  agitate  the  air. 
And  fit  the  hmpid  element  for  use, 
Else  noxious;  oceans,  rivers,  lakes,  and  streams. 
All  feel  the  freshening  impulse,  and  are  cleansed 
By  restless  undulation;  e'en  the  oak 
Thrives  by  the  rude  concussion  of  the  storm: 
He  seems  indeed  indignant,  and  to  feel 
Th'  impression  of  the  blast  with  proud  disdain, 
Frowning,  as  if  in  his  unconscious  arm 
He  held  the  thunder:  but  the  monarch  owes 
His  firm  stability  to  what  he  scorns, 
More  fixed  below,  the  more  disturbed  above. 
The  law,  by  which  all  creatures  else  are  bound, 
Binds  man,  the  lord  of  all.    Himself  derives 
No  mean  advantage  from  a  kindred  cause. 
From  strenuous  toil  his  hours  of  sweetest  ease. 
The  sedentary  stretch  their  lazy  length 
When  Custom  bids,  but  no  refreshment  find, 
For  none  they  need :  the  languid  eye,  the  cheek 
Deserted  of  its  bloom,  the  flaccid,  shrunk, 
And  withered  muscle,  and  the  vapid  soul. 
Reproach  their  owner  with  that  love  of  rest, 
To  which  he  forfeits  e'en  the  rest  he  loves. 
Not  such  the  alert  and  active.    Measure  life 
By  its  true  worth,  the  comfort  it  affords. 
And  theirs  alone  seems  worthy  of  the  name. 
Good  health,  and,  its  associate  in  the  most. 
Good  temper;  spirits  prompt  to  undertake. 
And  not  soon  spent,  though  in  an  arduous  task; 
The  powers  of  fancy  and  strong  thought  are  theirs ;  ; 
E'en  age  itself  seems  privileged  in  them 
With  clear  exemption  from  its  own  defects.  ' 
A  sparkling  eye  ..eneatL  z.  wrinkled  front 
The  veteran  shows,  and  gracing  a  gray  beard  ' 
With  youthful  smiles,  descends  toward  the  grave  ; 
Sprightly  and  old  almost  without  decay. 

Like  a  coy  maiden,  Ease,  when  courted  most,  ] 

Farthest  retires—an  idol,  at  whose  shrine  ] 

Who  oftenest  sacrifice  are  favoured  least.  ] 

The  lin-e  of  Nature,  and  the  scenes  she  drawfs  ] 


Is  Nature's  dictate.    Strange!  there  should  be 
found 

Who,  self-imprisoned  in  their  proud  saloons. 
Renounce  the  odours  of  the  open  field 
For  the  unscented  fictions  of  the  loom: 
Who,  satisfied  with  only  pencilled  scenes. 
Prefer  to  the  performance  of  a  God 
Th'  inferior  wonders  of  an  artist's  hand  ! 
Lovely  indeed  the  mimic  wod^s  of  Art; 
But  Nature's  works  far  lovelie^.    I  admire. 
None  more  admires,  the  painter's  magic  skill, 
Who  shows  me  that  which  I  shall  never  see. 
Conveys  a  distant  country  into  mine, 
And  throws  Italian  fight  on  English  walls: 
But  imitative  strokes  can  do  no  more 
Than  please  the  eye — sweet  Nature's  every  sense, 
The  air  salubrious  of  her  lofty  hills. 
The  cheering  fragrance  of  her  dewy  vale.s 
And  music  of  her  woods— no  works  of  man 
May  rival  these,  these  all  bespeak  a  power 
Peculiar,  and  exclusively  her  own. 
Beneath  the  open  sky  she  spreads  the  feast; 
'Tis  free  to  all — 'tis  every  day  renewed; 
Who  scorns  it  starves  deservedly  at  home. 
He  does  not  scorn  it,  who,  imprisoned  long 
In  some  unwholesome  dungeon,  and  a  prey 
To  sallow  sickness,  which  the  vapours,  dank 
And  clammy,  of  his  dark  abode  have  bred, 
Escapes  at  last  to  liberty  and  light:  * 
His  cheek  recovers  soon  its  healthful  hue ; 
His  eye  relumines  its  extinguished  fires ; 
He  walks,  he  leaps,  he  runs — is  wdnged  with  joy, 
And  riots  in  the  sweets  of  every  breeze. 
He  does  not  scorn  it,  who  has  long  endured 
A  fever's  agonies,  and  fed  on  drugs. 
Nor  yet  the  mariner,  his  blood  inflamed 
With  acrid  salts:  his  very  heart  athirst. 
To  gaze  at  Nature  in  her  green  array. 
Upon  the  ship's  tall  side  he  stands,  possessed 
With  visions  prompted  by  intense  desire : 
Fair  fields  appear  below,  such  as  he  left 
Far  distant,  such  as  he  would  die  to  find- 
He  seeks  them  headlong,  and  is  seen  no  more. 

The  spleen  is  seldom  felt  where  Flora  reigns, 
The  lowering  eye,  the  petulance,  the  frown. 
And  sullen  sadness,  that  o'ershade,  distort. 
And  mar  the  face  of  beauty,  when  no  cause 
For  such  immeasurable  wo  appears, 
These  Flora  banishes,  and  gives  the  fair 
Sweet  smiles,  and  bloom  less  transient  than  her 
own. 

It  is  the  constant  revolution,  stale 
And  tasteless,  of  the  same  repeated  joys. 
That  palls  and  satiates,  and  makes  languid  life 
A  pedler's  pack,  that  bows  the  bearer  down. 
Health  suffers,  and  the  spirits  ebb,  the  heart- 
Recoils  from  its  own  choice — at  the  full  feast 
Is  famished — finds  no  music  in  the  song. 
No  smartness  in  the  jest;  and  wonders  why 


CO 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Yet  thousands  still  desire  to  journey  on, 
Though  halt,  and  weary  of  the  path  they  tread. 
The  paralytic,  who  can  hold  her  cards. 
But  can  not  play  them,  borrows  a  friend's  hand 
To  deal  and  shuffle,  to  divide  and  sort 
Her  mingled  suits  and  sequences ;  and  sits, 
Spectatress  both  and  spectacle,  a  sad 
And  silent  cipher,  while  her  proxy  plays. 
Others  are  dragged  jpto  the  crowded  room 
Between  supporters ;  and,  once  seated,  sit, 
Through  downright  inabiUty  to  rise, 
Till  the  stout  bearers  lift  the  corpse  again. 
These  speak  a  loud  memento.    Yet  e'en  these 
Themselves  love  life,  and  cling  to  it,  as  he, 
That  overhangs  a  torrent,  to  a  twig. 
They  love  it,  and  yet  loath  it;  fear  to  die. 
Yet  scorn  the  purposes  for  which  they  live. 
Then  wherefore  not  renounce  theml  No — the 

dread,  ' 
The  slavish  dread  of  solitude,  that  breeds 
Reflection  and  remorse,  the  fear  of  shame, 
And  their  inveterate  habits,  all  forbid. 

Whom  call  we  gay  1  That  honour  has  been  long 
The  boast  of  mere  pretenders  to  the  name. 
The  innocent  are  gay,  the  lark  is  gay, 
That  dries  his  feathers,  saturate  with  dew, 
Beneath  the  rosy  cloud,  while  yet  the  beams 
Of  dayspring  overshoot  his  humble  nest. 
The  peasant  too,  a  witness  of  his  song, 
Himself  a  songster,  is  as  gay  as  he. 
But  save  me  from  the  gayety  of  those, 
Whose  headachs  nail  them  to  a  noonday  bed ; 
And  save  me  too  from  theirs,  whose  haggard  eyes 
Flash  desperation  and  betray  their  pangs 
For  property  stripped  off  by  cruel  chance ; 
From  gayety,  that  fills  the  bones  with  pain. 
The  mouth  with  blasphemy,  the  heart  with  wo. 

The  earth  was  made  so  various,  that  the  mind 
Of  desultory  man,  studious  of  change, 
And  pleased  with  novelty,  might  be  indulged. 
Prospects,  however  lovely,  may  be  seen 
Till  half  their  beauties  fade ;  the  weary  sight, 
Too  well  acquainted  with  their  smiles,  slides  off* 
Fastidious,  seeking  less  famiUar  scenes. 
Then  snug  enclosures  in  the  sheltered  vale, 
Where  frequent  hedges  intercept  the  eye, 
Delight  us ;  happy  to  renounce  awhile. 
Not  senseless  of  its  charms,  what  still  we  love, 
That  such  short  absense  may  endear  it  more. 
Then  forests,  or  the  savage  rock,  may  please. 
That  hides  the  seamew  in  his  hollow  clefts 
Above  the  reach  of  man.    His  hoary  head. 
Conspicuous  many  a  league,  the  mariner 
Bound  homeward,  and  in  hope  already  there, 
Greets  with  three  cheers  exulting.    At  his  waist, 
A  girdle  of  half-withered  shrubs  he  shows, 
And  at  his  feet  the  baffled  billows  die. 
The  common,  overgrown  with  fern,  and  rough 
With  prickly  gorse,  that,  shapeless  and  deformed, 


And  dangerous  to  the  touch,  has  yet  its  bloom, 
And  decks  itself  with  ornaments  of  gold, 
Yields  no  unpleasing  ramble  ;  there  the  turf 
Smells  fresh,  and,  rich  in  odoriferous  herbs 
And  fungous  fruits  of  earth,  regales  the  sense 
With  luxury  of  unexpected  sweets. 

There  often  wanders  one,  whom  better  days 
Saw  better  clad,  in  cloak  of  satin  trimmed 
With  lace,  and  hat  with  splendid  riband  bound. 
A  servant  maid  was  she,  and  fell  in  love 
With  one  who  left  her,  went  to  sea,  and  died. 
Her  fancy  followed  him  through  foaming  waves 
To  distant  shores;  and  she  would  sit  and  weep 
At  what  a  sailor  suffers;  fancy  too. 
Delusive  most  where  warmest  wishes  are. 
Would  oft  anticipate  his  glad  return, 
And  dream  of  transports  she  was  not  to  know. 
She  heard  the  doleful  tidings  of  his  death— 
And  never  smiled  again !  and  now  she  roams 
The  dreary  waste;  there  spends  the  livelong  day, 
And  there,  unless  when  charity  forbids, 
The  livelong  night.    A  tattered  apron  hides. 
Worn  as  a  cloak,  and  hardly  hides  a  gown 
jVlore  tattered  still;  and  both  but  ill  conceal 
A  bosom  heaved  with  never-ceasing  sighs. 
She  begs  an  idle  pin  of  all  she  meets, 
And  hoards  them  in  her  sleeve ;  but  needful  food, 
Tho'  pressed  with  hunger  oft,  or  comelier  clothes, 
Tho'  pinched  with  cold  asks  never. — Kate  is  crazed. 

I  see  a  column  of  slow-rising  smoke 
O'ertop  the  lofty  wood  that  skirts  the  wild. 
A  vagabond  and  useless  tribe  there  eat 
Their  miserable  meal.    A  kettle  slung 
Between  two  poles  upon  a  stick  transverse, 
Receives  the  morsel— flesh  obscene  of  dog, 
Or  vermin,  or  at  best  of  cock  purloined 
From  his  accustomed  perch.    Hard  faring  race ! 
They  pick  their  fuel  out  of  every  hedge, 
Which,  kindled  with  dry  leaves,  just  saves  uu- 
quenched 

The  spark  of  life.    The  sportive  wind  blows  wide 

Their  fluttering  rags,  and  shows  a  tawny  skin, 

The  vellum  of  the  pedigree  they  claim. 

Great  skill  have  they  in  palmistry,  and  more 

To  conjure  clean  away  the  gold  they  touch, 

Conveying  worthless  dross  into  its  place; 

Loud  when  they  beg,  dumb  only  when  they  steal. 

Strange !  that  a  creature  rational,  and  cast 

In  human  mould,  should  brutalize  by  choice 

His  nature;  and  though  capable  of  arts. 

By  which  the  world  might  profit,  and  himself. 

Self-banished  from  society,  prefer 

Such  squaUid  sloth  to  honourable  toil ! 

Yet  even  these,  though  feigning  sickness,  oft 

They  swathe  the  forehead,  drag  the  limping  limb, 

And  vex  their  flesh  with  artificial  sores. 

Can  change  their  whine  into  a  mirthful  note. 

When  safe  occasion  oflfers;  and  with  dance, 

And  music  of  the  bladder  and  the  bag. 


THE  TASK. 


61 


Beguile  their  woes,  and  make  the  woods  resound 
Such  health  and  gayety  of  heart  enjoy 
The  houseless  rovers  of  the  sylvan  world; 
And,  breathing  wholesome  air,  and  wandering 
much, 

Need  other  physic  none  to  heal  th'  effects 
Of  loathsome  diet,  penury  and  cold. 

Blest  he,  though  undistinguished  from  the  crowd 
By  wealth  or  dignity,  who  dwells  secure. 
Where  man,  by  nature  fierce,  has  laid  aside 
His  fierceness,  having  learnt,  though  slow  to  learn, 
The  manners  and  the  arts  of  civil  life. 
His  wants  indeed  are  many;  but  supply 
Is  obvious,  placed  within  the  easy  reach 
Of  temperate  vdshes  and  industrious  hands. 
Here  virtue  thrives  as  in  her  proper  soil; 
Not  rude  and  surly,  and  beset  with  thorns, 
And  terrible  to  sight,  as  when  she  springs 
(If  e'er  she  springs  spontaneous)  in  remote 
And  barbarous  climes,  where  violence  prevails, 
And  strength  is  lord  of  all;  but  gentle,  kind, 
By  culture  camed,  by  liberty  refreshed. 
And  all  her  fruits  by  radiant  truth  matured. 
War  and  the  chase  engross  the  savage  whole; 
War  followed  for  revenge,  or  to  supplant 
The  envied  tenants  of  some  happier  spot: 
The  chase  for  sustenance,  precarious  trust! 
His  hard  condition  with  severe  constraint 
Binds  all  his  faculties,  forbids  all  growth 
Of  wisdom,  proves  a  school,  in  which  he  learns 
Sly  circumvention,  unrelenting  hate. 
Mean  self- attachment,  and  scarce  aught  beside. 
Thus  fare  the  shivering  natives  of  the  north, 
And  thus  the  rangers  of  the  western  world, 
Where  it  advances  far  into  the  deep. 
Towards  the  antarctic.    E'en  the  favoured  isles 
So  lately  found,  although  the  constant  sun 
Cheer  all  their  seasons  with  a  grateful  smile, 
Can  boast  but  little  virtue ;  and  inert 
Through  plenty,  lose  in  morals  what  they  gain 
In  manners — victims  of  luxurious  ease. 
These  therefore  I  can  pity,  placed  remote 
From  all  that  science  traces,  art  invents, 
Or  inspiration  teaches;  and  enclosed 
In  boundless  oceans,  never  to  be  passed 
By  navigators  uninformed  as  they, 
Or  ploughed  perhaps  by  British  bark  again: 
But  far  beyond  the  rest,  and  with  most  cause, 
Thee,  gentle  savage  !*  whom  no  love  of  thee 
Or  thine,  but  curiosity  perhaps. 
Or  else  vainglory,  prompted  us  to  draw 
Forth  from  thy  native  bowers  to  show  thee  here 
With  what  superior  skill  we  can  abuse 
The  gifts  of  Providence,  and  squander  life. 
The  dream  is  past;  and  thou  hast  found  again 
Thy  cocoas  and  bananas,  palms  and  yams, 


Omai. 


And  homestall  thatched  with  leaves.    But  hast 
thou  found 

Their  former  charms^  And  having  seen  our  state 
Our  palaces,  our  ladies,  and  our  pomp 
Of  equipage,  our  gardens,  and  our  sports. 
And  heard  our  music;  are  thy  simple  friends, 
Thy  simple  fare,  and  all  thy  plain  delights, 
As  dear  to  thee  as  once  1  And  have  thy  joys 
Lost  nothing  by  comparisoii  with  ours  7 
Rude  as  thou  art,  (for  we  returned  thee  rude 
And  ignorant,  except  of  outward  show) 
I  can  not  think  thee  yet  so  dull  of  heart 
And  spiritless,  as  never  to  regret 
Sweets  tasted  here,  and  left  as  soon  as  known. 
Methinks  I  see  thee  straying  on  the  beach. 
And  asking  of  the  surge  that  bathes  thy  foot, 
If  ever  it  has  washed  our  distant  shore, 
I  see  thee  weep,  and  thine  are  honest  tears, 
A  patriot's  for  his  country :  thou  art  sad 
At  thought  of  her  forlorn  and  abject  state, 
From  which  no  power  of  thine  can  raise  her  up. 
Thus  Fancy  paints  thee,  and,  though  apt  to  err, 
Perhaps  errs  Httle,  when  she  paints  thee  thus. 
She  tells  me  too,  that  duly  every  morn 
Thou  climbest  the  mountain  top,  with  eager  eye 
Exploring  far  and  wide  the  watery  waste 
For  sight  of  ship  from  England.    Every  speck 
Seen  in  the  dim  horizon  turns  thee  pale 
With  conflict  of  contending  hopes  and  fears. 
But  comes  at  last  the  dull  and  dusky  eve, 
And  sends  thee  to  thy  cabin,  well  prepared 
To  dream  all  night  of  what  the  day  denied. 
Alas !  expect  it  not.    We  found  no  bait 
To  tempt  us  in  thy  country.    Doing  good, 
Disinterested  good,  is  not  our  trade. 
We  travel  far,  'tis  true,  but  not  for  nought ; 
And  must  be  bribed  to  compass  earth  again 
By  other  hopes  and  richer  fruits  than  yours. 

But  though  true  worth  and  virtue  in  the  mild 
And  genial  soil  of  cultivated  life 
Thrive  most,  and  may  perhaps  thrive  only  there, 
Yet  not  in  cities  oft :  in  proud,  and  gay, 
And  gain  devoted  cities.    Thither  flow, 
As  to  a  common  and  most  noisome  sewer. 
The  dregs  and  feculence  of  every  land. 
In  cities  foul  example  on  most  minds 
Begets  its  likeness.    Rank  abundance  breeds, 
In  gross  and  pampered  cities,  sloth,  and  lust, 
And  wantonness,  and  gluttonous  excess. 
In  cities  vice  is  hidden  v^dth  most  ease, 
Or  seen  with  least  reproach ;  and  virtue,  taught 
By  frequent  lapse,  can  hope  no  triumph  there 
Beyond  th'  achievements  of  fuccessful  flight. 
I  do  confess  them  nurseries  c£  the  arts, 
In  which  they  flourish  most ;  where,  in  the  beams 
Of  warm  encouragement,  and  in  the  eye 
Of  public  note,  they  reach  their  perfect  size. 
Such  London  is,  by  taste  and  wealth  proclaimed 
The  fairest  capital  of  all  the  world, 


62 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


By  riot  and  incontinence  the  worst. 

There,  touched  by  Reynolds,  a  dull  blank  becomes 

A  lucid  mirror,  in  wliich  Nature  sees 

All  her  reflected  features.    Bacon  there 

Gives  more  than  female  beauty  to  a  stone, 

And  Chatham's  eloquence  to  marble  lips. 

Nor  does  the  chisel  occupy  alone 

The  powers  of  sculpture,  but  the  style  as  much, 

Each  province  of  her  art  her  equal  care. 

"With  nice  incision  of  her  guided  steel 

She  ploughs  a  brazen  field,  and  clothes  a  soil 

So  sterile  vnth  what  charms  soe'er  she  will, 

The  richest  scenery  and  the  loveliest  forms. 

"Where  finds  Philosophy  her  eagle  eye, 

With  which  she  gazes  at  yon  burning  disk 

TJndazzled,  and  detects  and  counts  his  spots  2 

In  London.    Where  her  implements  exact. 

With  which  she  calculates,  computes,  and  scans, 

All  distance,  motion,  magnitude,  and  now  , 

Measures  an  atom,  and  now  girds  a  world  1 

In  London.    Where  has  commerce  such  a  mart, 

So  rich,  so  thronged,  so  drained,  and  so  suppUed, 

As  London — opulent,  enlarged,  and  still 

Increasing  London  1    Babylon  of  old 

Not  more  the  glory  of  the  earth  than  she, 

A  more  accomplished  world's  chief  glory  now. 

She  has  her  praise.    Now  mark  a  spot  or  two, 
That  so  much  beauty  would  do  well  to  purge ; 
And  show  this  queen  of  cities,  that  so  fair 
May  yet  be  foul ;  so  witty,  yet  not  wise. 
It  is  not  seemly,  not  of  good  report, 
That  she  is  slack  in  discipline ;  more  prompt 
T'  avenge  than  to  prevent  the  breach  of  law 
'  That  she  is  rigid  in  denouncing  death 
On  petty  robbers,  and  indulges  life 
And  liberty,  and  oft  times  honour  too, 
To  peculators  of  the  public  gold : 
That  thieves  at  home  must  hang ;  but  he,  that  puts, 


Into  his  overgorged  and  bloated  purse 
The  wealth  of  Indian  provinces,  escapes. 
Nor  is  it  well,  nor  can  it  come  to  good. 
That,  through  profane  and  infidel  contempt 
Of  holy  writ,  she  has  presumed  t'  annul 
And  abrogate,  as  roundly  as  she  may, 
The  total  ordinance  and  will  of  God; 
Advancing  Fashion  to  the  post  of  Truth, 
And  centring  all  authority  in  modes 
And  customs  of  her  own,  till  sabbath  rites 
Have  dvdndled  into  unrespected  forms, 
And  knees  and  hassocks  are  well-nigh  divorced, 

God  made  the  country,  and  man  made  the  town. 
What  wonder  then  that  health  and  virtue,  gifts 
That  can  alone  make  sweet  the  bitter  draught 
That  Ufe  holds  out  to  all,  should  most  abound 
And  least  be  threatened  in  the  fields  and  groves'? 
Possess  ye  therefore,  ye  who,  borne  about 
In  chariots  and  sedans,  know  no  fatigue 
But  that  of  idleness,  and  taste  no  scenes 
But  such  as  art  contrives,  possess  ye  still 
Your  element ;  there  only  can  ye  shine ; 
There  only  minds  like  yours  can  do  no  harm. 
Our  proves  were  planted  to  console  at  noon 
The  pensive  wanderer  in  their  shades.    At  eve 
The  moonbeam,  sUding  softly  in  between 
The  sleeping  leaves,  is  all  the  Bght  they  wish, 
Birds  warbling  all  the  music.    We  can  spare 
The  splendour  of  your  lamps;  they  but  eclipse 
Our  softer  satellite.    Your  songs  confound 
Our  more  harmonious  notes ;  the  thrush  departs 
Scared,  and  the  offended  nightingale  is  mute. 
There  is  a  public  mischief  in  your  mirth ; 
It  plagues  your  country.   Folly  such  as  yours, 
Graced  with  a  sword,  and  worthier  of  a  fan, 
Has  made,  what  enemies  could  ne'er  have  done, 
Our  arch  of  empire,  steadfast  but  for  you, 
A  mutilated  structure,  soon  to  fall. 


BOOK  n. 


THE  TIME-PIECE. 


ARGUMENT. 

principal  cause,  to  the  want  of  discipline  in  the  universities. 


O  FOR  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 
Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade, 
Where  rumour  of  oppression  and  deceit, 


Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war, 
Might  never  reach  me  more.    My  ear  is  pained, 
My  soul  is  sick  with  every  day's  report 


THE  TASK. 


63 


Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  which  earth  is  filled. 
There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart, 
It  does  not  feel  for  man;  the  natural  bond 
Of  brotherhood  is  severed  as  the  flax, 
That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire. 
He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 
Not  coloured  hke  his  own;  and  having  power 
T'  enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a  worthy  cause 
Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  his  lawful  prey. 
Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 
Abhor  each  other.    Mountains  interposed 
Make  enemies  of  nations,  who  had  else 
Like  kindred  drops  been  mingled  into  one. 
Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys; 
And,  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplored 
As  human  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot, 
Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his  sweat 
With  stripes,  that  mercy  with  a  bleeding  heart 
Weeps  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast. 
Then  what  is  manl  And  what  man,  seeing  this. 
And  having  human  feelings,  does  not  blush. 
And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man  1 
I  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  my  ground, 
To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleep, 
And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth 
That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earned. 
No:  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 
Just  estimation  prized  above  all  price, 
I  had  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave. 
And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 
We  have  no  slaves  at  home— then  why  abroad '? 
And  they  themselves  once  ferried  o'er  the  wave 
That  parts  us,  are  emancipate  and  loosed. 
Slaves  can  not  breathe  in  England:  if  their  lungs 
Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  fi-ee ; 
They  touch  our  country,  and  their  shackles  fall. 
That's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a  nation  proud 
And  jealous  of  the  blessing.    Spread  it  then, 
And  let  it  circulate  through  every  vain 
Of  all  your  empire ;  that,  where  Briton's  power 
Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too. 

Sure  there  is  need  of  social  intercourse. 
Benevolence,  and  peace,  and  mutual  aid, 
Between  the  nations  in  a  world,  that  seems 
To  toll  the  death  bell  of  its  own  decease, 
And  by  the  voice  of  all  its  elements 
To  preach  the  general  doom.*    When  were  the 
winds 

Let  slip  with  such  a  warrant  to  destroy  1 
When  did  the  waves  so  haughtily  o'erleap 
Their  ancient  barriers,  deluging  the  dry  1 
Fires  from  beneath,  and  meteorst  from  above. 
Portentous,  unexampled,  unexplained, 
Have  kindled  beacons  in  the  skies  ;  and  th'  old 
And  crazy  earth  has  had  her  shaking  fits 
More  frequent,  and  foregone  her  usual  rest. 
Is  it  a  time  to  wrangle,  when  the  props 


*  Alluding  to  the  calamities  in  .Jamaica, 
t  August  18,  1783, 


And  pillars  of  our  planet  seem  to  fail, 
And  Nature*  with  a  dim  and  sickly  eye 
To  wait  the  close  of  all  1  But  grant  her  end 
More  distant,  and  that  prophecy  demands 
A  longer  respite,  unaccomplished  yet  ; 
Still  they  are  frowning  signals,  and  bespeak 
Displeasure  in  his  breast,  who  smites  the  earth 
Or  heals  it,  makes  it  languish  or  rejoice. 
And  'tis  but  seemly,  that,  where  all  deserve 
And  stand  exposed  by  common  peccancy, 
T o  what  no  few  have  felt,  there  should  be  peace, 
And  brethren  in  calamity  should  love. 

Alas  for  Sicily !  rude  fragments  now 
Lie  scattered,  where  the  shapely  column  stood. 
Her  palaces  are  dust.    In  all  her  streets 
The  voice  of  singing  and  the  sprightly  chord 
Are  silent.    Revelry,  and  dance,  and  show, 
Suffer  a  syncope  and  a  solemn  pause; 
While  God  performs  upon  the  trembhng  stage 
Of  his  own  works  his  dreadful  part  alone. 
How  does  the  earth  receive  him  ?— with  what  signs 
Of  gratulation  and  delight  her  king] 
Pours  she  not  all  her  choicest  fruits  abroad, 
Her  svi^eetest  flowers,  her  aromatic  gums, 
Disclosing  Paradise  where'er  he  treads'? 
She  quakes  at  his  approach.    Her  hollow  womb, 
Conceiving  thunders,  through  a  thousand  deeps  ' 
And  fiery  caverns,  roars  beneath  his  foot. 
The  hills  move  hghtly,  and  the  mountains  smoke, 
For  he  has  touched  them.    From  the  extremest 
point 

Of  elevation  down  into  the  abyss 
His  wrath  is  busy,  and  his  frown  is  felt. 
The  rocks  fall  headlong,  and  the  valleys  rise, 
The  rivers  die  into  offensive  pools. 
And  charged  with  putrid  verdure,  breathe  a  gross 
And  mortal  nuisance  into  all  the  air. 
What  solid  was,  by  transformation  strange, 
Grows  fluid ;  and  the  fixed  and  rooted  earth, 
Tormented  into  billows,  heaves  and  swells, 
Or  with  vertiginous  and  hideous  whirl 
Sucks  down  its  prey  insatiable.    Immense  . 
The  tumult  and  the  overthrow,  the  pangs 
And  agonies  of  human  and  of  brute 
Multitudes,  fugitive  on  e  very  side. 
And  fugitive  in  vain.    The  sylvan  scene 
Migrates  uplifted :  and,  with  all  its  soil 
Alighting  in  far  distant  fields,  finds  out 
A  new  possessor,  and  survives  the  change. 
Ocean  has  caught  the  frenzy,  and,  upwrought 
To  an  enormous  and  o'erbearing  height. 
Not  by  a  mighty  wind,  but  by  that  voice, 
Which  winds  and  waves  obey,  invades  the  shore 
Resistless.    Never  such  a  sudden  flood, 
Upridged  so  high,  and  sent  on  such  a  charge, 
Possessed  an  inland  scene.  Where  now  the  throng, 
That  pressed  the  beach,  and,  hasty  to  depart, 


'  Alluding  to  the  fog,  that  covered  both  Eurone  and 
dunng  the  whole  summer  of  1783. 


C4 


COWPER'S  WORKS, 


Looked  to  the  sea  for  safety  1  They  are  gone, 
tirone  with  the  refluent  wave  into  the  deep — 
A  prince  with  half  his  people !    Ancient  towers, 
And  roofs  embattled  high,  the  gloomy  scenes, 
Where  beauty  oft  and  lettered  worth  consume 
Life  in  the  unproductive  shades  of  death, 
Fall  prone :  the  pale  inhabitants  come  forth. 
And,  happy  in  their  unforeseen  release 
From  all  the  rigours  of  restraint,  enjoy 
The  terrors  of  the  day,  that  sets  them  free. 
Who  then,  that  has  thee,  would  not  hold  thee  fast, 
Freedom  1  whom  they  that  lose  thee  so  regret. 
That  e'en  a  judgment,  making  way  for  thee. 
Seems  in  their  eyes  a  mercy  for  thy  sake. 

Such  evils  Sin  hath  wrought ;  and  such  a  flame 
Kindled  in  Heaven,  that  it  burns  down  to  Earth, 
And  in  the  furious  inquest  that  it  makes 
On  God's  behalf,  lays  Waste  his  fairest  works. 
The  very  elements,  though  each  be  meant 
The  minister  of  man,  to  serve  his  wants. 
Conspire  against  him.    With  his  breath  he  draws 
A  plague  into  his  blood ;  and  can  not  use 
Life's  necessary  means,  but  he  must  die. 
Storms  rise  t'  o'erwhelm  him :  or,  if  stormy  winds 
Rise  not,  the  waters  of  the  deep  shall  rise. 
And,  needing  none  assistance  of  the  storm, 
Shall  roll  themselves  ashore,  and  reach  him  there. 
The  earth  shall  shake  him  out  of  all  his  holds, 
Or  make  his  house  his  grave ;  nor  so  content, 
Shall  counterfeit  the  motions  of  the  flood. 
And  drown  him  in  her  dry  and  dusty  gulfs. 
What  then  '.—were  they  the  wicked  above  all, 
And  we  the  righteous,  whose  fast  anchored  isle 
Moved  not,  while  theirs  was  rocked,  Uke  a  Ught 
skiff. 

The  sport  of  every  wave  1    No :  none  are  clear. 
And  none  than  we  more  guilty.    But,  where  all 
Stand  chargeable  with  guilt,  and  to  the  shafts 
Of  wrath  obnoxious,  God  may  choose  his  mark: 
May  punish,  if  he  please,  the  less,  to  warn 
The  more  malignant.    If  he  spared  not  them, 
Tremble  and  be  amazed  at  thine  escape, 
Far  guiltier  England,  lest  he  spare  not  theel 
Happy  the  man,  who  sees  a  God  employed 
In  all  the  good  and  ill  that  checker  life ! 
Resolving  all  events,  with  their  effects 
And  manifold  results,  into  the  will 
And  arbitration  wise  of  the  Supreme. 
Did  not  his  eye  rule  all  things,  and  intend 
The  least  of  our  concerns  (since  from  the  least 
The  greatest  oft  originate ;)  could  chance 
Find  place  in  his  dominion,  or  dispose 
One  lawless  particle  to  thwart  his  plan; 
Then  God  might  be  surprised,  and  unforeseen 
Contingence  might  alarm  him,  and  disturb 
The  smooth  and  equal  course  of  his  affairs. 
This  truth  Philosophy,  though  eagle-eyed 
In  nature's  tendencies,  oft  overlooks; 
And,  having  found  liis  instrument,  forget^;, 


Or  disregards,  or,  more  presumptuous  still. 
Denies  the  power  that  wields  it.    God  proclaims 
His  hot  displeasure  against  foolish  men, 
That  live  an  atheist  life;  involves  the  Heaven 
In  tempests;  quits  his  grasp  upon  the  winds, 
And  gives  them  all  their  fury  -  bids  a  plague 
Kindle  a  fiery  bile  upon  the  skin, 
And  putrefy  the  breath  of  blooming  Health. 
He  calls  for  Famine,  and  the  meagre  fiend 
Blows  mildew  from  between  his  shrivelled  lips, 
And  taints  the  golden  ear.    tie  springs  his  mines, 
And  desolates  a  nation  at  a  blast. 
Forth  steps  the  spruce  philosopher,  and  tells 
Of  homogeneal  and  discordant  springs 
And  principles ;  of  causes,  how  they  work 
By  necessary  laws  their  sure  effects; 
Of  action  and  re-action:  he  has  found 
The  source  of  the  disease,  that  nature  feels, 
And  bids  the  world  take  heart  and  banish  fear. 
Thoa  fool!  will  thy  discovery  of  the  cause 
Suspend  th'  effect,  or  heal  if?  Has  not  God 
Still  wrought  by  means  since  first  he  m?\*  "ho 
world] 

And  did  he  not  of  old  employ  his  means 
To  drown  if?    What  is  his  creation  less 
Than  a  capacious  reservoir  of  means 
Formed  for  his  use,  and  ready  at  his  wilH 
Go,  dress  thine  eye  with  eye-salve;  ask  of  him, 
Or  ask  of  whomsoever  he  has  taught; 
And  learn,  though  late,  the  genuine  cause  of  all. 

England,  with  all  thy  faults,  I  love  thee  still— 
My  country !  and  while  yet  a  nook  is  left. 
Where  English  minds  and  manners  may  be  found, 
Shall  be  constrained  to  love  thee.  Though  thy  clime 
Be  fickle,  and  thy  year  most  part  deformed 
With  dripping  rains,  or  withered  by  a  frost, 
I  would  not  yet  exchange  thy  sullen  skies. 
And  fields  without  a  flower,  for  warmer  France 
With  all  her  \ines;  nor  for  Ausonia's  groves 
Of  golden  fruitage,  and  her  myrtle  bowers. 
To  shake  thy  senate,  and  from  heights  sublime 
Of  patriot  eloquence  to  flash  down  fire 
Upon  thy  foes,  was  never  meant  my  task: 
But  I  can  feel  thy  fortunes,  and  partake 
Thy  joys  and  sorrows,  with  as  true  a  heart 
As  any  thunderer  there.    And  I  can  feel 
Thy  follies  too;  and  vdth  a  just  disdain 
Frown  at  effeminates,  whose  very  looks 
Reflect  dishonour  on  the  land  I  love. 
How,  in  the  name  of  soldiership  and  sense, 
Should  England  prosper,  when  such  things,  as 
smooth 

And  tender  as  a  girl,  all  essenced  o'er 
With  odours,  and  as  profligate  as  sweet; 
Who  sell  their  laurel  for  a  myrtle  wreath. 
And  love  when  they  should  fight;  when  such 
these 

Presume  to  lay  their  hands  upon  the  ark 
Of  her  magnificent  and  awful  cause'? 


THE  TASK. 


65 


Time  was  when  it  was  praise  and  boast  enough 
In  every  clime,  and  travel  where  we  might, 
That  we  were  born  her  children.    Praise  enough 
To  fill  th'  ambition  of  a  private  man. 
That  Chatham's  language  was  his  mother  tongue. 
And  Wolfe's  great  name  compatriot  with  his  own. 
Farewell  those  honours,  and  farewell  with  them 
The  hope  of  such  hereafter !  They  ha,ve  fallen 
Each  in  his  field  of  glory ;  one  in  arms, 
And  one  in  council — Wolfe  upon  the  lap 
Of  smiling  Victory  that  moment  won, 
And  Chatham  heart-sick  of  his  country's  shame! 
They  made  us  many  soldiers.    Chatham,  still 
Consulting  England's  happiness  at  home, 
Secured  it  by  an  unforgiving  frown. 
If  any  wronged  her.    Wolfe,  where'er  he  fought, 
Put  so  much  of  his  heart  into  his  act, 
That  his  example  had  a  magnet's  force, 
And  all  were  swift  to  follow  whom  all  loved. 
Those  suns  are  set.    O  rise  some  other  such! 
Or  all  that  we  have  left  is  empty  talk 
Of  old  achievements,  and  despair  of  new. 

Now  hoist  the  sail,  and  let  the  streamers  float 
Upon  the  wanton  breezes.    Strew  the  deck 
With  lavender,  and  sprinkle  liquid  sweets, 
That  no  rude  savour  maritime  invade 
The  nose  of  nice  nobility  I    Breathe  soft 
Ye  clarionets,  and  softer  still  ye  flutes; 
That  winds  and  waters,  lulled  by  magic  sounds, 
May  bear  us  smoothly  to  the  Gallic  shore ! 
True ;  we  have  lost  an  empire — let  it  pass. 
True;  we  may  thank  the  perfidy  of  France, 
That  picked  the  jewel  out  of  England's  crown, 
With  all  the  cunning  of  an  envious  shrew. 
And  let  that  pass — 'twas  but  a  trick  of  state 
A  brave  man  knows  no  malice,  but  at  once 
Forgets  in  peace  the  injuries  of  war. 
And  gives  his  direst  foe  a  friend's  embrace. 
And,  shamed  as  we  have  been,  to  th'  very  beard 
Braved  and  defied,  and  in  our  own  sea  proved 
Too  wealc  for  those  decisive  blows,  that  once 
Ensured  us  mastery  there,  we  yet  retain 
Some  small  pre-eminence;  we  justly  boast 
At  least  superior  jockey  ship,  and  claim 
The  honours  of  the  turf  as  all  our  own! 
Go  then,  well  worthy  of  the  praise  ye  seek. 
And  show  the  shame,  ye  might  conceal  at  home, 
In  foreign  eyes ! — Be  grooms  and  win  the  plate, 
Where  once  your  noble  fathers  won  a  crown  J — 
'Tis  generous  to  communicate  your  skill 
To  those  that  need  it.    Folly  is  soon  learned: 
And  under  such  preceptors  who  can  fail! 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  poetic  pains. 
Which  only  poets  know.    The  shifts  and  turns, 
Th'  expedients  and  inventions  multiform. 
To  which  the  mind  resorts,  in  chase  of  terms 
Though  apt,  yet  coy,  and  difficult  to  vfin — 
T'  arrest  the  fleeting  images,  that  fill 
The  mirror  of  the  mind,  and  hold  them  fast. 


And  force  them  sit  till  he  has  pencilled  oflf 
A  faithful  likeness  of  the  forms  he  views; 
Then  to  dispose  his  copies  with  such  art. 
That  each  may  find  its  most  propitious  light, 
And  shine  by  situation,  hardly  less 
Than  by  the  labour  and  the  skill  it  cost; 
Are  occupations  of  the  poet's  mind 
So  pleasing,  and  that  steal  away  the  thought 
With  such  address  from  themes  of  sad  import. 
That,  lost  in  his  own  musings,  happy  man! 
He  feels  th'  anxieties  of  life,  denied 
Their  wonted  entertainment,  all  retire. 
Such  joys  has  he  that  sings.    But  ah !  not  such, 
Or  seldom  such,  the  hearers  of  his  song. 
Fastidious,  or  else  hstless,  or  perhaps 
Aware  of  nothing  arduous  in  a  task 
They  never  undertook,  they  little  note 
His  dangers  or  escapes,  and  haply  find 
Their  least  amusement  where  he  found  the  most. 
But  is  amusement  all]    Studious  of  song, 
And  yet  ambitious  not  to  sing  in  vain, 
I  would  not  trifle  merely,  though  the  world 
Be  loudest  in  their  praise,  who  do  no  more. 
Yet  what  can  satire,  whether  grave  or  gay 
It  may  correct  a  foibie,  may  chastise 
The  freaks  of  fashion,  regulate  the  dress. 
Retrench  a  sword-blade,  or  displace  a  patch; 
But  where  are  its  sublimer  trophies  found'? 
What  vice  has  it  subdued'?  whose  heart  reclaimed 
By  rigour,  or  whom  laughed  into  reform'? 
Alas!  Leviathan  is  not  so  tamed; 
Laughed  at  he  laughs  again;  and  stricken  hard, 
Turns  to  his  stroke  his  adamantine  scales. 
That  fear  no  discipUne  of  human  hands. 

The  pulpit,  therefore,  (and  I  name  it  filled 
With  solemn  awe,  that  bids  me  well  beware 
With  what  intent  I  touch  that  holy  thing) — 
The  pulpit  (when  the  satirist  has  at  last. 
Strutting  and  vapouring  in  an  empty  school, 
Spent  all  his  force  and  made  no  proselyte) — 
I  say  the  pulpit  (in  the  sober  use 
Of  its  legitimate,  peculiar  powers) 
Must  stand  acknowledged,  while  the  world  shall 
stand, 

The  most  important  and  effectual  guard. 
Support,  and  ornament  of  Virtue's  cause. 
There  stands  the  messenger  of  truth:  there  stands 
The  legate  of  the  skies ! — His  theme  divine, 
His  office  sacred,  his  credentials  clear. 
By  him  the  violated  law  speaks  out 
Its  thunders;  and  by  him  in  strains  as  sweet 
As  angels  use,  the  Gospel  whispers  peace. 
He  establishes  the  strong,  restore^the  weak, 
Reclaims  the  wanderer,  binds  the  broken  heart, 
And,  armed  himself  in  panoply  complete 
Of  heavenly  temper,  furnishes  with  arms 
Bright  as  his  own,  and  trains,  by  every  rule 
Of  holy  discipline.^  to  glorious  war, 


00 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Tlio  s;icnuii(Mit:al  host  of  God's  elect! 
Arc     such  teachers would  to  Heaven  all  were! 
B  ut  hark — t  lie  doctor's  voice ! — fast  wedged  between 
Two  empirics  he  stands,  and  with  swoln  cliecks 
Insj)ires  the  news,  his  trumpet.    Keener  far 
Than  all  invective  is  his  bold  harangue. 
While  through  that  public  organ  of  report 
He  hails  the  clergy ;  and.  defying  shame, 
Announces  to  the  world  his  own  and  theirs ! 
He  teaches  those  to  read,  whom  schools  dismissed^ 
And  colleges,  untaught ;  sells  accent,  tone, 
And  emphasis  in  score,  and  gives  to  prayer 
The  adagio  and  andante  it  demands. 
He  grinds  divinity  of  other  days 
Down  into  taodern  use ;  transforms  old  print 
To  zigzag  manuscript,  and  cheats  the  eyes 
Of  gallery  critics  by  a  thousand  arts. 
Are  there  who  purchase  of  the  doctor's  ware  % 
O,  name  it  not  in  Gath ! — it  can  not  be, 
That  grave  and  learned  clerks  should  need  such  aid. 
He  doubtless  is  in  sport,  and  does  but  droll, 
Assuming  thus  a  rank  unknown  before- 
Grand  caterer  and  dry-nurse  of  the  church ! 

I  venerate  the  man,,  whose  heart  is  warm, 
Whose  hands  are  pure,  whose  doctrine  and  whose 
life, 

Coincident,  exhibit  lucid  proof 
That  he  is  honest  in  the  sacred  cause, 
To  such  I  render  more  than  mere  respect. 
Whose  actions  say,  that  they  respect  themselves. 
But  loose  in  morals,  and  in  manners  vain, 
In  conversation  frivolous,  in  dress 
Extreme,  at  once  rapacious  and  profuse ; 
Frequent  in  park  with  lady  at  his  side, 
Ambhng  and  prattling  scandal  as  he  goes ; 
But  rare  at  home,  and  never  at  his  books. 
Or  with  his  pen,  save  when  he  scrawls  a  card ; 
Constant  at  routs,  familiar  with  a  round 
Of  ladyships,  a  stranger  to  the  poor ; 
Ambitious  of  preferment  for  its  gold, 
And  well-prepared,  by  ignorance  and  sloth, 
By  infidelity  and  love  of  world. 
To  make  God's  work  a  sinecure ;  a  slave 
To  his  ovm  pleasures  and  his  patron's  pride ; 
From  such  apostles,  O  ye  mitred  heads, 
Preserve  the  church !  and  lay  not  careless  hands 
On  sculls,  that  can  not  teach,  and  Will  not  learn. 

Would  I  describe  a  preacher,  such  as  Paul, 
Were  he  on  earth,  would  hear,  approve,  and  own, 
Paul  should  himself  direct  me.    I  would  trace 
His  master-strokes,  and  draw  from  his  design. 
I  would  express  him  simple,  grave,  sincere ; 
In  doctrine  uncorrupt ;  in  language  plain. 
And  plain  in  manner ;  decent,  solemn,  chaste, 
And  natural  in  gesture ;  much  impressed 
Himself,  as  conscious  of  his  awful  charge, 
And  anxious  mainly  that  the  flock  he  feeds 
May  feel  it  too ;  affectionate  in  look, 
And  tender  in  address,  as  well  becomes 


A  messenger  of  grace  to  guilty  men. 
Behold  the  picture  !•  — Ts  it  like  ? — Like  wnom  1 
The  things  that  mount  the  rostrum  with  a  skip, 
And  then  skip  down  again ;  pronounce  a  t(!Xt ; 
Cry — hoin ;  and  reading  what  tliey  never  wrote. 
Just  fifteen  minutes,  liuddlc  up  their  work. 
And  with  a  well-bred  whisper  close  the  scene ! 

In  man  or  woman,  but  far  most  in  man. 
And  most  of  all  in  man  that  ministers 
And  serves  the  altar,  in  my  soul  I  loathe 
All  affectation.    'Tis  my  perfect  scorn ; 
Object  of  my  implacable  disgust. 
What ! — will  a  man  play  tricks,  will  he  indulge 
A  silly  fond  conceit  of  his  fair  form. 
And  just  proportion,  fashionable  mien, 
And  pretty  face,  in  presence  of  his  God  I 
Or  will  he  seek  to  dazzle  me  with  tropes. 
As  with  the  diamond  on  his  lily  hand. 
And  play  his  brilUant  parts  before  my  eyes. 
When  I  am  hungry  for  the  bread  of  life  % 
He  mocks  his  Maker,  prostitutes  and  shames 
His  noble  office,  and,  instead  of  truth. 
Displaying  his  own  beauty,  starves  his  flock. 
Therefore  avaunt  all  attitude,  and  stare. 
And  start  theatric,  practised  at  the  glass ! 
I  seek  divine  simplicity  in  him. 
Who  handles  things  divine  ;  and  all  besides, 
Though  learned  with  labour,  and  though  much  ad- 
mired 

By  curious  eyes  and  judgments  ill-informed, 
To  me  is  odious  as  the  nasal  twang 
Heard  at  conventicle,  where  worthy  men. 
Misled  by  custom,  strain  celestial  themes 
Through  the  pressed  nostril,  spectacle  bestrid. 
Some  decent  in  demeanour  while  they  preach, 
That  task  performed,  relapse  into  themselves ; 
And  having  spoken  wisely,  at  the  close 
Grow  wanton,  and  give  proof  to  every  eye. 
Whoe'er  was  edified,  themselves  were  not ! 
Forth  comes  the  pocket  mirror — First  we  stroke 
An  eyebrow ;  next  compose  a  straggling  lock ; 
Then  with  an  air  most  gracefully  performed. 
Fall  back  into  our  seat,  extend  an  arm. 
And  lay  it  at  its  ease  with  gentle  care, 
With  handkerchief  in  hand  depending  low : 
The  better  hand  more  busy  gives  the  nose 
Its  bergamot,  or  aids  the  indebted  eye 
With  opera  glass,  to  watch  the  moving  scene, 
And  recognise  the  slow-retiring  fair. — 
Now  this  is  fulsome,  and  offends  me  more 
Than  in  a  churchman  slovenly  neglect 
And  rustic  coarseness  would.    A  heavenly  mind 
May  be  indifferent  to  her  house  of  clay, 
And  slight  the  hovel  as  beneath  her  care ; 
But  how  a  body  so  fantastic,  trim, 
And  quaint,  in  its  deportment  and  attire. 
Can  lodge  a  heavenly  mind— demands  a  doubt. 

He,  that  negotiates  between  God  and  man, 
As  God's  ambassador,  the  grand  concerns 


THE  TASK. 


67 


Of  judfirment  and  of  mercy,  should  beware 
Of  lightness  in  his  speech.    'Tis  pitiful 
To  court  a  grin,  when  you  should  woo  a  soul ; 
To  break  a  jest,  when  pity  would  inspire 
Pathetic  exhortation ;  and  t'  address 
The  skittish  fancy  with  facetious  tales, 
When  sent  with  God's  commission  to  the  heart 
So  did  not  Paul.    Direct  me  to  a  quip 
Or  merry  turn  in  all  he  ever  wrote, 
And  I  consent  you  take  it  for  your  text, 
Your  only  one,  till  sides  and  benches  fail. 
No :  he  was  serious  in  a  serious  cause, 
And  understood  too  well  the  weighty  terms, 
That  he  had  taken  in  charge.    He  would  not  stoop 
To  conquer  those  by  jocular  exploits, 
Whom  truth  and  soberness  assailed  in  vain. 

O  Popular  Applause  !  what  heart  of  man 
Is  proof  against  thy  sweet  seducing  charms  1 
The  wisest  and  the  best  feel  urgent  need 
Of  all  their  caution  in  thy  gentlest  gales ; 
But  swelled  into  a  gust — Who  then,  alas ! 
With  all  his  canvass  set,  and  inexpert, 
And  therefore  heedless,  can  withstand  thy  power  ? 
Praise  from  the  rivelled  lips  of  toothless,  bald 
Decreptitude,  and  in  the  looks  of  lean 
And  craving  Poverty,  and  in  the  bow 
Respectful  of  the  smutched  ^irtiiicer. 
Is  oft  too  welcome,  and  may  much  disturb 
The  bias  of  the  purpose.    How  much  more, 
Poured  forth  by  beauty  splendid  and  polite, 
In  language  soft  as  Adoration  breathes  ? 
Ah  spare  your  idol !  think  him  human  still. 
Charms  he  may  have,  but  he  has  frailties  im ! 
Dote  not  too  much,  nor  spoil  what  ye  admire. 

All  truth  is  from  the  sempiternal  source 
Of  Ught  divine.    But  Egypt,  Greece  and  Rome, 
Drew  from  the  stream  below.    More  favoured  we 
Drink,  when  we  choose  it,  at  the  fountain  head. 
To  them  it  flowed  much  mingled  and  defiled 
With  hurtful  error,  prejudice  and  dreams 
Illusive  of  philosophy,  so  called. 
But  falsely.    Sages  after  sages  strove 
In  vain  to  filter  off  a  crystal  draught 
Pure  from  the  lees,  which  often  more  enhanced 
The  thirst  than,  slaked  it,  and  not  seldom  bred 
Intoxication  and  delirium  wild. 
In  vain  they  pushed  inquiry  to  the  birth 
And  spring  time  of  the  world;  asked.  Whence  is 
man'? 

Why  formed  at  alH  and  wherefore  as  he  is  1 
Where  must  he  find  his  Maker  7  with  what  rites 
Adore  him'?  Will  he  hear,  accept,  and  bless'? 
Or  does  he  sit  regardless  of  his  works'? 
Has  man  within  him  an  immortal  seed  ] 
Or  does  the  tomb  take  all  1  If  he  survive 
His  ashes,  where "?  and  in  what  weal  or  wo'? 
Knots  worthy  of  solution,  which  alone 
A  Deity  could  solve.    Then:  answers,  vague 
And  all  at  random,  fabulous  and  dark, 
o  2 


Left  them  as  dark  themselves.    Their  rules  of  life, 
Defective  and  unsanctioned,  proved  too  weak 
To  bind  the  roving  appetite,  and  lead 
Blind  nature  to  a  God  not  yet  revealed. 
'Tis  Revelation  satisfies  all  doubts, 
Explains  all  mysteries,  except  her  own. 
And  so  illuminates  the  path  of  life. 
That  fools  discover  it,  and  stray  no  more. 
Now  tell  me,  dignified  and  sapient  sir, 
My  man  of  morals,  nurtured  in  the  shades 
Of  Academus— is  this  false  or  true'? 
Is  Christ  the  abler  teacher,  or  the  schools '? 
If  Christ,  then  why  resort  at  every  turn 
To  Athens  or  to  Rome,  for  wisdom  short 
Of  man's  occasions,  when  in  him  reside 
Grace,  knowledge,  comfort — an  unfathomed  stored 
How  oft,  when  Paul  has  served  us  with  a  text, 
Has  Epictetus,  Plato,  Tully,  preached ! 
Men  that,  if  now  alive,  would  sit  content 
And  humble  learners  of  a  Saviour's  worth, 
Preach  it  who  might.    Such  was  their  love  of 
truth. 

Their  thirst  of  knowledge,  and  their  candour  too ! 

And  thus  it  is— The  pastor,  either  vain 
By  nature,  or  by  flattery  made  so,  taught 
To  gaze  at  his  own  splendour,  and  t'  exalt 
Absurdly,  not  his  oflSce,  but  himself; 
Or  unenlightened,  and  too  proud  to  learn; 
Or  vicious,  and  not  therefore  apt  to  teach; 
Perverting  often  by  the  stress  of  lewd 
And  loose  example,  whom  he  should  instruct 
Exposes,  and  holds  up  to  broad  disgrace 
The  noblest  function,  and  discredits  much 
The  brightest  truths  that  man  has  ever  seen. ' 
For  ghostly  counsel;  if  it  either  fall 
Below  the  exigence,  or  be  not  backed 
With  show  of  love,  at  least  with  hopeful  proof 
Of  some  sincerity  on  the  giver's  part ; 
Or  be  dishonoured  in  th'  exterior  form 
And  mode  of  its  conveyance  by  such  tricks 
As  move  derision,  or  by  foppish  airs 
And  histrionic  mummery,  that  let  down 
The  pulpit  to  the  level  of  the  stage; 
Drops  from  the  lips  a  disregarded  thing. 
The  weak  perhaps  are  moved,  but  are  not  taught, 
While  prejudice  in  men  of  stronger  minds 
Takes  deeper  root,  confirmed  by  what  they  see. 
A  relaxation  of  religion's  hold 
Upon  the  roving  and  untutored  heart, 
Soon  follows,  and,  the  curb  of  conscience  snapped, 
The  laity  run  wild — But  do  they  now'? 
Note  their  extravagance,  and  be  convinced. 

As  nations,  ignorant  of  God,  contrive 
A  wooden  one;  so  we,  no  longer  taught 
By  monitors  that  mother  church  supplies, 
Now  make  our  own.  Posterity  will  ask 
(If  e'er  posterity  see  verse  of  mine) 
Some  fifty  or  a  hundred  lustrums  hence, 
What  was  a  monitor  in  George's  days'? 


•68 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


My  very  gentle  reader,  yet  unborn, 

Of  whom  I  needs  must  augur  better  things. 

Smce  Heaven  would  sure  grow  weary  ot  a  world 

Productive  only  of  a  race  like  ours, 

A  monitor  is  wood — plank  shaven  thin. 

We  wear  it  at  our  backs.    There,  closely  braced 

And  neatly  fitted,  it  compresses  hard 

The  prominent  and  most  unsightly  bones, 

And  binds  the  shoulders  flat.    We  prove  its  use 

Sovereign  and  most  effectual  to  secure 

A  form,  not  now  gymnastic  as  of  yore, 

From  rickets  and  distortion,  else  our  lot. 

But  thus  admonished,  we  can  walk  erect — 

One  proof  at  least  of  manhood !  while  the  friend 

Sticks  close,  a  Mentor  worthy  of  his  charge. 

Our  habits,  costlier  than  LucuUus  wore, 

And  by  caprice  as  multiplied  as  his. 

Just  please  us  while  the  fashion  is  at  full, 

But  change  with  every  moon.    The  sycophant, 

Who  waits  to  dress  rus,  arbitrates  their  date; 

Surveys  his  fair  reversion  with  keen  eye; 

Finds  one  ill  made,  another  obsolete, 

This  fits  not  nicely,  that  is  ill  conceived; 

And,  making  prize  of  all  that  he  condemns, 

With  our  expenditure  defrays  his  own. 

Variety's  the  very  spice  of  Ufe, 

That  gives  it  ail  its  flavour.    We  have  run 

Through  every  change,  that  Fancy,  at  the  loom 

Exhausted,  has  had  genius  to  supply; 

And  studious  of  mutation  still,  discard 

A  real  elegance,  a  little  used, 

For  monstrous  novelty,  and  strange  disguise. 

We  sacrifice  to  dress,  till  household  joys 

And  comfort  cease.    Dress  drains  our  cellar  dry, 

And  keeps  our  larder  lean;  puts  out  our  fires ; 

And  introduces  hunger,  frost,  and  Wo, 

Where  peace  and  hospitality  might  reign. 

What  man  that  lives,  and  that  knows  how  lo  hve. 

Would  fail  t'  exhibit  at  the  pwhlic  shows 

A  form  as  splendid  as  the  proudest  there, 

Though  appetite  raise  outcries  at  the  cost? 

A  man  o'  th'  town  dines  late,  but  soon  enough 

With  rea«03aable  forecast  and  despatch^ 

T'  ensure  a  -^de-box  station  at  half-price. 

You  think,  perhaps^  so  delicate  his  dress, 

His  daily  fare  as  delicate.    Alas ! 

He  picks  clean  teeth,  and  busy  as  he  seems 

With  an  old  tavern  quill,  is  hungry  yet! 

The  rout  is  Folly's  circle,  which  he  draws 

With  magic  wand.    So  potent  is  the  spell, 

That  none,  decoyed  into  that  fatal  ring. 

Unless  by  Heaven's  peculiar  grace,  escape. 

There  we  grow  early  gray,  but  never  wise ; 

There  form  connexions,  but  acquire  no  friend; 

Solicit  pleasure  hopeless  of  success ; 

Waste  youth  in  occupations  only  fit 

For  second  childhood,  and  devote  old  age 

To  sports,  which  only  childhood  could  excuse ; 

There  they  are  happiest,  who  dissemble  best 


Their  weariness;  and  they  the  mo^^  ^""O.Ute, 
Who  squander  time  and  treasure  wiih  ai  ?mile, 
Though  at  their  own  destruction,    ftlfi^  that  asks 
Her  dear  five  hundred  friends  contemns  ihnm  all, 
And  hates  their  coming.    They  (what  can.  they 
less?) 

Make  just  reprisals ;  and,  with  cringe  and  sbrug, 
And  bow  obsequious,  hide  their  hate  of  her. 
All  catch  the  frenzy,  downward  fsom  her  gt£»'«, 
Whose  flambeaux  flash  against  the  morning  aJkdes, 
And  gild  our  chamber  ceiling  as  they  pass, 
To  her,  who,  frugal  only  that  her  thrift 
May  feed  excesses  she  can  ill  afford, 
Is  hackneyed  home  unlackeyed ;  who,  in  haste 
Alighting,  turns  the  key  in  her  own  door, 
And,  at  the  watchman's  lantern  borrowing  lig? 
Finds  a  cold  bed  her  only  comfort  left. 
Wives  beggar  husbands,  husbands  starve  tb  \r 
wives, 

On  Fortune's  velvet  altar  offering  up 

Their  last  poor  pittance. — Fortune,  most  severe 

Of  Goddesses  yet  known,  and  costlier  far 

Than  all,  that  held  their  routs  in  Juno's  heaven,  • 

So  fare  we  in  this  prison-house  the  World; 

And  'tis  a  fearfiil  spectacle  to  see 

So  many  maniacs  dancing  in  their  chains. 

They  gaze  upon  the  hnks,  that  hold  them  fast, 

With  eyes  of  anguish,  execrate  their  lot. 

Then  shake  them  in  despair,  and  dance  again ! 

Now  basket  up  the  family  of  plagues. 
That  wastes  our  vitals;  peculation,  sale 
Of  honour,  perjury,  corruption,  frauds 
By  forgery,  by  subterfuge  of  law. 
By  tricks  and  lies  as  numerous  and  as  keen 
As  the  necessities  their  authors  feel; 
Then  cast  them,  closely  bundled,  every  brat 
At  the  right  door.    Profusion  is  the  sire. 
Profusion  unrestrained,  with  all  that's  base 
In  character,  has  littered  all  the  land, 
And  bred,  within  the  memory  of  no  few, 
A  priesthood,  such  as  Baal's  was  of  old, 
A  people,  such  as  never  was  till  now. 
It  is  a  hungry  vice : — it  eats  up  all 
That  gives  society  its  beauty,  strength. 
Convenience,  and  security,  and  use : 
Makes  men  mere  vermin,  worthy  to  be  trapped 
And  gibbeted,  as  fast  as  catchpole  claws 
Can  seize  the  slippery  prey:  unties  the  knot 
Of  union,  and  converts  the  sacred  band, 
That  holds  mankind  together,  to  a  scourge. 
Profusion,  deluging  a  state  with  lusts 
Of  grossest  nature  and  of  worst  effects, 
Prepares  it  for  its  ruin:  hardens,  bhnds. 
And  warps  the  consciences  of  public  men, 
Till  they  can  laugh  at  Virtue;  mock  the  fools 
That  trust  them ;  and  in  the  end  disclose  a  face, 
That  would  have  shocked  Credulity  herself, 
Unmasked,  vouchsafing  their  sole  excuse — 
1  Since  all  alike  are  selfish,  why  not  they? 


THE  TASK. 


69 


This  does  Profusion,  and  the  accursed  cause 
Ot  such  deep  mischief  has  itself  a  cause. 

In  colleges  and  halls  in  ancient  days,  » 
When  learning,  virtue,  piety  and  truth^,,,^ 
Were  precious,  and  inculcated  with  care, 
There  dwelt  a  sage  called  Discipline.  His  head. 
Not  yet  by  time  completely  silvered  o'er. 
Bespoke  him  past  the  bounds  of  freakish  youth, 
But  strong  for  service  still,  and  unimpaired. 
His  eye  was  meek  and  gentle,  and  a  smile 
Played  on  his  lips;  and  in  his  speech  was  heard 
Paternal  sweetness,  dignity  and  love. 
The  occupation  dearest  to  his  heart 
Was  to  encourage  goodness.    He  would  stroke 
The  head  of  modest  and  ingenuous  worth. 
That  blushed  at  its  own  praise;  and  press  the 

^  youth 

Close  to  his  side,  that  pleased  him.  Learning 
grew 

Beneath  his  care  a  thriving  vigorous  plant; 
The  mind  was  well  informed,  the  passions  held 
Subordinate,  and  diligence  was  choice. 
If  e'er  it  chanced,  as  sometimes  chance  it  must, 
That  one  among  so  many  overleaped 
The  limits  of  control,  his  gentle  eye 
Grew  stern,  and  darted  a  severe  rebuke  : 
His  frown  was  full  of  terror,  and  his  voice 
Shook  the  delinquent  with  such  fits  of  awe, 
As  left  him  not,  till  penitence  had  won 
Lost  favour  back  again,  and  closed  the  breach. 
But  Discipline,  a  faithful  servant  long; 
Declined  at  length  into  the  vale  of  years : 
A  palsy  struck  his  arm ;  his  sparkling  eye 
Was  quenched  in  rheums  of  age ;  his  voice  un- 
strung. 

Grew  tremulous,  and  drew  derision  more 
Than  reverence  in  perverse,  rebellious  youth. 
So  colleges  and  halls  neglected  much 
Their  good  old  friend;  and  Disciphne  at  lehgth, 
O'eriooked  and  unemployed,  fell  sick  and  died. 
Then  Study  languished,  Emulation  slept, 
And  Virtue  fled.    The  schools  became  a  scene 
Of  solemn  farce,  where  Ignorance  in  stilts, 
His  cap  well  lined  with  logic  not  his  own, 
With  parrot  tongue  performed  the  scholar's  part, 
Proceeding  soon  a  graduated  dunce. 
Then  compromise  had  place,  and  scrutiny 
Became  stone  blind ;  precedence  went  in  truck ; 
And  he  was  competent  whose  purse  was  so, 
A  dissolution  of  all  bonds  ensued ; 
The  curbs  invented  for  the  mulish  mouth. 
Of  headstrong  youth  were  broken ;  bars  and  bolts 
Grew  rusty  by  disuse ;  and  massy  gates 
Forgot  their  office,  opening  with  a  touch ; 
Till  gowns  at  length  are  found  mere  masquerade, 
The  tasselled  cap  and  the  spruce  band  a  jest, 
A  mockery  of  the  world  !  What  need  of  these 
P'or  gamesters,  jockeys,  brothellers  impure, 
Spendthrifts,  and  booted  sportsmen  oftener  seen 


With  belted  waist  and  pointers  at  their  heels, 
Than  in  the  bounds  of  duty'?  What  was  learned, 
If  aught  was  learned  in  childhood,  is  forgot  ; 
And  such  expense,  as  pinches  parents  blue, 
And  mortifies  the  liberal  hand  of  love, 
Is  squandered  in  pursuit  of  idle  sports 
And  vicious  pleasure ;,  buys  the  boy  a  name. 
That  sits  a  stigma  on  his  father's  house. 
And  cleaves  through  hfe  inseparably  close 
To  him  that  wears  it.    What  can  after-games 
Of  riper  joys,  and  commerce  with  the  world, 
The  lewd  vain  world,  that  must  receive  him  soon, 
Add  to  such  erudition,  thus  acquired^ 
Where  science  and  where  virtue  are  professed  1 
They  may  confirm  his  habits,  rivet  fast 
His  folly,  but  to  spoil  him  is  a  task, 
That  bids  defiance  to  th'  united  powers 
Of  fashion,  dissipation,  taverns,  stews. 
Now  blame  we  most  the  nursling  or  the  nurse  1 
The  children  crooked,  twisted,  and  deformed,  v 
Through  want  of  care ;  or  her,  whose  winking  eye. 
And  slumbering  oscitancy  mars  the  brood'? 
The  nurse  no  doubt.    Regardless  of  her  charge, 
She  needs  herself  correction;  needs  to  learn, 
That  it  is  dangerous  sporting  with  the  world, 
With  things  so  sacred  as  the  nation's  trust, 
The  nurture  of  her  youth,  her  dearest  pledge. 

All  are  not  such,    I  had  a  brother  once- 
Peace  to  the  memory  of  a  man  of  worth, 
A  man  of  letters,  and  of  manners  too ! 
Of  manners  sweet  as  Virtue  always  wears. 
When  gay  Good-nature  dresses  her  in  smiles. 
He  graced  a  college,*  in  which  order  yet 
Was  sacred ;  and  was  honoured,  loved,  and  wept, 
By  more  than  one,  themselves  conspicuous  there. 
Some  minds  are  tempered  happily,  and  mixed 
With  such  ingredients  of  good  sense,  and  taste 
Of  what  is  excellent  in  man,  they  thirst 
With  such  a  zeal  to  be  what  they  approve, 
That  no  restraints  can  circumscribe  them  more 
Than  they  themselves  by  choice,  for  wisdom's  sake. 
Nor  can  example  hurt  them :  what  they  see 
Of  vice  in  others  but  enhancing  more 
The  charms  of  virtue  in  their  just  esteem. 
If  such  escape  contagion,  and  emerge 
Pure  from  so  foul  a  pool  to  shine  abroad. 
And  give  the  world  their  talents  and  themselves, 
Small  thanks  to  those  whose  negligence  or  sloth 
Exposed  their  inexperience  to  the  snare, 
And  left  them  to  an  undirected  choice. 

See  then  the  quiver  broken  and  decayed. 
In  which  are  kept  our  arrows  !  Rusting  there 
In  wild  disorder,  and  unfit  for  use, 
j  What  w-onder  if,  discharged  into  the  world, 
:  They  shame  their  shooters  with  a  random  flight, 
Their  points  obtuse,  and  feathers  drunk  with  wine ! 
Well  may  the  church  wage  unsuccessful  war 


*  Bene't  Coll.  Cambridge. 


70 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


With  such  artillery  arnsjed.    Vice  parries  wide 
Th'  undrcadcd  volley  with  a  sword  of  straw, 
And  stands  an  impudent  and  fearless  mark. 

Have  we  not  tracked  the  felon  home,  and  found 
His  birth-place  and  his  dam '?  The  country  mourns, 
Mourns  because  every  plague,  that  can  infest 
Society,  and  that  saps  and  worms  the  base 
Of  th'  edifice,  that  Policy  has  raised, 
Swarms  in  all  quarters :  meets  the  eye,  the  ear, 
And  suffocates  the  breath  at  every  turn, 
Profusion  breeds  them ;  and  the  cause  itself 


Of  that  calamitous  mischief  has  been  found : 
Found  too  where  most  offensive,  in  the  skirts 
Of  the  robed  pedagogue !  Else  let  th'  arraigned 
Stand  up  unconscious,  and  refute  the  charge. 
So  when  the  Jewish  leader  stretched  his  arm, 
And  waved  his  red  divine,  a  race  obscene. 
Spawned  in  the  muddy  beds  of  Nile,  came  forth, 
Polluting  Egypt :  gardens,  fields,  and  plains, 
Were  covered  with  the  pest ;  the  streets  were  filled ; 
The  croaking  nuisance  lurked  in  every  nook; 
Nor  palaces,  nor  even  chambers,  'scaped ; 
.  And  the  land  stank— so  numerous  was  the  fry. 


BOOK  m. 

THE  GARDEN. 


ARGUMENT. 


Self-recoUection  and  reproof.— Address  to  domestic  happiness 
pursuits  wES  r^^^^^  of  ™y 


—Some  account  of  myself.— The  vanity  of  many  of  their 

  -Divine  illumination  necessary  to  the,  most  expert  philoso- 

hY^r  The  nuestion  WhatTs'truth?  answered  by  other  questions—Domestic  happiness  addressed  again.-Few  lovers  of 
?hf;;;;;SvSv  tamrhare%ccupati  a  retired  gentleman  m  his  garden.-Pruning.-Frammg -Green-house.- 
?nwin"^f  fl^Wsee^^^^^^  couutrv  preferable  to  the  town  even  in  winter.-Reasons  why  it  is  deserted  at  that  sea^n.- 
Irs  e£  of TaSng^^^^^^^  improvement.-Book  concludes  with  an  apostrophe  to  the  metropolis. 


As  one,  who  long  in  thickets  and  in  brakes 
Entangled,  winds  now  this  way  and  now  that 
His  devious  course  uncertain,  seeking  home; 
Or,  having  long  in  miry  ways  been  foUed 
And  sore  discomfited,  from  slough  to  slough 
Plunging,  and  half  despairing  of  escape ; 
If  chance  at  length  he  find  a  greensward  smooth 
And  faithful  to  the  foot,  his  spirits  rise. 
He  cherups  brisk  his  ear-erecting  steed. 
And  winds  his  way  with  pleasure  and  with  ease 
So  T,  designing  other  themes,  and  called 
T'  adorn  the  Sofa  with  eulogium  due, 
To  tell  its  slumbers,  and  to  paint  its  dreams, 
Have  rambled  wide:  in  country,  city,  seat 
Of  academic  fame  (howe'er  deserved,) 
Long  held,  and  scarcely  disengaged  at  last. 
But  now  with  pleasant  pace  a  cleanUer  road 
I  mean  to  tread:  I  feel  myself  at  large. 
Courageous  and  refreshed  for  future  toil, 
If  toil  await  me,  or  if  dangers  new. 

Since  pulpits  fail,  and  sounding  boards  reflect 
Most  part  an  empty,  ineflfectual  sound. 
What  chance  that  I,  to  fame  so  little  known. 
Nor  conversant  with  men  or  manners  much, 
Should  speak  to  purpose,  or  with  better  hope 
Crack  the  satiric  thong  1   'Twere  wiser  far 
For  me,  enamoured  of  sequestered  scenes, 
And  charmed  with  rural  beauty,  to  repose. 
Where  chance  may  throw  me,  beneath  elm  or 
vine. 

My  languid  limbs,  when  summer  seers  the  plains. 


Or,  when  rough  winter  rages,  on  the  soft 
And  sheltered  Sofa,  while  the  nitrous  air 
Feeds  a  blue  flame,  and  makes  a  cheerful  hearth 
There,  undisturbed  by  Folly,  and  apprised 
How  great  the  danger  of  dirturbing  her. 
To  muse  in  silence,  or,  at  least,  confine 
Remarks,  that  gall  so  many,  to  the  few 
My  partners  in  retreat.    Disgust  concealed 
Is  ofltimes  proof  of  wisdom,  when  the  fault 
Is  obstinate,  and  cure  beyond  our  reach 

Domestic  happiness,  thou  only  bliss 
Of  Paradise,  that  has  survived  the  fall! 
Though  few  now  taste  thee  unimpaired  and  pure, 
Or  tasting  long  enjoy  thee!  too  infirm. 
Or  too  incautious  to  preserve  thy  sweets 
Unmixed  with  drops  of  bitter,  which  neglect 
Or  temper  sheds  into  thy  crystal  cup ; 
Thou  art  the  nurse  of  Virtue,  in  thine  arms 
She  smiles,  appearing,  as  in  truth  she  is. 
Heaven-born,  and  destined  to  the  skies  again. 
Thou  art  not  known  where  Pleasure  is  adored. 
That  reeling  goddess  with  the  zoneless  waist 
And  wandering  eyes,  still  leaning  on  the  arm 
Of  Novelty,  her  fickle,  frail  support; 
For  thou  art  meek  and  constant,  hating  change 
And  finding  in  the  calm  of  truth-tried  love 
Joys  that  her  stormy  raptures  never  yield. 
Forsaking  thee  what  shipwreck  have  we  made 
Of  honour,  dignity  and  fair  renown! 
Till  prostitution  elbows  us  aside 
In  all  our  crowded  streets;  and  senates  seem 


THE  TASK 


Convened  for  purposes  of  empire  less, 
Than  to  release  the  adulteress  from  her  bond. 
Th'  adulteress !  what  a  theme  for  angry  verse ! 
What  provocation  to  the  indignant  heart, 
That  feels  for  injured  love!  but  I  disdain 
The  nauseous  task  to  paint  her  as  she  is, 
Cruel,  abandoned,  glorying  in  her  shame! 
No:  let  her  pass,  and,  charioted  along 
In  guilty  splendour,  shake  the  public  ways; 
The  frequency  of  crimes  has  washed  them  white 
And  verse  of  mine  shall  never  brand  the  vsTetch 
Whom  matrons  now,  of  character  unsmirched, 
And  chaste  themselves,  are  not  ashamed  to  own. 
"Virtue  and  vice  had  boundaries  in  old  time, 
Not  to  be  passed:  and  she,  that  had  renounced 
Her  sex's  honour,  was  renounced  herself 
By  all  that  prized  it;  not  for  prudery's  sake, 
But  dignity's,  resentful  of  the  wrong. 
'Twas  hard  perhaps  on  here  and  there  a  waif, 
Desirous  to  return,  and  not  received; 
But  'twas  a  wholesome  rigour  in  the  main. 
And  taught  th'  unblemished  to  preserve  with  care 
That  purity,  whose  loss  was  loss  of  all. 
Men  too  were  nice  in  honour  in  those  days, 
And  judged  offenders  well.   Then  he  that  sharped. 
And  pocketed  a  prize  by  fraud  obtained. 
Was  marked  and  shunned  as  odious. '  He  that 
sold 

His  country,  or  was  slack  when  she  required 
His  every  nerve  in  action  and  at  stretch. 
Paid  with  the  blood  that  he  had  basely  spared. 
The  price  of  his  default.    But  now— yes,  now 
We  are  become  so  candid  and  so  fair. 
So  liberal  in  construction,  and  so  rich 
In  Christian  charity,  (good  natured  age !) 
That  they  are  safe,  sinners  of  either  sex, 
Transgress  what  laws  they  may.    Well  dressed 

well  bred. 
Well  equipaged,  is  ticket  good  enough 
To  pass  as  readily  through  every  door. 
Hypocrisy,  detest  her  as  we  may, 
(And  no  man's  hatred  ever  wronged  her  yet) 
May  claim  this  merit  still— that  she  admits 
The  worth  of  what  she  mimics  with  such  care 
And  thus  gives  virtue  indirect  applause ; 
But  she  has  burnt  her  mask,  not  needed  here, 
Where  vice  has  such  allowance,  that  her  shifts 
And  specious  semblances  have  lost  their  use. 

I  was  a  stricken  deer,  that  left  the  herd 
Long  since.    With  many  an  arrow  deep  infixed 
My  panting  side  was  charged,  when  I  withdrew 
To  seek  a  tranquil  death  in  distant  shades, 
There  was  I  found  by  one  who  had  himself 
Been  hurt  by  th'  archers.    In  his  side  he  bore, 
And  in  his  hands  and  feet  the  cruel  scars. 
With  gentle  force  soliciting  the  darts. 
He  drew  them  forth,  and  healed,  and  bade  me  live. 
Since  then,  with  few  associates,  in  remote 
And  silent  woods  1  wander,  far  from  those 
6 


71 


My  former  partners  of  the  peopled  scene ; 
With  few  associates,  and  not  wishing  more. 
Here  much  I  ruminate,  as  much  I  may, 
With  other  views  of  men  and  manners  now 
Than  once,  and  others  of  a  life  to  come. 
I  see  that  all  are  wanderers,  gone  astray 
Each  in  his  own  delusions ;  they  are  lost 
In  chase  of  fancied  happiness,  still  wooed 
And  never  won.    Dream  after  dream  ensues  • 
And  still  they  dream  that  they  shall  still  succeed, 
And  still  are  disappointed.    Rings  the  world 
With  the  vain  stir.    I  sum  up  half  mankind, 
And  add  two  thirds  of  the  remaining  half, 
And  find  the  total  of  their  hopes  and  fears 
Dreams,  empty  dreams.    The  million  flit  as  gay 
As  if  created  only  hke  the  fly, 
That  spreads  his  motley  wings  in  th'  eye  of  noon, 
To  sport  their  season,  and  be  seen  no  more. 
The  rest  are  sober  dreamers,  grave  and  wise, 
And  pregnant  with  discoveries  new  and  rare! 
Some  write  a  narrative  of  wars,  and  feats 
Of  heroes  little  known ;  and  call  the  rant 
A  history:  describe  the  man  of  whom 
His  own  coevals  took  but  little  note. 
And  paint  his  person,  character,  and  views. 
As  they  had  known  him  from  his  mother's  womb. 
They  disentangle  from  the  puzzled  skein. 
In  which  obscurity  has  wrapped  them  up 
The  threads  of  politic  and  shrewd  design, 
That  ran  through  all  his  purposes,  and,  charge 
His  mind  with  meanings  that  he  never  had, 
Or,  having,  kept  concealed.    Some  drill  and  bore 
The  solid  earth,  and  from  the  strata  there 
Extract  a  register,  by  which  we  learn. 
That  he  who  made  it,  and  revealed  its  date 
To  Moses,  was  mistaken  in  its  age. 
Some,^  more  acute,  and  more  industrious  still, 
Contrive  creation ;  travel  nature  up 
To  the  sharp  peak  of  her  sublimest  height. 
And  tell  us  whence  the  stars ;  why  some  are  fixed 
And  planetary  some ;  what  gave  them  first 
Rotation,  from  what  fountain  flowed  their  light. 
Great  contest  follows,  and  much  learned  dust 
Involves  the  combatants ;  each  claiming  truth, 
And  truth  disclaiming  both.  And  thus  they  spend 
The  little  wick  of  hfe's  poor  shallow  lamp 
In  playing  tricks  with  nature,  giving  laws 
To  distant  worlds,  and  trifling  in  their  own. 
Is't  not  a  pity  now  that  tickling  rheums 
Should  ever  tease  the  lungs,  and  blear  ihe  sight 
Of  oracles  like  these  1    Great  pity  too. 
That  having  wielded  the  elements,  and  built 
A  thousand  systems,  each  in  his  own  way, 
They  should  go  out  in  fume,  and  be  forgot '? 
Ah!  what  is  life  thus  spent  1  and  what  are  they 
But  frantic,  who  thus  spend  it '?  all  for  smoke- 
Eternity  for  bubbles  proves  at  last 
A  senseless  bargain.    When  I  see  such  games 
Played  by  the  creatures  of  a  Power,  who  swears 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


That  he  will  judirc  the  earth  and  call  the  fool 
To  a  sharp  reckoning,  that  has  lived  in  vain; 
And  when  I  weigh  this  seeming  wisdom  well, 
And  prove  it  in  the  infallible  result 
So  hollow  and  so  false— I  feel  my  heart 
Dissolve  in  pity,  and  account  the  learned, 
If  this  be  learning,  most  of  all  deceived. 
Great  crimes  alarm  the  conscience,  but  it  sleeps, 
While  thoughtful  man  is  plausibly  amused, 
Defend  me  therefore,  common  sense,  say  I, 
From  reveries  so  airy,  from  the  toil 
Of  dropping  buckets  into  empty  wells, 
And  growing  old  in  drawing  nothing  up  ! 

'Twere  well,  says  one  sage  erudite,  profound. 
Terribly  arched,  and  aquiUne  his  nose, 
And  overbuilt  with  most  impending  brows,  ^ 
'Twere  well,  could  you  permit  the  world  to  live 
As  the  world  pleases ;  what's  the  world  to  you'? 
Much.  I  was  born  of  woman,  and  drew  milk 
As  sweet  as  charity  from  human  breasts. 
I  think,  articulate,  I  laugh  and  weep. 
And  exercise  all  functions  of  a  man. 
How  then  should  I  and  any  man  that  lives 
Be  strangers  to  each  other  1    Pierce  my  vein, 
Take  of  the  crimson  stream  meandering  there, 
And  catechise  it  well ;  apply  the  glass. 
Search  it,  and  prove  now  if  it  be  not  blood 
Congenial  with  thine  own,  and,  if  it  be. 
What  edge  of  subtlety  canst  thou  suppose 
Keen  enough,  wise  and  skilful  as  thou  art, 
To  cut  the  hnk  of  brotherhood,  by  which 
One  common  Maker  bound  me  to  the  kind  1 
True  ;  I  am  no  proficient,  I  confess, 
In  arts  like  yours.    I  can  not  call  the  swift 
Awd  perilous  hghtnings  from  the  angry  clouds. 
And  bid  them  hide  themselves  in  earth  beneath, 
I  can  not  analyse  the  air,  nor  catch 
The  parallax  of  yonder  luminous  point. 
That  seems  half  quenched  in  the  immense  abyss: 
Such  powers  I  boast  not— neither  can  I  rest 
A  silent  witness  of  the  headlong  rage. 
Or  heedless  folly,  by  which  thousands  die. 
Bone  of  my  bone,  and  kindred  souls  to  mine. 
God  never  meant  that  man  should  scale  the  hea- 
vens 

By  stride  of  human  wisdom,  in  his  works. 
Though  wondrous :  he  commands  us  in  his  word 
To  seek  him  rather  where  his  mercy  shines. 
The  mind,  indeed,  enlightened  from  above, 
Views  him  bi  all ;  ascribes  to  the  grand  cause 
The  grand  effect ;  acknowledges  with  joy 
His  manner,  and  with  rapture  tastes  his  style ; 
But  never  yet  did  philosophic  tube. 
That  brmgs  the  planets  home  into  the  eye 
Of  observation,  and  discovers,  else 
Not  visible,  his  family  of  worlds. 
Discover  him  that  rules  them ;  such  a  veil 
Hangs  over  mortal  eyes,  blind  from  the  birth, 
And  dark  in  things  divine.    Full  often  too 


Our  wayward  intellect,  the  more  we  learn 
Of  nature,  overlooks  her  author  more ; 
From  instrumental  causes  proud  to  draw 
Conclusions  retrograde,  and  mad  mistake. 
But  if  his  word  once  teach  us,  shoot  a  ray 
Through  all  the  heart's  dark  chambers,  and  reveal 
Truths  undiscerned  but  by  that  holy  light. 
Then  all  is  plain.    Philosophy,  baptized 
In  the  pure  fountain  of  eternal  love. 
Has  eyes  indeed ;  and  viewing  all  she  sees 
As  meant  to  indicate  a  God  to  man, 
Gives  him  his  praise,  and  forfeits  not  her  own. 
Learning  has  borne  such  fruit 'in  other  days 
On  all  her  branches ;  piety  has  found 
Friends  in  the  friends  of  science,  and  true  prayer 
Has  flowed  from  hps  wet  with  Castalian  dews. 
Such  was  thy  wisdom,  Newton,  child-like  sage  ! 
Sagacious  readier  of  the  works  of  God, 
And  in  this  word  sagacious.    Such  too  thine, 
Milton,  whose  genius  had  angelic  wings, 
And  fed  on  manna !    And  such  thine,  in  whom 
Our  British  Themis  gloried  with  just  cause. 
Immortal  Hale !  for  deep  discernment  praised, 
And  sound  integrity,  not  more  than  famed 
For  sanctity  of  manners  undefiled. 

All  flesh  is  grass,  and  aU  its  glory  fade 
Like  the  fair  flower  dishevelled  in  the  wind ; 
Riches  have  wings,  and  grandeur  is  a  dream. 
The  man  we  celebrate  must  find  a  tomb, 
And  we  that  worship  him  ignoble  graves. 
Nothing  is  proof  against  the  general  curse 
Of  vanity,  that  seizes  all  below. 
The  only  amaranthine  flower  on  earth 
Is  virtue ;  th'  only  lasting  treasure,  truth. 
But  what  is  truth  1    'Twas  Pilate's  question  put 
To  truth  itself,  that  deigned  him  no  reply. 
And  wherefore  1  vnW  not  God  impart  his  light 
To  them  that  ask  it     Freely— 'tis  his  joy, 
His  glory,  and  his  nature,  to  impart. 
But  to  the  proud,  uncandid,  insincere, 
Or  negligent  inquirer,  not  a  spark. 
What's  that,  which  brings  contempt  upon  a  book, 
And  him  who  writes  it,  though  the  style  be  neat, 
The  method  clear,  and  argument  exact  1 
That  makes  a  minister  in  holy  things 
The  joy  of  many,  and  the  dread  of  more. 
His  name  a  theme  for  praise  and  for  reproach  1— 
That,  while  it  gives  us  worth  in  God's  account, 
Depreciates  and  undoes  us  in  our  own  1 
What  pearl  is  it  that  rich  men  can  not  buy, 
That  learning  is  too  proud  to  gather  up ; 
But  which  the  poor,  and  the  despised  of  all, 
Seek  and  obtain,  and  often  find  unsought  1 
Tell  me— and  I  will  tell  thee  what  is  truth. 

O  friendly  to  the  best  pursuits  of  man. 
Friendly  to  thought,  to  virtue,  and  to  peac©^ 
Domestic  life  in  rural  pleasure  passed ! 
Few  know  thy  value,  and  few  taste  thy  sweets; 
Though  many  boast  thy  favours,  and  affect 


THE  TASK. 


TJ 


To  understand  and  choose  thee  for  their  own. 
But  foolish  man  foregoes  his  proper  bUss, 
E'en  as  his  first  progenitor,  and  quits, 
Though  placed  in  Paradise  (for  earth  has  still 
Some  traces  of  her  youthful  beauty  left,) 
Substantial  happiness  for  transient  joy. 
Scenes  formed  for  contemplation,  and  to  nurse 
The  growing  seeds  of  wisdom ;  that  suggest, 
By  every  pleasing  image  they  present. 
Reflections  such  as  meliorate  the  heart. 
Compose  the  passions,  and  exalt  the  mind  ; 
Scenes  such  as  these  'tis  his  supreme  delight 
To  fill  with  riot  and  defile  with  blood. 
Should  some  contagion,  kind  to  the  poor  brutes 
We*  persecute,  annihilate  the  tribes 
That  draw  the  sportsman  over  hill  and  dale 
Fearless,  and  wrapt  away  from  all  his  cares  ; 
Should  never  game-fowl  hatch  her  eggs  again, 
Nor  baited  hook  deceive  the  fish's  eye ; 
Could  pageantry  and  dance,  and  feast  and  song. 
Be  quelled  in  all  our  summer-months'  retreats ; 
How  many  self-deluded  nymphs  and  swains, 
"Who  dream  they  have  a  taste  for  fields  and  groves. 
Would  find  them  hideous  nurseries  of  the  spleen, 
And  crowd  the  roads,  impatient  for  the  town ! 
They  love  the  country,  and  none  else,  who  seek 
For  their  own  sake  its  silence,  and  its  shade. 
Delights  which  who  would  leave,  that  has  a  heart 
Susceptible  of  pity,  or  a  mind 
Cultured  and  capable  of  sober  thought, 
For  all  the  savage  din  of  the  swift  pack, 
And  clamours  of  the  field  1 — detested  sport, 
That  owes  its  pleasures  to  another's  pain ; 
That  feeds  upon  the  sobs  and  dying  shrieks 
Of  harmless  nature,  dumb,  but  yet  endued 
With  eloquence,  that  agonies  inspire, 
Of  silent  tears  and  heart-distending  sighs  1 
Vain  tears,  alas,  and  sighs  that  never  find 
A  corresponding  tone  in  jovial  souls ! 
Well — one  at  least  is  safe.    One  sheltered  hare 
Has  never  heard  the  sanguinary  yell 
Of  cruel  man,  exulting  in  her  woes. 
Innocent  partner  of  my  peaceful  home, 
Whom  ten  long  years'  experience  of  my  care 
Has  made  at  last  familiar ;  she  has  lost 


Esteems  that  busy  world  an  idler  too ! 
Friends,  books,  a  garden,  and  perhaps  his  pen. 
DeUghtful  industry  enjoyed  at  home, 
And  Nature,  in  her  cultivated  trim, 
Dressed  to  his  taste,  inviting  him  abroad.— 
Can  he  want  occupation,  who  has  these '?  ■ 
Will  he  be  idle,  who  has  much  t'  enjoy  1 
Me  therefore  studious  of  laborious  ease, 
Not  slothful,  happy  to  deceive  the  time, 
Not  waste  it,  and  aware  that  human  life 
Is  but  a  loan  to  be  repaid  with  use. 
When  He  shall  call  his  debtors  to  account. 
From  whom  are  all  our  blessings,  business  finds 
E'en  here :  while  sedulous  I  seek  t'  improve. 
At  least  neglect  not,  or  leave  unemployed, 
The  mind  he  gave  me ;  driving  it,  though  slack 
Too  oft,  and  much  impeded  in  its  work 
By  causes  not  to  be  divulged  in  vain. 
To  its  just  point — the  service  of  mankind. 
He,  that  attends  to  his  interior  self, 
That  has  a  heart  and  keeps  it ;  has  a  mind 
That  hungers,  and  supplies  it:  and  who  seeks 
A  social,  not  a  dissipated  hfe, 
Has  business;  feels  himself  engaged  t'  achieve 
No  unimportant,  though  a  silent,  task. 
A  hfe  all  turbulence  and  noise  may  seem 
To  him  that  leads  it  wise,  and  to  be  praised ; 
But  wisdom  is  a  pearl  with  most  success 
Sought  in  still  water,  and  beneath  clear  skies. 
He  that  is  ever  occupied  in  storms. 
Or  dives  not  for  it,  or  brings  up  instead. 
Vainly  industrious,  a  disgraceful  prize. 

The  morning  finds  the  self-sequestered  maa 
Fresh  for  his  task,  intend  what  task  he  may. 
Whether  inclement  seasons  recommend 
His  warm  but  simple  home,  where  he  enjoys, 
With  her,  who  shares  his  pleasures  and  his  heart, 
Sweet  converse,  sipping  calm  the  fragrant  lymph, 
Which  neatly  she  prepares;  then  to  his  book 
Well  chosen,  and  not  sullenly  perused 
In  selfish  silence,  but  imparted  oft. 
As  aught  occurs,  that  she  may  smile  to  hear, 
Or  turn  to  nourishment,  digested  well, 
Or  if  the  garden  vdth  its  many  cares, 
All  well  repaid,  demand  him,  he  attends 
The  welcome  call,  conscious  how  much  the  hand 
Of  lubbard  labour  needs  his  watchful  eye. 


Much  of  her  vigilant  instinctive  dread. 
Not  needful  here,  beneath  a  roof  like  mine. 

Yes— thou  mayest  eat  thy  bread,  and  lick  the  hand  I  Oft  loitering  lazily,  if  not  overseen. 
That  feeds  thee ;  thou  mayest  froUc  on  the  floor     Or  misapplying  his  unskilful  strength 
At  evening,  and  at  night  retire  secure 
To  thy  straw  couch,  and  slumber  unalarmed ; 
For  I  have  gained  thy  confidence,  have  pledged 
All  that  is  human  in  me,  to  protect 
Thine  unsuspecting  gratitude  and  love. 
If  I  survive  thee,  I  will  dig  thy  grave ; 
And,  when  I  place  thee  in  it,  sighing  say, 
I  knew  at  least  one  hare  that  had  a  friend. 

How  various  his  employments,  whom  the  world 
Calls  idle ;  and  who  justly  in  return 


Nor  does  he  govern  only  or  direct. 
But  much  performs  himself    No  works,  indeed 
That  ask  robust,  tough  sinews,  bred  to  toil, 
Servile  employ :  but  such  as  may  amuse, 
Not  tire,  demanding  rather  skill  than  force. 
Proud  of  his  well-spread  walls,  he  views  his  trees 
That  meet,  no  barren  interval  between, 
With  pleasure  more  than  e'en  their  fruits  afl^brds* 
Which,  save  himself  who  trains  them,  none  can 
feel. 


74 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Tliesc  therefore  are  his  own  pecuUar  charge; 
No  meaner  hand  may  discipline  the  shoots, 
None  but  liis  steel  approach  them.  What  is  weak, 
Distempered,  or  has  lost  prolific  powers. 
Impaired  by  age,  his  unrelenting  hand 
Dooms  to  the  knife:  nor  docs  he  spare  the  soft 
And  succulent,  that  feeds  its  giant  growth, 
But  barren,  at  th'  expense  of  neighbouring  twigs 
Less  ostentatious,  and  yet  studded  thick 
With  hopeful  gems.    The  rest,  no  portion  left 
That  may  disgrace  his  art,  or  disappoint 
Large  expectation,  he  disposes  neat 
At  measured  distances,  that  air  and  sun, 
Admitted  freely  may  afford  their  aid, 
And  ventilate  and  warm  the  sweUing  buds. 
Hence  Summej  has  her  riches.  Autumn  hence. 
And  hence  e'en  Winter  fills  his  withered  hand 
With  blushing  fruits,  and  plenty  not  his  own.* 
Fair  recompense  of 'labour  well  bestowed, 
And  wise  precaution;  which  a  clime  so  rude 
Makes  needful  still,  whose  Spring  is  but  the  child 
Of  churlish  Winter,  in  her  froward  moods 
Discovering  much  the  temper  of  her  sire. 
For  oft,  as  if  in  her  the  stream  of  mild 
Maternal  nature  had  reversed  its  course, 
She  sings  her  infants  forth  with  many  smiles ; 
But,  once  delivered,  kills  them  with  a  frown. 
He  therefore,  timely  warned  himself,  supplies 
Her  want  of  care,  screening  and  keeping  warm 
The  plenteous  bloom,  that  no  rough  blast  may 
sweep 

His  garlands  from  the  boughs.    Again,  as  oft 
As  the  sun  peeps  and  vernal  airs  breathe  mild. 
The  fence  withdrawn,  he  gives  them  every  beam. 
And  spreads  his  hopes  before  the  blaze  of  day. 

To  raise  the  prickly  and  green-coated  gourd 
So  grateful  to  the  palate,  and  when  rare 
So  coveted,  else  base  and  disesteemed — 
Food  for  the  vulgar  merely — is  an  art 
That  toiling  ages  have  but  just  matured, 
And  at  this  moment  unessayed  in  song. 
Yet  gnats  have  had,  and  frogs  and  mice,  long 


*  'Miraturque  novos  fructus  et  non  sua  poma.'  Virg. 


Deciduous,  when  now  November  dark 
Checks  vegetation  in  the  torpid  plant 
Exposed  to  his  cold  breath,  the  task  begins. 
Warily,  therefore,  and  with  prudent  heed, 
He  seeks  a  favoured  spot ;  that  where  he  builds 
Th'  agglomerated  pile  his  frame  may  front 
The  sun's  meridian  disk,  and  at  the  back 
Enjoy  close  shelter,  wall,  or  reeds,  or  hedge 
Impervious  to  the  wind.    First  he  bids  spread 
Dry  fern  or  littered  hay,  that  may  imbibe 
Th'  ascending  damps  ;  then  leisurely  impo.^e, 
And  lightly,  shaking  it  with  agile  hand 
From  the  full  fork,  the  saturated  straw. 
What  longest  binds  the  closest  forms  secure 
The  shapely  side,  that  as  it  rises  takes. 
By  just  degrees,  an  overhanging  breadth. 
Sheltering  the  base  with  its  projected  eaves; 
Th'  uplifted  frame,  compact  at  every  joint, 
And  overlaid  vvith  clear  translucent  glass. 
He  settles  next  upon  the  sloping  mount, 
Whose  sharp  declivity  shoots  oft'  secure 
From  the  dashed  pane  the  deluge  as  it  falls. 
He  shuts  it  close,  and  the  first  labour  ends. 
Thrice  must  the  voluble  and  restless  earth 
Spin  round  upon  her  axle,  ere  the  warmth 
Slow  gathering  in  the  midst,  through  the  square 
mass 

Diffused,  attain  the  surface ;  when,  behold ! 

A  pestilent  and  most  corrosive  steam. 

Like  a  gross  fog  Boeotian,  rising  fast, 

And  fast  condensed  upon  the  dewy  sash, 

Asks  egress ;  which  obtained,  the  overcharged 

And  drenched  conservatory  breathes  abroad, 

In  volumes  wheeling  slow,  the  vapour  dank ; 

And,  purified,  rejoices  to  have  lost 

Its  foul  inhabitant.    But  to  assuage 

Th'  impatient  fervour,  which  it  first  conceives 

Within  its  reeking  bosom,  threatning  death 

To  his  young  hopes,  requires  discreet  delay, 

Experience,  slow  preceptress,  teaching  oft 

The  way  to  glory  by  miscarriage  foul. 

Must  prompt  him,  and  admonish  how  lo  catch 

Th'  auspicious  moment,  when  the  tempered  heat, 

Friendly  to  vital  motion,  may  afford 

Soft  fomentation,  and  invite  the  seed. 

The  seed,  selected  wisely,  plump  and  smooth, 

And  glossy,  he  commits  to  pots  of  size 

Diminutiye,  well  filled  with  well-prepared 

And  fruitful  soil,  that  has  been  treasured  long, 

And  drank  no  moisture  from  the  dripping  clouds. 

These  on  the  warm  and  genial  earth,  that  hides 

The  smoking  manure,  and  o'erspreads  it  all, 

He  places  lightly,  and,  as  time  subdues 

The  rage  of  fermentation,  plunges  deep 

In  the  soft  medium,  till  they  stand  immersed. 

Then  rise  the  tender  germs,  upstarting  quick, 

And  spreading  wide  their  spongy  lobes  ;  at  first 

Pale,  wan,  and  livid  ;  but  assuming  soon, 

If  fanned  by  balmy  and  nutritious  air. 


Their  eulogy;  those  sang  the  Mantuan  bard. 

And  these  the  Grecian,  in  ennobling  strains; 

And  in  thy  numbers,  Philips,  shines  for  aye 

The  solitary  shilling.    Pardon  then. 

Ye  sage  dispensers  of  poetic  fame, 

Th'  ambition  of  one  meaner  far,  whose  powers, 

Presuming  an  attempt  not  less  sublime. 

Pant  for  the  praise  of  diessing  to  the  taste 

Of  critic  appetite,  no  sordid  fare, 

A  cucumber,  while  costly  yet  and  scarce. 

The  stable  yields  a  stercoraceous  heap. 
Impregnated  with  quick  fermenting  salts. 
And  potent  to  resist  the  freezing  blast: 
For,  e'er  the  beech  and  elm  have  cast  their  leaf 


THE  TASK. 


75 


Strained  through  the  friendly  mats,  a  vivid  geeen. 
Two  leaves  produced,  two  rough  indented  leaves, 
Cautious  he  pinches  from  the  second  stalk 
A  pimple,  that  portends  a  future  sprout, 
And  interdicts  its  grov\rth.  Thence  straight  succeed 
The  branches,  sturdy  to  his  utmost  wish ; 
Prohfic  all,  and  harbingers  of  more. 
The  crowded  roots  demand  enlargement  now, 
And  transplantation  in  an  ampler  space. 
Indulged  in  what  they  wish,  they  soon  supply 
Large  foliage,  overshadovdng  golden  flowers. 
Blown  on  the  summit  of  th'  apparent  fruit. 
These  have  their  sexes !  and,  when  summer  shines 
The  bee  transports  the  fertilizing  meal 
From  flower  to  flower,  and  e'en  the  breathing  air 
Wafts  the  rich  prize  to  its  appointed  use. 
Not  so  when  v^dnter  scowls.    Assistant  art 
Then  acts  in  Nature's  oflice,  brings  to  pass 
The  glad  espousals,  and  ensures  the  crop. 
'  Grudge  not,  ye  rich,  (since  Luxury  must  have 
His  dainties,  and  the  world's  more  numerous  half 
Lives  by  contriving  dehcates  for  you,) 
Grudge  not  the  cost.    Ye  Uttle  know  the  cares. 
The  vigiknce,  the  labour,  and  the  skill. 
That  day  and  night  are  exercised,  and  hang 
Upon  the  tickUsh  balance  of  suspense. 
That  ye  may  garnish  your  profuse  regales 
With  summer  fruits  brought  forth  by  wintry  suns. 
Ten  thousand  dangers  He  in  wait  to  thwart 
The  process.  Heat  and  cold,  and  vsdnd,  and  steam, 
Moisture  and  drought,  mice,  worms,  and  swarm- 


ing 

Minute  as  dust,  and  numberless,  oft  work 
Dire  disappointment,  that  admits  no  cure, 
And  which  no  care  can  obviate.    It  were  long, 
Too  long,  to  tell  th'  expedients  and  the  shifts, 
Which  he  that  fights  a  season  so  severe 
Devises,  while  he  guards  his  tender  trust; 
And  oft  at  last  in  vain.    The  learned  and  wise 
Sarcastic  would  exclaim,  and  judge  the  song 
Cold  as  its  theme,  and  Uke  its  theme,  the  fruit 
Of  too  much  labour,  worthless  when  produced. 

Who  loves  a  garden  loves  a  green-house  too. 
Unconscious  of  a  less  propitious  clime. 
There  blooms  exotic  beauty,  warm  and  snug. 
While  the  winds  whistle,  and  the  snows  descend. 
The  spiry  myrtle  with  unwithering  leaf 
Shines  there  and  flourishes.    The  golden  boast 
Of  Portugal  and  western  India  there, 
The  ruddier  orange,  and  the  paler  lime. 
Peep  through  the  polished  foliage  at  the  storm. 
And  seem  to  smile  at  what  they  need  not  fear.' 
Th'  amomum  there,  with  intermingling  flowers 
And  cherries  hangs  her  twigs.  Geranium  boasts 
Her  crimson  honours ;  and  the  spangled  beau 
Ficoides,  gUtters  bright  the  winter  long. 
All  plants,  of  every  leaf,  that  can  endure 
The  winter's  frown,  if  screened  from  his  shrewd 
bite, 

H 


Live  there,  and  prosper.    Those  Ausonia  claims, 
Levantme  regions  these;  the  Azores  send 
Their  jessamine,  her  jessamine  remote 
CafFraria ;  foreigners  from  many  lands. 
They  form  one  social  shade,  as  if  convened 
By  magic  summons  of  th'  Orphean  lyre. 
Yet  just  arrangement,  rarely  brought  to  pas.«{ 
But  by  a  master's  hand,  disposing  well 
The  gay  diversities  of  leaf  and  flower. 
Must  lend  its  aid  t'  illustrate  all  their  charms, 
And  dress  the  regular  yet  various  scene. 
Plant  behind  plant  aspiring,  in  the  van 
The  dwarfish,  in  the  rear  retired,  but  still, 
Sublime  above  the  rest,  the  stateUer  stand. 
So  once  were  ranged  the  sons  of  ancient  Rome 
A  noble  show !  while  Roscius  trod  the  stage, 
And  so,  while  Garrick,  as  renowned  as  he. 
The  sons  of  Albion ;  fearing  each  to  lose 
Some  note  of  Nature's  music  from  his  lips, 
And  covetous  of  Shakspeare's  beauty,  seen 
In  every  flash  of  his  far-beaming  eye. 
Nor  taste  alone  and  well  contrived  display 
Suflice  to  give  the  marshalled  ranks  the  grace 
Of  their  complete  effect.    Much  yet  remains 
Unsung,  and  many  cares  are  yet  behind, 
And  more  laborious ;  cares  on  which  depends 
Their  vigour,  injured  soon,  not  soon  restored. 
The  soil  must  be  renewed,  which,  often  washed, 
Loses  its  treasure  of  salubrious  salts, 
And  disappoints  the  roots;  the  slender  roots 
Close  interwoven,  and  where  they  meet  the  vase 
Must  smooth  be  shorn  away;  the  sapless  branch 
Must  fly  before  the  knife ;  the  withered  leaf 
Must  be  detached,  where  it  strews  the  floor 
Swept  with  a  woman's  neatness,  breeding  else 
Contagion,  and  disseminating  death. 
Discharge  but  these  kind  offices,  (and  who 
Would  spare,  that  loves  them,  offices  hke  these  1) 
Well  they  reward  the  toil.    The  sight  is  pleased^ 
The  scent  regaled,  each  odoriferous  leaf. 
Each  opening  blossom  freely  breathes  abroad 
Its  gratitude,  and  thanks  him  with  its  sweets. 

So  manifold,  all  pleasing  in  their  kind. 
All  healthful,  are  th'  employs  of  rural  life. 
Reiterated  as  the  wheel  of  time 
Runs  round;  still  ending,  and  beginning  still. 
Nor  are  these  all.    To  deck  the  shapely  knoll. 
That  softly  swelled  and  gayly  dressed  appeara 
A  flowery  island,  from  the  dark  green  lawn 
Emerging,  must  be  deemed  a  labour  due 
To  no  mean  hand,  and  asks  the  touch  of  taste. 
Here  also  grateful  mixture  of  well-matched 
And  sorted  hues  (each  giving  each  relief, 
i\  nd  by  contrasted  beauty  shining  more) 
Is  needful.    Strength  may  wield  the  ponderoas 
spade, 

May  turn  the  clod,  and  wheel  the  compost  home; 
But  elegance,  chief  grace  the  garden  shows, 
And  most  attractive,  is  the  fair  result  ' 


76 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Of  thought,  the  creature  of  a  pohshed  mind. 
Without  it  all  is  gothic  as  the  scene. 
To  wliich  the  insipid  citizen  resorts  ' 
Near  yonder  heath ;  where  Industry  mispent,  I 
But  proud  of  his  uncouth  ill-chosen  task, 
Has  made  a  heaven  on  earth;  with  suns  and 
moons 

Of  close  rammed  stones  has  charged  th'  encum- 
bered soil. 
And  fairly  laid  the  zodiac  in  the  dust. 
He,  therefore,  who  would  see  his  flowers  disposed  '. 
Sightly  and  in  just  order,  ere  he  gives  ' 
The  beds  the  trusted  treasure  of  their  seeds. 
Forecasts  the  future  whole ;  that  when  the  scene 
Shall  break  into  its  preconceived  display, 
Each  for  itself,  and  all  as  with  one  voice 
Conspiring,  may  attest  his  bright  design. 
Nor  even  then,  dismissing  as  performed 
His  pleasant  work  may  he  suppose  it  done. 
Few  self-supported  flowers  endure  the  wind 
Uninjured,  but  expect  th'  upholding  aid 
Of  the  smooth-shaven  prop,  and,  neatly  tied, 
Are  wedded  thus,  like  beauty  to  old  age, 
For  interest  sake,  the  living  to  the  dead. 
Some  clothe  the  soil  that  feeds  them,  far  diffused 
And  lowly  creeping,  modest  and  yet  fair. 
Like  virtue,  thriving  most  where  little  seen ; 
Some  more  aspiring  catch  the  neighbour  shrub 
With  clasping  tendrils,  and  invest  his  branch, 
Else  unadorned,  with  many  a  gay  festoon 
And  fragrant  chaplet,  recompensing  well 
The  strength  they  borrow  with  the  grace  they 
lend. 

All  hate  the  rank  society  of  weeds,' 
Noisome,  and  ever  greedy  to  exhaust 
Th'  impoverished  earth ;  an  overbearing^ace. 
That,  like  the  multitude  made  faction-mad, 
Disturb  good  order,  and  degrade  true  worth. 

O  blest  seclusion  from  a  jarring  world, 
Which  he,  thus  occupied,  enjoys !  Retreat 
Can  not  indeed  to  guilty  man  restore 
Lost  innocence,  or  cancel  follies  past ; 
But  it  has  peace,  and  much  secures  the  min4 
From  all  assaults  of  evil ;  proving  still 
A  faithful  barrier,  not  o'erleaped  with  ease 
By  vicious  Custom,  raging  uncontrolled 
Abroad,  and  desolating  public  Ufe, 
When  fierce  Temptation,  seconded  within 
By  traitor  Appetite,  and  armed  with  darts 
Tempered  in  hell,  invades  the  throbbing  breast. 
To  combat  may  be  glorious,  and  success 
Perhaps  may  crown  us ;  but  to  fly  is  safe. 
Had  I  the  choice  of  sublunary  good, 
What  could  I  wish,  that  I  possess  not  here '? 
Health,  leisure,  means  t'  improve  it,  friendship, 
peace. 

No  loose  or  wanton,  though  a  wandering  muse. 
And  constant  occupation  without  care. 
Thus  blest  I  draw  a  picture  of  that  bUss ; 


Hopeless,  indeed,  that  dissipated  minds, 
And  profligate  abusers  of  a  world 
Created  fair  so  much  in  vain  for  them, 
Should  seek  the  guiltless  joys,  that  I  describe, 
Allured  by  my  report:  but  sure  no  less. 
That  self-condemned  they  must  neglect  the  prize, 
And  what  they  will  not  taste  must  yet  approve. 
What  we  admire  we  praise ;  and,  when  we  praise 
Advance  it  into  notice,  that,  is  worth 
Acknowledged,  others  may  admire  it  too. 
I  therefore  recommend,  though  at  the  risk 
Of  popular  disgust,  yet  boldly  still. 
The  cause  of  piety,  and  sacred  truth, 
And  virtue,  and  those  scenes,  which  God  ordained 
Should  best  secure  them,  and  promote  them  most, 
Scenes  that  I  love,  and  with  regret  perceive 
Forsaken,  or  through  folly  not  enjoyed. 
Pure  is  the  nymph,  though  liberal  of  her  smiles, 
And  chaste,  though  unconfined,  whom  I  extol, 
Not  as  the  prince  in  Shushan,  when  he  called, 
Vainglorious  of  her  charms,  his  Vashti  forth. 
To  grace  the  full  pavilion.    His  design 
Was  but  to  boast  his  own  peculiar  good. 
Which  all  might  view  with  envy,  none  partake. 
My  charmer  is  not  mine  alone ;  my  sweets. 
And  she  that  sweetens  all  my  bitters  too, 
Nature,  enchanting  Nature,  in  whose  form 
And  lineaments  divine  I  trace  a  hand 
That  errs  not,  and  find  raptures  still  renewed, 
Is  free  to  all  men — universal  prize. 
Strange  that  so  fair  a  creature  should  yet  want 
Admirers  and  be  destined  to  divide 
With  meaner  objects  e'en  the  few  she  finds; 
Stripped  of  her  ornaments,  her  leaves  and  flowers, 
She  loses  all  her  influence.    Cities  then 
Attract  us,  and  neglected  Nature  pines 
Abandoned,  as  unworthy  of  our  love. 
But  are  not  wholesome  airs,  though  unperfumed 
By  roses;  and  clear  suns,  though  scarcely  felt; 
And  groves,  if  unharmonious,  yet  secure 
From  clamour,  and  whose  very  silence  charms; 
To  be  preferred  to  smoke,  to  the  eclipse 
That  metropoUtan  volcanoes  make, 
Whose  Stygian  throats  breathe  darkness  all  day 
long'? 

And  to  the  stir  of  Commerce,  driving  slow, 
And  thundering  loud,  with  his  ten  thousand 
wheels; 

They  would  be,  were  not  madness  in  the  head, 
And  folly  in  the  heart;  were  England  now 
What  England  was,— plain,  hospitable,  kind, 
And  undebauched.    But  we  have  bid  farewell 
To  all  the  virtues  of  those  better  days. 
And  all  their  honest  pleasures.    Mansions  once 
Knew  their  own  masters;  and  laborious  hinds, 
Who  had  survived  the  father,  served  the  son. 
Now  the  legitimate  and  rightful  lord 
Is  but  a  transient  guest,  newly  arrived. 
As  soon  to  be  supplanted.    He,  that  saw 


THE  TASK. 


His  patrimonial  timber  cast  its  leaf, 
Sells  the  last  scantling,  and  transfers  the  price 
To  some  shrewd  sharper,  ere  it  buds  again. 
Estates  are  landscapes,  gazed  upon  awhile 
Then  advertised,  and  auctioneered  away. 
The  country  starves,  and  they,  that  feed  th'  o'er- 
charged 

And  surfeited  lewd  town  with  her  fair  dues, 
By  a  just  judgment  strip  and  starve  themselves. 
The  wings,  that  waft  our  riches  out  of  sight. 
Grow  on  the  gamester's  elbows ;  and  th'  alert 
And  nimble  motion  of  those  restless  joints, 
That  never  tire,  soon  fans  them  all  away. 
Improvement  too,  the  idol  of  the  age. 
Is  fed  with  many  a  victim.    Lo,  he  comes ! 
The  omnipotent  magician.  Brown,  appears! 
Down  falls  the  venerable  pile,  th'  abode 
Of  our  forefathers — a  grave  whiskered  race. 
But  tasteless.    Springs  a  palace  in  its  stead. 
But  in  a  distant  spot;  where  more  exposed 
It  may  enjoy  th'  advantage  of  the  north. 
And  aguish  east,  till  time  shall  have  transformed 
Those  naked  acres  to  a  sheltering  grove. 
He  speaks.    The  lake  in  front  becomes  a  lawn; 
Woods  vanish,  hills  subside,  and  valleys  rise; 
And  streams,  as  if  created  for  his  use, 
Pursue  the  tract  of  his  directing  wand, 
Sinuous  or  straight,  now  rapid  and  now  slow, 
ISow  murmuring  soft,  now  roaring  in  cascades — 
E'en  as  he  bids!  Th'  enraptured  owner  smiles, 
'Tis  finished,  and  yet,  finished  as  it  seems, 
Still  wants  a  grace,  the  loveliest  it  could  show, 
A  mine  to  satisfy  th'  enormous  cost. 
Drained  to  the  last  poor  item  of  its  wealth. 
He  sighs,  departs,  and  leaves  th'  accomplished 
plan 

That  he  has  touched,  retouched,  many  a  long  day 
Laboured,  and  many  a  night  pursued  in  dreams. 
Just  when  it  meets  his  hopes,  and  proves  the 
heaven 

He  wanted,  for  a  wealthier  to  enjoy ! 
And  now  perhaps  the  glorious  hour  is  come 
When,  having  no  stake  left,  no  pledge  t'  endear 
Her  interests,  or  that  gives  her  sacred  cause 
A  moment's  operation  on  his  love, 
He  burns  with  most  intense  and  flagrant  zeal 
To  serve  his  country.    Ministerial  grace 
Deals  him  out  money  from  the  public  chest; 
Or,  if  that  mine  be  shut,  some  private  purse 
Supplies  his  need  with  a  usurious  loan, 
To  be  refunded  duly,  when  his  vote, 


Well-managed,  shall  have  earned  its  worthy  price. 
O  innocent,  compared  with  arts  like  these, 
Crape,  and  cocked  pistol,  and  the  whistling  ball 
Sent  through  the  traveller's  temples !  He  that  finds 
One  drop  of  heaven's  sweet  mercy  in  his  cup, 
Can  dig,  beg,  rot,  and  perish,  well  content, 
So  he  may  wrap  himself  in  honest  rags 
At  his  last  gasp;  but  could  not  for  a  world 
Fish  up  his  dirty  and  dependent  bread 
From  pools  and  ditches  of  the  commonwealth, 
Sordid  and  sickening  at  his  own  success. 

Ambition,  avarice,  penury  incurred 
By  endless  riot,  vanity,  the  lust 
Of  pleasure  and  variety,  despatch. 
As  duly  as  the  swallows  disappear. 
The  world  of  wandering  knights  and  squires  to 
town. 

London  ingulfs  them  all!  The  shark  is  there. 
And  the  shark's  prey;  the  spendthrift,  and  the 
leech 

That  sucks  him;  there  the  sycophant,  and  he 
Who  with  bareheaded  and  obsequious  bows 
Begs  a  warm  office,  doomed  to  a  cold  jail 
And  groat  per  diem,  if  his  patron  frown. 
The  levee  swarms,  as  if  in  golden  pomp  ~ 
Were  charactered  on  every  statesman's  door, 
'  Battered  and  bankrupt  fortunes  mended  here.' 
These  are  the  charms,  that  sully  and  eclipse 
The  charms  of  nature.    'Tis  the  cruel  gripe, 
That  lean,  hard-handed  Poverty  inflicts. 
The  hope  of  better  things,  the  chance  to  win, 
The  wish  to  shine,  the  thirst  to  be  amused. 
That  at  the  sound  of  Winter's  hoary  wing 
Unpeople  all  our  counties  of  such  herds 
Of  fluttering,  loitering,  cringing,  begging,  loose, 
And  wanton  vagrants,  as  make  London,  vast 
And  boundless  as  it  is,  a  crowded  coop. 

O  thou,  resort  and  mart  of  all  the  earth. 
Checkered  with  all  complexions  of  mankind. 
And  spotted  with  all  crimes;  in  whom  I  see 
Much  that  I  love,  and  more  that  I  admire. 
And  all  that  I  abhor;  thou  freckled  fair, 
That  pleasest  and  yet  shock'st  me,  I  can  laugh, 
And  I  can  weep,  can  hope,  and  can  despond. 
Feel  vnrath  and  pity,  when  I  think  on  thee! 
Ten  righteous  would  have  saved  a  city  once, 
And  thou  hast  many  righteous.— Well  for  thee— 
That  salt  preserves  thee;  more  corrupted  else. 
And  therefore  more  obnoxious,  at  this  hour. 
Than  Sodom  in  her  day  had  power  to  be, 
For  whom  God  heard  his  Abraham  plead  in  vain, 


78 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


BOOK  IV. 


THE  WINTER  EVENING, 


ARGUMENT. 

The  post  comes  in.— The  newspaper  is  read.— The  world  contemplated  at  a  distance.— Addre^  to  Winter.— The  rural 
amusements  of  a  winter  evening  compared  with  the  fashionable  ones. — Address  to  Evening. — A  brown  study. — Fall  of  snow 
in  the  evening.— The  wagoner.— A  poor  family-piece.— The  rural  thief— Public  houses.— The  multitude  of  them  cen- 
sured.—The  farmer's  daughter ;  what  she  was — what  she  is. — The  simplicity  of  country  manners  almost  lost. — Causes  of 
the  change.— Desertion  of  the  country  by  the  rich.— Neglect  of  magistrates.— The  militia  principally  in  fault.— The  new 
recruit  and  his  transformation.— Reflection  on  bodies  corporate.— Tiie  love  of  rural  objects  natural  to  all,  and  never  to  be 
totally  extinguished. 

Hark  !  'tis  the  twanging  liom  o'er  yonder  bridge, 
That  with  its  wearisome  but  needful  length 
Bestrides  the  wintry  -flood,  in  which  the  moon 
Sees  her  unwrinkled  face  reflected  bright ; — 
He  comes,  the  herald  of  a  noisy  world, 
With  spattered  boots,  strapped  waist,  and  frozen 
locks ; 

News  from  all  nations  lumbering  at  his  back. 
True  to  his  charge,  the  close  packed  load  behind, 
Yet  careless  what  he  brings,  his  one  concern 
Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destined  inn ; 
And,  having  dropped  th'  expected  bag,  pass  on. 
He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted  wretch, 
Cold  and  yet  cheerful :  messenger  of  grief 
Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  of  joy  to  some ; 
To  him  indiflferent  whether  grief  or  joy. 
Houses  in  ashes,  and  the  fall  of  stocks, 
Births,  deaths,  and  marriages,  epistles  wet 
With  tears,  that  trickled  down  the  writer's  cheeks. 
Fast  as  the  periods  from  his  fluent  quill. 
Or  charged  with  amorous  sighs  of  absent  swains. 
Or  nymphs  responsive,  equally  affect 
His  horse  and  him,  unconscious  of  them  all. 
But  O,  th' important  budget !  ushered  in 
With  such  heart-shaking  music,  who  can  say. 
What  are  its  tidings '?  have  our  troops  awaked  1 
Or  do  they  still,  as  if  with  opium  drugged, 
Snore  to  the  murmurs  of  the  Atlantic  wave  1 
Is  India  free  1  and  does  she  wear  her  plumed 
And  jewelled  turban  with  a  smile  of  peace, 
Or  do  we  grind  her  still  1    The  grand  debate, 
The  popular  harangue,  the  tart  reply. 
The  logic,  and  the  wisdom,  and  the  wit. 
And  the  loud  laugh — I  long  to  know  them  all ; 
I  burn  to  set  th'  imprisoned  wranglers  free, 
And  give  them  voice  and  utterance  once  again. 

Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast, 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round, 
And,  while  the  bubbling  and  loud  hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups, 
That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each, 
So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in ; 
Not  such  his  evening,  who  with  shining  face 


Sweats  in  the  crowded  theatre,  and,  squeezed 

And  bored  with  elbow-points  through  both  his  sides, 

Outscolds  the  ranting  actor  on  the  stage : 

Nor  his,  who  patient  stands  till  his  feet  throb, 

And  his  head  thumps,  to  feed  upon  the  breath 

Of  patriots,  bursting  with  heroic  rage. 

Or  placemen,  all  tranquillity  and  smiles. 

This  folio  of  four  pages,  happy  work, 

Which  not  e'en  critics  criticise  ;  that  holds 

Inquisitive  attention,  while  I  read. 

Fast  bound  in  chains  of  silence,  which  the  fair, 

Though  eloquent  themselves,  yet  fear  to  break ; 

What  is  it,  but  a  map  of  busy  life, 

Its  fluctuations,  and  its  vast  concerns  1 

Here  runs  the  mountainous  and  craggy  ridge, 

That  tempts  ambition.    On  the  summit  see 

The  seals  of  office  glitter  in  his  eyes : 

He  climbs,  he  pants,  he  grasps  them !  At  his  heels, 

Close  at  his  heels,  a  demagogue  ascends, 

And  with  a  dexterous  jerk  soon  twists  him  down, 

And  wins  them,  but  to  lose  them  in  his  turn. 

Here  rills  of  oily  eloquence  in  soft 

Meanders  lubricate  the  course  they  take ; 

The  modest  speaker  is  ashamed  and  grieved, 

T'  engross  a  moment's  notice ;  and  yet  begs. 

Begs  a  propitious  ear  for  his  poor  thoughts. 

However  trivial  all  that  he  conceives. 

Sweet  bashfulness !  it  claims  at  least  this  praise ; 

The  dearth  of  information  and  good  sense, 

That  it  foretells  us,  always  comes  to  pass. 

Cataracts  of  declamation  thunder  here ; 

There  forests  of  no  meaning  spread  the  page, 

In  which  all  comprehension  wanders  lost ; 

While  fields  of  pleasantry  amuse  us  there 

With  merry  descants  on  a  nation's  woes. 

The  rest  appears  a  wilderness  of  strange 

But  gay  confusion ;  roses  for  the  cheeks. 

And  lilies  for  the  brows  of  faded  age. 

Teeth  for  the  toothless,  ringlets  for  the  bald. 

Heaven,  earth,  and  ocean,  plundered  of  their  sweety 

Nectareous  essences,  Olympian  dews, 

Sermons,  and  city  feasts,  and  favourite  airs, 

iEthereaJ  journeys,  submarine  exploits, 


THE  TASK. 


79 


And  Katterfelto,  with  his  hair  on  end 
At  his  own  wonders,  wondering  for  his  bread. 

'Tis  pleasant,  through  the  loopholes  of  retreat, 
To  peep  at  such  a  world ;  to  see  the  stir 
Of  the  great  Babel,  and  not  feel  the  crowd; 
To  hear  the  roar  she  sends  through  all  her  gates 
At  a  safe  distance,  where  the  dying  sound 
Falls  a  soft  murmur  on  th'  uninjured  ear. 
Thus  sitting,  and  surveying  thus  at  ease 
The  globe  and  its  concerns,  I  seem  advanced 
To  some  secure  and  more  than  mortal  height. 
That  liberates  and  exempts  me  from  them  all. 
It  turns  submitted  to  my  view,  turns  round 
With  all  its  generations;  I  behold 
The  tumult,  and  am  still.    The  sound  of  war 
Has  lost  its  terrors  ere  it  reaches  me ; 
Grieves,  but  alarms  me  not.    I  mourn  the  pride 
And  avarice  that  makes  man  a  wolf  to  man ; 
Hear  the  faint  echo  of  those  brazen  throats. 
By  which  he  speaks  the  language  of  his  heart, 
And  sigh,  but  never  tremble  at  the  sound. 
He  travels  and  expatiates,  as  the  bee 
From  flower  to  flower,  so  he  from  land  to  land : 
The  manners,  customs,  policy  of  all 
Pay  contribution  to  the  store  he  gleans ; 
He  sucks  intelligence  in  every  clime, 
And  spreads  the  honey  of  his  deep  research 
At  his  return — a  rich  repast  for  me. 
He  travels,  and  I  too.    I  tread  his  deck, 
Ascend  his  topmast,  through  his  peering  eyes 
Discover  countries,  with  a  kindred  heart 
Suflfers  his  woes,  and  share  in  his  escapes; 
While  fancy,  hke  the  finger  of  a  clock. 
Runs  the  great  circuit,  and  is  still  at  home. 

O  Winter,  ruler  of  th'  inverted  year. 
Thy  scattered  hair  with  sleet  like  ashes  filled. 
Thy  breath  congealed  upon  thy  lips,  thy  cheeks 
Fringed  with  a  beard  made  white  with  other 
snows 

Than  those  of  age,  thy  forehead  vsTapped  in 
clouds, 

A  leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  and  thy  throne 
A  sliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheels. 
But  urged  by  storms  along  its  slippery  way, 
I  love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seem'st. 
And  dreaded  as  thou  art !    Thou  hold'st  the  sun 
A  prisoner  in  the  yet  undawning  east. 
Shortening  his  journey  between  morn  and  noon, 
And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 
Down  to  the  rosy  west ;  but  kindly  still 
Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 
Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease. 
And  gathering,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group 
The  family  dispersed,  and  fixing  thought, 
Not  less  dispersed  by  daylight  and  its  cares. 
I  crown  thee  king  of  intimate  delights, 
Fireside  enjoyments,  homeborn  happiness, 
And  all  the  comforts,  that  the  lowly  roof 
Of  undisturbed  Retirement,  and  the  hours 


Of  long  uninterrupted  evening,  know. 
No  rattling  wheels  stop  short  before  these  gates; 
No  powdered  pert  proficient  in  the  art 
Of  sounding  an  alarm  assaults  these  doors 
Till  the  street  rings;  no  stationary  steeds 
Cough  their  own  knell,  while  heedless  of  the  sound, 
The  silent  circle  fan  themselves,  and  quake: 
But  here  the  needle  plies  its  busy  task. 
The  pattern  grows,  the  well  depicted  flower, 
Wrought  patiently  into  the  snowy  lawn. 
Unfolds  its  bosom;  buds,  and  leaves,  and  sprigs, 
And  curling  tendrils,  gracefully  disposed, 
B  oilow  the  nimble  finger  of  the  fair ; 
A  wreath  that  can  not  fade,  of  flowers,  that  blow 
With  most  success  when  all  besides  decay. 
The  poet's  or  historian's  page  by  one 
Made  vocal  for  th'  amusement  of  the  rest ; 
The  sprightly  lyre,  whose  treasure  of  sweet  sounds 
The  touch  from  many  a  trembling  chord  shakes 
out; 

And  the  clear  voice  symphonious,  yet  distinct, 
And  in  the  charming  strife  triumphant  still. 
Beguile  the  night,  and  set  a  keener  edge 
On  female  industry:  the  threaded  steel 
Flies  swiftly,  and  unfelt  the  task  proceeds. 
The  volume  closed,  the  customary  rites 
Of  the  last  meal  commence.    A  Roman  meal ; 
Such  as  the  mistress  of  the  world  once  found  \ 
Delicious,  when  her  patriots  of  high  note. 
Perhaps  by  moonlight,  at  their  humble  doors,  > 
And  under  an  old  oak's  domestic  shade, 
Enjoyed,  spare  feast!  a  radish  and  an  egg. 
Discourse  ensues,  not  trivial,  yet  not  dull. 
Nor  such  as  with  a  frown  forbids  the  play 
Of  fancy,  or  prescribes  the  sound  of  mirth. 
Nor  do  we  madly,  like  an  impious  world, 
Who  deem  religion  frenzy,  and  the  God 
That  made  them,  an  intruder  on  their  joys, 
Start  at  his  awful  name,  or  deem  his  praise 
A  jarring  note.    Themes  of  a  graver  tone. 
Exciting  oft  our  gratitude  and  love. 
While  we  retrace  with  Memory's  pointing  wand, 
That  calls  the  past  to  our  exact  review. 
The  dangers  we  have  'scaped,  the  broken  snare, 
The  disappointed  foe,  deUverance  found 
Unlooked  for,  life  preserved,  and  peace  restored, 
Fruits  of  omnipotent  eternal  love. 
O  evenings  worthy  of  the  gods !  exclaimed 
The  Sabine  bard.    O  evenings,  I  reply. 
More  to  be  prized  and  coveted  than  yours, 
As  more  illumined,  and  with  nobler  truths, 
That  I,  and  mine,  and  those  we  love,  enjoy. 

Is  Winter  hideous  in  a  garb  hke  this"? 
Needs  he  the  tragic  fur,  the  smoke  of  lamps, 
The  pent-up  breath  of  an  unsavoury  throng. 
To  thaw  him  mto  feeling;  or  the  smart 
And  snappish  dialogue,  that  flippant  wits 
Call  comedy,  to  prompt  him  with  a  smile'* 
The  self-complac-ent  actor,  when  he  views 


80 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


(Stealing  a  sidelong  glance  at  a  full  house) 
Tlie  slope  of  faces  from  the  floor  to  th'  roof 
(As  if  one  master-spring  controlled  them  all) 
Relaxed  into  a  universal  grin, 
Sees  not  a  countenance  there  that  speaks  of  joy- 
Half  so  refined  or  so  sincere  as  ours. 
Cards  were  superfluous  here,  with  all  the  tricks, 
That  idleness  has  ever  yet  contrived 
To  fill  the  void  of  an  unfurnished  brain, 
To  palliate  dullness,  and  give  time  a  shove. 
Time,  as  he  passes  us,  has  a  dove's  wing, 
Unsoiled  and  swift,  and  of  a  silken  sound; 
But  the  world's  Time  is  Time  in  masquerade! 
Theirs,  should  I  paint  him,  has  his  pinions  fledged 
With  motley  plumes;  and,  where  the  peacock 
shows 

His  azure  eyes,  is  tinctured  black  and  red 
With  spots  quadrangular  of  diamond  form. 
Ensanguined  hearty,  clubs  typical  of  strife. 
And  spades,  the  emblem  of  untimely  graves. 
What  should  be,  and  what  was  an  hour-glass 
once, 

Becomes  a  dice-box,  and  a  billiard  mace 
Well  does  the  work  of  his  destructive  scythe. 
Thus  decked,  he  charms  a  world  whom  fashion 
blinds 

To  his  true  worth,  most  pleased  when  idle  most; 
Whose  only  happy  are  their  wasted  hours. 
E'en  misses,  at  whose  age  their  mothers  wore 
The  backstring  and  the  bib,  assume  the  dress 
Of  womanhood,  fit  pupils  in  the  school 
Of  card-devoted  Time,  and  night  by  night 
Placed  at  some  vacant  corner  of  the  board. 
Learn  every  trick,  and  soon  play  all  the  game. 
But  truce  with  censure.    Roving  as  I  rove. 
Where  shall  I  find  an  end,  or  how  proceed  1 
As  he  who  travels  far  oft  turns  aside. 
To  view  some  rugged  rock  or  mouldering  tower. 
Which  seen  deUghts  him  not ;  then  coming  home, 
Describes  and  prints  it,  that  the  world  may  know 
How  far  he  went  for  what  was  nothing  worth; 
So  I,  with  brush  in  hand,  and  palette  spread, 
With  colours  mixed  for  a  far  different  use. 
Paint  cards,  and  dolls,  and  every  idle  thing, 
That  Fancy  finds  in  her  excursive  flights. 

Come,  Evening,  once  again,  season  of  peace ; 
Return,  sweet  Evening,  and  continue  long! 
Methinks  I  see  thee  in  the  streaky  west, 
With  matron  step  slow  moving,  while  the  Night 
Treads  on  thy  sweeping  train !  one  hand  employed 
In  letting  fall  the  curtain  of  repose 
On  bird  and  beast,  the  other  charged  for  man 
With  sweet  oblivion  of  the  cares  of  day: 
Not  sumptuously  adorned,  not  needing  aid. 
Like  homely-featured  Night,  of  clustering  gems ; 
A  star  or  two  just  twinkling  on  thy  brow, 
Suffices  thee ;  save  that  the  moon  is  thine 
No  less  than  hers,  not  worn  indeed  on  high 
With  ostentatious  pageantry,  but  set 


With  modest  grandeur  in  thy  purple  zone, 
Resplendent  less,  but  of  an  ampler  round. 
Come  then,  and  thou  shalt  find  thy  votary  calm, 
Or  make  me  so.    Composure  is  thy  gift: 
And,  whether  I  devote  thy  gentle  hours 
To  books,  to  music,  or  the  poet's  toil ; 
To  weaving  nets  for  bird-alluring  fruit ; 
Or  twining  silken  threads  round  ivory  reels. 
When  they  command  whom  man  was  bom  tc 
please 

I  slight  thee  not,  but  make  thee  welcome  still. 

Just  when  our  drawing-rooms  begin  to  blaze 
With  lights,  by  clear  reflection  multiplied 
From  many  a  mirror,  in  which  he  of  Gath, 
Goliah,  might  have  seen  his  giant  bulk 
Whole  without  stooping,  towering  crest  and  all, 
My  pleasures  too  begin.    But  me  perhaps 
The  glowing  hearth  may  satisfy  awhile 
With  faint  illumination,  that  uplifts 
The  shadows  to  the  ceiling,  there  by  fits 
Dancing  uncouthly  to  the  quivering  flame. 
Not  undelighted  is  an  hour  to  me 
So  spent  in  parlour  twilight :  such  a  gloom 
Suits  well  the  thoughtful  or  unthinking  mind, 
The  mind  contemplative,  with  some  new  theme 
Pregnant,  or  indisposed  alike  to  all. 
Laugh  ye,  who  boast  your  more  mercurial  powers, 
That  never  felt  a  stupor,  know  no  pause. 
Nor  need  one;  I  am  conscious,  and  confess 
Fearless,  a  soul  that  does  not  always  think. 
Me  oft  has  Fancy  ludicrous  and  wild 
Soothed  me  with  a  waking  dream  of  houses,  towers, 
Trees,  churches,  and  strange  visages,  expressed 
In  the  red  cinders,  while  with  poring  eye 
I  gazed,  myself  creating  what  I  saw. 
Nor  less  amused  have  I  quiescent  watched 
The  sooty  films,  that  play  upon  the  bars 
Pendulous,  and  foreboding  in  the  view 
Of  superstition,  prophesying  still, 
Though  still  deceived,  some  stranger's  near  ap- 
proach, 

'Tis  thus  the  understanding  takes  repose 

In  indolent  vacuity  of  thought. 

And  sleeps,  and  is  refreshed.  Meanwhile  the  face 

Conceals  the  mood  lethargic  with  a  mask 

Of  deep  deliberation,  as  the  man 

Were  tasked  to  his  full  strength,  absorbed  and  lost. 

Thus  oft,  reclined  at  ease,  I  lose  an  hour 

At  evening,  till  at  length  the  freezing  blast, 

That  sweeps  the  bolted  shutter,  summons  home 

The  recollected  powers ;  and  snapping  short 

The  glassy  threads,  with  which  the  fancy  weaves 

Her  brittle  toils,  restores  me  to  myself 

How  calm  is  my  recess ;  and  how  the  frost, 

Raging  abroad,  and  the  rough  wind  endear 

The  silence  and  the  warmth  enjoyed  within  1 

I  saw  the  woods  and  fields  at  close  of  day 

A  variegated  show ;  the  meadows  green. 

Though  faded;  and  the  lands,  where  lately  waved 


THE 

The  golden  harvest,  of  a  mellow  brown, 
Upturned  so  lately  by  the  forceful  share, 
I  saw  far  off  the  weedy  fallows  smile 
With  verdure  not  unprofitable,  grazed 
By  flocks,  fast  feeding  ;  and  selecting  each 
His  favourite  herb ;  while  all  the  leafless  groves 
That  skirt  the  horizon,  wore  a  sable  hue, 
Scarce  noticed  in  the  kindred  dusk  of  eve. 
To-morrow  brings  a  change,  a  total  change ! 
Which  even  now,  though  silently  performed, 
And  slowly,  and  by  most  unfelt,  the  face 
Of  universal  nature  undergoes. 
Fast  falls  a  fleecy  shower :  the  dovmy  flakes 
Descending,  and,  with  never-ceasing  lapse, 
Softly  alighting  upon  all  below, 
Assimilate  all  objects.    Earth  receives 
Gladly  the  thickening  mantle ;  and  the  green 
And  tender  blade,  that  feared  the  chilling  blast, 
Escapes  unhurt  beneath  so  warm  a  veil.  / 
In  such  a  world,  so  thorny,  and  where  none 
Finds  happiness  unblighted,  or,  if  found, 
Without  some  thistly  sorrow  at  its  side. 
It  seems  the  part  of  wisdom,  and  no  sin 
Against  the  law  of  love,  to  measure  lots 
With  less  distinguished  than  ourselves ;  that  thus 
We  may  with  patience  bear  our  moderate  ills, 
And  sympathize  with  others  suffering  more. 
Ill  fares  the  traveller  now,  and  he  that  stalks 
In  ponderous  boots  beside  his  reeking  team. 
The  wain  goes  heavily,  impeded  sore 
By  congregated  loads  adhering  close 
To  the  clogged  wheels ;  and  in  its  sluggish  pace 
Noiseless  appears  a  moving  hill  of  snow. 
The  toiling  steeds  expand  the  nostril  wide, 
While  every  breath,  by  respiration  strong 
Forced  downward,  is  consolidated  soon 
Upon  their  jutting  chests.    He,  formed  to  bear 
The  pelting  brunt  of  the  tempestuous  night. 
With  halt-shut  eyes,  and  puckered  cheeks  and 
teeth 

Presented  bare  against  the  storm,  plods  on. 
One  hand  secures  his  hat,  save  when  with  both 
He  brandishes  his  pliant  length  of  whip, 
Resounding  oft,  and  never  heard  in  vain, 
O  happy;  and  in  my  account  denied 
That  sensibility  of  pain,  with  which 
Refinement  is  endued,  thrice  happy  thou! 
Thy  frame,  robust  and  hardy,  feels  indeed 
The  piercing  cold,  but  feels  it  unimpaired. 
The  learned  finger  never  need  explore 
The  vigorous  pulse ;  and  the  unhealthful  east. 
That  breathes  the  spleen,  and  searches  every  bone 
Of  the  infirm,  is  wholesome  air  to  thee. 
Thy  days  roll  on  exempt  from  household  care ; 
Thy  wagon  is  thy  wife ;  and  the  poor  beasts; 
That  drag  the  dull  companion  to  and  fro. 
Thine  helpless  charge,  dependent  on  thy  care. 
Ah  treat  them  kindly !  rude  as  thou  appear'st, 
Yet  show  that  thou  hast  mercy !  which  the  great, 


TASK.  81 

With  needless  hurry  whirled  from  place  to  place, 
Humane  as  they  would  seem,  not  always  show. 
Poor,  yet  industrious,  modest,  quiet,  neat. 
Such  claim  compassion  in  a  night  like  this, 
And  have  a  friend  in  every  feeling  heart. 
Warmed,  while  it  lasts,  by  labour,  all  day  long 
They  brave  the  season,  and  yet  find  at  eve, 
111  clad  and  fed  but  sparely,  time  too  cool. 
The  frugal  housewife  trembles  when  she  lights 
Her  scanty  stock  of  brushwood,  blazing  clear, 
But  dying  soon,  like  all  terrestrial  joys. 
The  few  small  embers  left  she  nurses  well ; 
And,  while  her  infant  race,  with  outspread  hands, 
And  crowded  knees  sit  cowering  o'er  the  sparks, 
Retires,  content  to  quake,  so  they  be  warmed. 
The  man  feels  least,  as  more  inured  than  she 
To  winter  and  the  current  in  his  veins 
More  briskly  moved  by  his  severer  toil ; 
Yet  he  too  finds  his  own  distress  in  theirs. 
The  taper  soon  extinguished,  which  I  saw 
Dangled  along  at  the  cold  finger's  end 
Just  when  the  day  dechned;  and  the  brown  loaf 
Lodged  on  the  shelf,  half  eaten  without  sauce 
Of  savoury  cheese,  or  butter,  costlier  still ; 
Sleep  seems  their  only  refuge ;  for  alas ! 
Where  penury  is  felt  the  thought  is  chained, 
And  sweet  colloquial  pleasures  are  but  few. 
With  all  this  thrifl;  they  thrive  not.    All  the  care 
Ingenious  parsimony  takes,  but  just 
Saves  the  small  inventory,  bed,  and  stool. 
Skillet,  and  old  carved  chest,  from  public  sale. 
They  live,  and  live  without  extorted  alms 
From  grudging  hands ;  but  other  boast  have  none 
To  soothe  their  honest  pride,  that  scorns  to  beg, 
Nor  comfort  else,  but  in  their  mutual  love. 
I  praise  you  much,  ye  weak  and  patient  pair. 
For  ye  are  worthy ;  choosing  rather  far 
A  dry  but  independent  crust,  hard  earned. 
And  eaten  with  a  sigh,  than  to  endure 
The  rugged  frowns  and  insolent  rebufl^s 
Of  knaves  in  office,  partial  in  the  work 
Of  distribution;  liberal  of  their  aid 
To  clamorous  Importunity  in  rags, 
But  ofttimes  deaf  to  suppliants,  who  would  blush 
To  wear  a  tattered  garb,  however  coarse. 
Whom  famine  can  not  reconcile  to  filth: 
These  ask  with  painful  shyness,  and,  refused 
Because  deserving,  silently  retire ! 
But  be  ye  of  good  courage '    Time  itself 
Shall  much  befriend  you.    Time  shall  give  in* 
crease, 

And  all  your  numerous  progeny,  well  trained 
But  helpless,  in  few  years  shall  find  their  hands, 
And  labour  too.    Mean- while  ye  shall  not  want 
What,  conscious  of  your  virtues?,  we  can  spare. 
Nor  what  a  wealthier  than  ourselves  may  send. 
I  mean  the  man,  who,  when  the  distant  poor 
Need  help,  denies  them  nothing  but  his  name. 
But  poverty  with  most,  who  whimper  forth 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Their  long  complaints,  is  self-inflicted  wo; 
The  r/r(H-t  oflazinoss  or  sottish  waste. 
Now  .rocs  tlio  niglitly  thief  prowling  abroad 
For  plunder :  much  solicitous  how  best 
He  may  compensate  for  a  day  of  sloth 
By  works  of  darkness  and  nocturnal  wrong. 
Wo  to  the  gardener's  pale,  the  farmer's  hedge, 
Plashed  neatly,  and  secured  with  driven  stakes 
r>ccp  m  the  loamy  bank.    Uptorn  by  strength, 
Resistless  in  so  bad  a  cause,  but  lame 
To  better  deeds,  he  bundles  up  the  spoil, 
An  ass's  burthen,  and,  when  laden  most' 
And  heaviest,  light  of  foot  steals  fast  away. 
Nor  does  the  boarded  hovel  better  guard 
The  well-stacked  pile  of  riven  logs  and  roots, 
From  his  pernicious  force.    Nor  will  he  leave 
Unv^Tenched  the  door,  however  well  secured, 
Where  chanticleer  amidst  his  haram  sleeps  ' 
In  unsuspecting  pomp.   Twitched  from  the  perch 
He  gives  the  pri^icely  bird,  with  all  his  wives, 
To  his  voracious  bag,  struggling  in  vain. 
And  loudly  wondering  at  the  sudden  change. 
Nor  this  to  feed  his  own.    'Twere  some  excuse 
Did  pity  of  their  sufferings  warp  aside 
His  principle,  and  tempt  him  into  sin 
For  their  support,  so  destitute.    But  they 
Neglected  pine  at  home;  themselves,  as  more 
Exposed  than  others,  with  less  scruple  made 
His  victims,  robbed  of  their  defenceless  all. 
Cruel  is  all  he  does.    'Tis  quenchless  thirst 
Of  ruinous  ebriety,  that  prompts 
His  every  action,  and  imbrutes  the  man. 
O  for  a  law  to  noose  the  villain's  neck. 
Who  starves  his  own;  who  persecutes  the  blood 
He  gave  them  in  his  children's  veins,  and  hates 
And  wrongs  the  woman  he  has  sworn  to  love! 
Pass  where  we  may,  through  city  or  through 
town. 

Village,  or  hamlet,  of  this  merry  land. 
Though  lean  and  beggared,  every  twentieth  pace 
Conducts  the  unguarded  nose  to  such  a  whiff 
Of  stale  debauch,  forth  issuing  from  the  styes 
That  law  has  licensed,  as  makes  temperance  reel 
There  sit,  involved  and  lost  in  curling  clouds 
Of  Indian  fume,  and  guzzling  deep,  the  boor 
The  lackey,  and  the  groom:  The  craftsman  there 
Takes  Lethean  leave  of  all  his  toil; 
Smith,  cobler,  joiner,  he  that  plies  the  shears, 
And  he  that  kneads  the  dough;  all  loud  alilce 
AH  learned,  and  aU  drunk!  the  fiddle  screams' 
Plaintive  and  piteous,  as  it  wept  and  wailed 
Its  wasted  tones  and  harmony  unheard: 
Fierce  the  dispute  whate'er the  theme:  while  she 
FeU  Discord,  arbitress  of  such  debate,' 
Perched  on  the  signpost,  holds  with  even  hand 
Her  undecisive  scales.    In  this  she  lays 
A  weight  of  ignorance;  in  that,  of  pride: 
And  smiles  dehghted  with  th'  eternal  poise 
Dire  IS  the  frequent  curse,  and  its  twin  sound 


The  cheek  distending  oath,  not  to  be  praised 

As  ornamental,  musical,  polite, 

Like  those,  which  modern  senators  employ 

Whose  oath  is  rhetoric,  and  who  swear  for  famel 

liehold  the  schools  in  which  plebeian  minds 

Once  simple,  are  initiated  in  arts  ' 

Which  some  may  practise  with  politer  grace 

But  none  with  readier  skill!— 'tis  here  they  learn 

The  road,  that  leads  from  competence  and  peace 

lo indigence  and  rapine;  till  at  last 

Society,  grown  weary  of  the  load, 

Shakes  her  encumbered  lap,  and  casts  them  out. 

But  censure  profits  little:  vain  th'  attempt, 

To  advertise  in  verse  a  public  pest. 

That  lilce  the  filth  with  which  the  peasant  feeds 

His  hungry  acres,  stinks,  and  is  of  use. 

Th'  excise  is  fattened  with  the  rich  result 

Of  all  this  riot ;  and  ten  thousand  casks 

F%  ever  dribbhng  out  their  base  contents 

Touched  by  the  Midas  finger  of  the  state, 

Bleed  gold  for  ministers  to  sport  away. 

Drink,  and  be  mad  then;  'tis  your  country  bids' 

Wonously  drunk  obey  th'  important  call ! 

Her  cause  demands  th'  assistance  of  your  throats: 

Ye  all  can  swallow,  and  she  asks  no  more. 


Would  I  had  fallen  upon  those  happier  days 
That  poets  celebrate;  those  golden  times. 
And  those  Arcadian  scenes  that  Maro  sings, 
And  Sidney,  warbler  of  poetic  prose. 
Nymphs  were  Dianas  then,  and  swains  had  hearts 
lhat  felt  their  virtues:  Innocence,  it  seems. 
From  courts  dismissed,  found  shelter  in  the  proves: 
The  footsteps  of  Simplicity,  impressed 
Upon  the  yielding  herbage,  (so  they  sing) 
Then  were  not  all  effaced:  then  speech  profane, 
And  manners  profligate,  were  rarely  found, 
Observed  as  prodigies,  and  soon  reclaimed. 
Vam  wish !  those  days  were  never:  airy  dreams 
Sat  for  the  picture:  and  the  poet's  hand. 
Imparting  substance  to  an  empty  shade,' 
Imposed  a  gay  delirium  for  a  truth. 
Grant  it:  I  still  must  envy  them  an  age, 
That  favoured  such  a  dream;  in  days'  like 
Impossible,  when  virtue  is  so  scarce, 
That  to  suppose  a  scene  where  she 'presides, 
Is  tramontane,  and  stumbles  all  belief 
No:  we  are  polished  now.    The  rural  lass 
Whom  once  her  virgin  modesty  and  grace, 
Her  artless  manners,  and  her  neat  attire,  ' 
So  dignified,  that  she  was  hardly  less 
Than  the  fair  shepherdess  of  old  romance. 
Is  seen  no  more.    The  character  is  lost !  ' 
Her  head,  adorned  with  lappets  pinned  aloft, 
And  ribands  streaming  gay,  superbly  raised. 
And  magnified  beyond  all  human  size. 
Indebted  to  some  smart  wig-weaver's  hand 
For  more  than  half  the  tresses  it  sustains; 
Her  elbows  ruflled  and  her  tottering  frame 


THE  TASK. 


83 


Ill-propped  upon  French  heels;  she  might  be  Perhaps,  though  by  profession  ghostly  pure. 


deemed 

(But  that  the  basket  dangling  on  her  arm 
Interprets  her  more  truly)  of  a  rank 
Too  proud  for  dairy-work,  or  sale  of  eggs. 
Expect  her  soon  with  footboy  at  her  heels, 
No  longer  blushing  for  her  awkward  load, 
Her  train  and  her  Umbrella  all  her  care! 

The  town  has  tinged  the  country;  and  the  state 
Appears  a  spot  upon  a  vestal's  robe, 
The  worse  for  what  it  soils.    The  fashion  runs 
Down  into  scenes  still  rural ;  but,  alas, 
Scenes  rarely  graced  with  rural  manners  now! 
Time  was  when  in  the  pastoral  retreat 
Th'  unguarded  door  was  safe ;  men  did  not  watch 
T'  invade  another's  right,  or  guard  their  own. 
Then  sleep  was  undisturbed  by  fear,  unscared 
By  drunken  howUngs;  and  the  chilling  tale 
Of  midnight  murder  was  a  wonder  heard 
With  doubtful  credit,  told  to  frighten  babes. 
But  farewell  now  to  unsuspicious  nights. 
And  slumbers  unalarmed !    Now,  ere  you  sleep, 
See  that  your  polished  arms  be  primed  with  care, 
And  drop  the  nightbolt ;  ruffians  are  abroad , 
And  the  first  larum  of  the  cock's  shrill  throat 
May  prove  a  trumpet,  summoning  your  ear 
To  horrid  sounds  of  hostile  feet  within. 
E'en  daylight  has  its  dangers;  and  the  walk 
Through  pathless  wastes  and  woods,  unconscious 
once 

Of  other  tenants  than  melodious  birds, 
Or  harmless  flocks,  is  hazardous  and  bold. 
Lamented  change  I  to  which  full  many  a  cause 
Inveterate,  hopeless  of  a  cure,  conspires. 
The  course  of  human  things  from  good  to  ill 
From  ill  to  worse,  is  fatal,  never  fails. 
Increase  of  power  begets  increase  of  wealth  .; 
Wealth  luxury,  and  luxury  excess; 
Excess  the  scrofulous  and  itchy  plague. 
That  seizes  first  the  opulent,  descends 
To  tne  next  rank  contagious,  and  in  time 
Taints  downward  all  the  graduated  scale 
Of  order,  from  the  chariot  to  the  plough. 
The  rich,  and  they  that  have  an  arm  to  check 
The  license  of  the  lowest  in  degree. 
Desert  their  office;  and  themselves,  intent 
On  pleasure,  haunt  the  capital,  and  thus 
To  all  the  violence  of  lawless  hands 
Resign  the  scenes  their  presence  might  protect. 
Authority  herself  not  seldom  sleeps. 
Though  resident,  and  witness  of  the  wrong. 
The  plump  convivial  parson  often  bears 
The  magisterial  sword  in  vain,  and  lays 
His  reverence  and  his  worship  both  to  rest 
On  the  same  cushion  of  habitual  sloth. 
Perhaps  timidity  restrains  his  arm; 
When  he  should  strike  he  trembles,  and  sets  free. 
Himself  enslaved  by  terror  of  the  band, 
rh'  audacious  convict  whom  he  dares  not  bind. 


He  too  may  have  his  vice,  and  sometimes  prove 
Less  dainty  than  becomes  his  grave  outside 
In  lucrative  concerns.    Examine  well 
His  milk  white  hand;  the  palm  is  hardly  clean- 
But  here  and  there  an  ugly  smutch  appears. 
Foh!  'twas  a  bribe  that  left  it:  he  has  touched 
Corruption.    Whoso  seeks  an  audit  here 
Propitious,  pays  his  tribute,  game  or  fish. 
Wild  fowl  or  venison ;  and  his  errand  speeds. 

But  faster  far,  and  more  than  all  the  rest, 
A  noble  cause,  which  none,  who  bears  a  spark 
Of  public  virtue,  ever  wished  removed. 
Works  the  deplored  and  mischievous  effect 
'Tis  universal  soldiership  has  stabbed 
The  heart  of  merit  in  the  meaner  class. 
Arms,  through  the  vanity  and  brainless  rage 
Of  those  that  bear  them,  in  whatever  cause, 
Seem  most  at  variance  with  all  moral  good. 
And  incompatible  with  serious  thought. 
The  clown,  the  child  of  nature,  without  guile, 
Blest  with  an  infant's  ignorance,  of  all 
But  his  own  simple  pleasures;  now  and  then 
A  wrestling  match,  a  foot-race,  or  a  fair; 
Is  balloted,  and  trembles  at  the  news: 
Sheepish  he  doffs  his  hat,  and  mumbUng  swears 
A  Bible  oath  to  be  whate'er  they  please, 
To  do  he  knows  not  what.    The  4sk  performed 
That  instant  he  becomes  the  sergeant's  care, 
His  pupil,  and  his  torment,  and  his  jest. 
His  awkward  gait,  his  introverted  toes, 
Bent  knees,  round  shoulders,  and  dejected  looks, 
Procure  him  many  a  curse.    By  slow  degrees, 
Unapt  to  learn,  and  formed  of  stubborn  stuff, 
He  yet  by  slow  degrees  puts  off  himself, 
Grows  conscious  of  a  change,  and  hkes  it  well; 
He  stands  erect;  his  slouch  becomes  a  walk; 
He  steps  right  onward,  martial  in  his  air. 
His  form,  and  movement;  is  as  smart  above 
As  meal  and  larded  locks  can  make  him;  wears 
His  hat,  or  his  plumed  helmet,  with  a  grace; 
And,  his  three  years  of  heroship  expired, 
Returns  indignant  to  the  slighted  plough. 
He  hates  the  field,  in  which  no  fife  or  drum 
Attends  him ;  drives  his  cattle  to  a  march ; 
And  sighs  for  the  smart  comrades  he  has  left. 
'Twere  well  if  his  exterior  change  were  all — 
But  with  his  clumsy  port  the  wretch  has  lost 
His  ignorance  and  harmless  manners  too. 
To  swear,  to  game,  to  drink;  to  show  at  home 
By  lewdness,  idleness,  and  sabbath-breach, 
The  great  proficiency  he  made  abroad; 
T'  astonish  and  to  grieve  his  gazing  friends, 
To  break  some  maiden's  and  his  mother's  heart; 
To  be  a  pest  where  he  was  useful  once; 
Are  his  sole  aim,  and  all  his  glory,  now. 

Man  in  society  is  like  a  flower 
Blown  in  its  native  bed:  'tis  there  alone 
His  faculties,  expanded  in  full  bloom, 


84 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Shine  out;  there  only  reach  their  proper  use. 

But  man,  ai?9ociatcd  and  leagued  with  man 

By  regal  warrant,  or  self-joined  by  bond 

For  interest  sake,  or  swarming  into  clans 

Beneath  one  head,  for  purposes  of  war, 

Like  flowers  selected  from  the  rest,  and  bound 

And  bundled  close  to  fxU  some  crowded  vase, 

Fades  rapidly,  and,  by  compression  marred, 

Contracts  defilement  not  to  be  endured. 

Hence  chartered  boroughs  are  such  public  plagues ; 

And  burghers,  men  immaculate  perhaps 

In  all  their  private  functions,  once  combined, 

Become  a  loathsome  body,  only  fit 

For  dissolution,  hurtful  to  the  main. 

Hence  merchants,  unimpeachable  of  sin 

Against  the  charities  of  domestic  life, 

Incorporated,  seem  at  once  to  lose 

Their  nature ;  and,  disclaiming  all  regard 

For  mercy  and  the  common  rights  of  man, 

Build  factories  with  blood,  conducting  trade 

At  the  sword's  point,  and  dying  the  white  robe 

Of  innocent  commercial  Justice  red. 

Hence  too  the  field  of  glory,  as  the  world 

Misdeems  it,  dazzled  by  its  bright  array, 

With  all  its  majesty  of  thundering  pomp, 

Enchanting  music  and  immortal  wreaths, 

Is  but  a  school,  where  thoughtlessness  is  taught 

On  principle,  \Hiere  foppery  atones 

For  folly,  gallantry  for  every  vice. 

But  slighted  as  it  is,  and  by  the  great 
Abandoned,  and,  which  still  I  more  regret, 
Infected  with  the  manners  and  the  modes 
It  knew  not  once,  the  country  wins  me  still. 
I  never  framed  a  wish,  or  formed  a  plan. 
That  flattered  me  with  hopes  of  earthly  bliss, 
But  there  I  laid  the  scene.    There  early  strayed 
My  fancy,  ere  yet  liberty  of  choice 
Had  found  me,  or  the  hope  of  being  free. 
My  very  dreams  were  rural;  rural  too 
The  first-born  eflforts  of  my  youthful  muse. 
Sportive  and  jingling  her  poetic  bells. 
Ere  yet  her  ear  was  mistress  of  their  powers. 
JiTo  bard  could  please  me  but  whose  lyre  was 
tuned 

To  Nature's  praises.    Heroes  and  their  feats 
Fatigued  me,  never  weary  of  the  pipe 
Of  Tityrus,  assembling,  as  he  sang, 
The  rustic  throng  beneath  his  favourite  beech. 
Then  Milton  had  indeed  a  poet's  charms : 
New  to  my  taste  his  Paradise  surpassed 
The  struggling  efforts  of  my  boyish  tongue 
To  speak  its  excellence.    I  danced  for  joy. 
I  marvelled  much,  that,  at  so  ripe  an  age 
As  twice  seven  years,  his  beauties  had  then  first 
Engaged  my  wonder ;  and  admiring  still, 
And  still  admiring,  with  regret  supposed 
The  joy  half  lost,  because  not  sooner  found. 
There  too  enamoured  of  the  life  I  loved. 
Pathetic  in  its  praise,  in  its  pursuit 


Determined,  and  possessing  it  at  last 
With  transports,  such  as  favoured  lovers  feel, 
I  studied,  prized,  and  wished  that  I  had  known 
Ingenious  Cowley !  and,  though  now  reclaimed 
By  modern  lights  from  an  erroneous  taste, 
I  can  not  but  lament  thy  splendid  wit 
Entangled  in  the  cobwebs  of  the  schools. 
I  still  revere  thee,  courtly  though  retired  ! 
Though  stretched  at  ease  in  Chertsey's  silent 
bowers. 

Not  unemployed ;  and  finding  rich  amends 
For  a  lost  world  in  solitude  and  verse. 
'Tis  born  with  all :  the  love  of  Nature's  works 
Is  an  ingredient  in  the  compound  man 
Infused  at  the  creation  of  the  kind. 
And,  though  th'  Almighty  Maker  has  throughout 
Discriminated  each  from  each,  by  strokes 
And  touches  of  his  hand,  with  so  much  art 
Diversified,  that  two  were  never  found 
Twins  at  all  points — yet  this  obtains  in  all, 
That  all  discern  a  beauty  in  his  works, 
And  all  can  taste  them:  minds  that  have  been 
formed 

And  tutored  with  a  relish  more  exact. 

But  none  without  some  rehsh,  none  unmoved. 

It  is  a  flame,  that  dies  not  even  there. 

Where  nothing  feeds  it :  neither  business,  crowds, 

Nor  habits  of  luxurious  city  life, 

Whatever  else  they  smother  of  true  worth 

In  human  bosoms,  quench  it  or  abate. 

The  villas  with  which  London  stands  begirt. 

Like  a  swarth  Indian,  with  his  belt  of  beads, 

Prove  it.    A  breath  of  unadulterate  air, 

The  glimpse  of  a  green  pasture,  how  they  cheer 

The  citizen,  and  brace  his  languid  frame ! 

E'en  in  the  stifling  bosom  of  the  tovm, 

A  garden,  in  which  nothing  thrives,  has  charms 

That  soothe  the  rich  possessor ;  much  consoled. 

That  here  and  there  some  sprigs  of  mournful  mint, 

Of  nightshade,  or  valerian,  grace  the  well 

He  cultivates.    These  serve  him  with  a  hint, 

That  nature  lives ;  that  sight-refreshing  green 

Is  still  the  livery  she  delights  to  wear. 

Though  sickly  samples  of  th'  exuberant  whole 

What  are  the  casements  lined  with  creeping  herbs, 

The  prouder  sashes  fronted  with  a  range 

Of  orange,  myrtle,  or  the  fragrant  weed, 

The  Frenchman's  darling  1*  are  they  not  all  proofs, 

That  man,  immtired  in  cities,  still  retains 

His  inborn  inextinguishable  thirst 

Of  rural  scenes,  compensating  his  loss 

By  supplemental  shifts,  the  best  he  may  1 

The  most  unfurnished  with  the  means  of  life, 

And  they,  that  never  pass  their  brick-wall  bounds, 

To  range  the  fields,  and  treat  their  lungs  with  air, 

Yet  feel  the  burning  instinct :  over  head 

Suspend  their  crazy  boxes,  planted  thick 


*  Mignonnette. 


THE  TASK. 


85 


And  watered  duly.    There  the  pitcher  stands 
A  fragment,  and  the  spoutless  tea-pot  there ; 
Sad  witnesses  how  close-pent  man  regrets 
The  country,  with  what  ardour  he  contrives 
A  peep  at  Nature,  when  he  can  no  more. 

Hail,  therefore,  patroness  of  health  and  ease, 
And  contemplation,  heart  consoling  joys, 
And  harmless  pleasures,  in  the  thronged  abode 
Of  multitudes  unknown ;  hail,  rural  life ! 
Address  himself  who  will  to  the  pursuit 
Of  honours,  or  emolument,  or  fame ; 
I  shall  not  add  myself  to  such  a  chase, 
Thwart  his  attempts,  or  envy  his  success. 


Some  must  be  great.    Great  offices  will  have 

Great  talents.    And  God  gives  to  every  man 

The  virtue,  temper,  understanding,  taste, 

That  lifts  him  into  hfe,  and  lets  him  fall 

J  ust  in  the  niche  he  was  ordained  to  fill. 

To  the  deliverer  of  an  injured  land 

He  gives  a  tongue  t'  enlarge  upon,  a  heart 

To  feel,  and  courage  to  redress  her  wrongs ; 

To  monarchs  dignity ;  to  judges  sense ; 

To  artists  ingenuity  and  skill ; 

To  me,  an  unambitious  mind,  content 

In  the  low  vale  of  life,  that  early  felt 

A  wish  for  ease  and  leisure,  and  ere  long 

Found  here  that  leisure,  and  that  ease  I  wished. 


Kfit  Km^. 


BOOK  V. 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


ARGUMENT. 

A  frosty  morning. -The  foddering  of  cattle.-The  woodman  and  his  dog.-The  poultry.-Whlmsical  efFecta  of  frost  at  a 
wateriall.— The  empress  of  Russia's  palace  of  ice.— Amusements  of  monarchs.— War,  one  of  them  —Wars  whpncp 
And  whence  rnonarchy.-The  evils  of  it.-English  and  French  loyalty  contrasted.-The  Bastile,  and  a  prisoner  there -Li- 
berty  the  chief  recommendation  of  this  country.— Modern  patriotism  questionable,  and  why.— The  perishable  nature  of  tha 
best  human  institutions.— Spiritual  liberty  not  perishable.- The  slavish  state  of  man  by  nature.— Deliver  him  Deist  if  vou 
can  —Grace  rnust  do  it.-The  respective  merits  of  patriots  and  martyrs  stated.— Their  different  treatment.— HaoDV  free^-- 
of  the  man  whom  grace  makes  free.— His  relish  of  the  works  of  God.— Address  to  the  Creator. 

'Tis  morning ;  and  the  sun,  with  ruddy  orb 
Ascending,  fires  th'  horizon ;  while  the  clouds, 
That  crowd  away  before  the  driving  wind, 
More  ardent  as  the  disk  emerges  more. 
Resemble  most  some  city  in  a  blaze. 
Seen  through  the  leafless  wood.    His  slanting  ray 
SUdes  ineffectual  down  the  snowy  vale, 
And,  tinging  all  with  his  own  rosy  hue. 
From  every  herb  and  every  spiry  blade 
Stretches  a  length  of  shadow  o'er  the  field. 
Mine,  spindling  into  longitude  immense. 
In  spite  of  gravity,  and  sage  remark 
That  I  myself  am  but  a  fleeting  shade, 
Provokes  me  to  a  smile.    With  eye  askance 
I  view  the  muscular  proportioned  limb 
Transformed  to  a  lean  shank.    The  shapeless  pair 
As  they  designed  to  mock  me,  at  my  side 
Take  step  for  step ;  and,  as  I  near  approach 
The  cottage,  walk  along  the  plastered  wall, 
Preposterous  sight !  the  legs  without  the  man. 
The  verdure  of  the  plain  lies  buried  deep 
Beneath  the  dazzUng  deluge;  and  the  bents, 
And  coarser  grass,  upspearing  o'er  the  rest, 
Of  late  unsightly  and  unseen,  now  shine 
Conspicuous,  and  in  bright  apparel  clad. 
And,  fledged  with  icy  feathers,  not  superb. 
The  cattle  ibourn  in  corners,  where  the  fence 
Screens  them,  and  seem  half  petrified  to  sleep 
In  unrecumbent  sadness.    There  they  wait 


Address  to  the  Creator. 
Their  wonted  fodder ;  not  Uke  hungering  man, 
Fretful  if  unsupplied;  but  silent,  meek. 
And  patient  of  the  slow  paced  swain's  delay. 
He  from  the  stack  carves  out  th'  accustomed  load, 
Deep-plunging,  and  again  deep-plunging  oft. 
His  broad  keen  knife  into  the  solid  mass ; 
Smooth  as  a  wall  the  upright  remnant  stands, 
With  such  undeviating  and  even  force 
He  severs  it  away :  no  needless  care. 
Lest  storms  should  overset  the  leaning  pile 
Deciduous,  or  its  own  unbalanced  weight. 
Forth  goes  the  woodman,  leaving  unconcerned 
The  cheerful  haunts  of  man ;  to  wield  the  axe, 
And  drive  the  wedge,  in  yonder  forest  drear, 
From  morn  to  eve  his  solitary  task. 
Shaggy,  and  lean,  and  shrewd,  with  pointed  ears, 
And  tail  cropped  short,  half  lurcher  and  half  cur 
His  dog  attends  him.    Close  behind  his  heel 
Now  creeps  he  slow ;  and  now,  with  many  a  frisk 
Wide-scampering,  snatches  up  the  drifted  snow 
With  ivory  teeth,  or  ploughs  it  with  his  snout ; 
Then  shakes  his  powdered  coat,  and  barks  for  joy. 
Heedless  of  all  his  pranks,  the  sturdy  churl 
Moves  right  toward  the  mark ;  nor  stops  for  aught 
But  now  and  then  vsdth  pressure  of  his  thumb 
T'  adjust  the  fragrant  charge  of  a  short  tube, 
That  fumes  beneath  his  nose ;  the  trailing  cloud 
Streams  far  behind  him,  scenting  all  the  air. 
Now  from  the  roots,  or  from  the  neighbouring  pale, 


86 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Where,  diligent  to  catch  the  first  faint  gleam 
Of  smiling  day,  they  gossip'd  side  by  side, 
Come  trooping  at  the  housewife's  well-known  call 
The  feathered  tribes  domestic.    Half  on  wing, 
And  half  on  foot,  they  brush  the  fleecy  flood, 
Conscious  and  fearful  of  too  deep  a  plunge. 
The  sparrows  peep,  and  quit  the  sheltering  eaves, 
To  seize  the  fair  occasion ;  well  they  eye 
The  scattered  grain,  and  thievishly  resolved 
T'  escape  th'  impending  famine,  often  scared 
As  oft  return,  a  pert  voracious  kind. 
Clean  riddance  quickly  made,  one  only  care 
Remains  to  each,  the  search  of  sunny  nook, 
Or  shed  impervious  to  the  blast.  Resigned 
To  sad  necessity,  the  cock  foregoes 
His  wonted  strut ;  and  wading  at  their  head 
With  well-considered  steps,  seems  to  resent 
His  altered  gait  and  stateliness  retrenched. 
How  find  the  myriads,  that  in  summer  cheer 
The  hills  and  valleys  with  their  ceaseless  songs, 
Due  sustenance,  or  where  subsist  they  now  1 
Earth  yields  them  nought :  th'  imprisoned  worm  is 
safe 

Beneath  the  frozen  clod;  all  seeds  of  herbs 
Lie  covered  close ;  and  berry-bearing  thorns. 
That  feed  the  thrush,  (whatever  some  suppose) 
Afford  the  smaller  minstrels  no  supply. 
The  long  protracted  rigour  of  the  year 
Thins  all  their  numerous  flocks.    In  chinks  and 
holes 

Ten  thousand  seek  an  unmolested  end, 
As  instinct  prompts ;  self-buried  ere  they  die. 
The  very  rooks  and  daws  forsake  the  fields, 
Where  neither  grub,  nor  root,  nor  earth-nut,  now 
Repays  their  labour  more  ;  and  perched  aloft 
By  the  wayside,  or  stalldng  in  the  path. 
Lean  pensioners  upon  the  traveller's  track. 
Pick  up  their  nauseous  dole,  though  sweet  to  them, 
Of  voided  pulse  or  half-digested  grain. 
The  streams  are  lost  amid  the  splendid  blank, 
O'erwhelming  all  distinction.    On  the  flood, 
Indurated  and  fixed,  the  snowy  weight 
Lies  undissolved ;  while  silently  beneath, 
And  unperceived,  the  current  steals  away. 
Not  so  where,  scornful  of  a  check,  it  leaps 
The  mill-dam,  dashes  on  the  restless  wheel, 
And  wantons  in  the  pebbly  gulf  below : 
No  frost  can  bind  it  there ;  its  utmost  force 
Can  but  arrest  the  light  and  smoky  mist, 
That  in  its  fall  the  liquid  sheet  throws  wide. 
And  see  where  it  has  hung  the  embroidered  banks 
With  forms  so  various,  that  no  powers  of  art, 
The  pencil  or  the  pen,  may  trace  the  scene ! 
Here  glittering  turrets  rise,  upbearing  high 
(Fantastic  misarrangement !)  on  the  roof 
Lai^e  growth  of  what  may  seem  the  sparkling 
trees 

And  shrubs  of  fairy  land.    The  crystal  drops. 
That  trickle  down  the  branches,  fast  congealed, 


Shoot  into  pillars  of  pellucid  length. 
And  prop  the  pile  they  but  adorned  before. 
Here  grotto  within  grotto  safe  defies 
The  sunbeam ;  there,  embossed  and  fretted  wild,, 
The  grovdng  wonder  takes  a  thousand  shapes 
Caprjcious,  in  which  fancy  seeks  in  vain 
The  likeness  of  some  object  seen  before. 
Thus  Nature  works  as  if  to  mock  at  Art, 
And  in  defiance  of  her  rival  powers ; 
By  these  fortuitous  and  random  strokes  ' 
Perfornaing  such  inimitable  feats. 
As  she  with  all  her  rules  can  never  reach. 
Less  worthy  of  applause,  though  more  admired, 
Because  a  novelty,  the  work  of  man. 
Imperial  mistress  of  the  fur-clad  Russ, 
Thy  most  magnificent  and  mighty  freak, 
The  wonder  of  the  North.    No  forest  fell, 
When  thou  wouldst  build;  no  quarry  sent  his 
stores 

T'  enrich  thy  walls :  but  thou  didst  hew  the  floods, 
And  make  thy  marble  of  the  glassy  wave. 
In  such  a  palace  Aristaeus  found 
Cyrene,  when  he  bore  the  plaintiff  tale 
Of  his  lost  bees  to  her  maternal  ear ; 
In  such  a  palace  Poetry  might  place 
The  armory  of  Winter ;  where  his  troops, 
The  gloomy  clouds,  find  weapons,  arrowy  sleet, 
Skin-piercing  volley,  blossom-bruising  hail. 
And  snow,  that  often  blinds  the  traveller's  course, 
And  wraps  him  in  an  unexpected  tomb. 
Silently  as  a  dream  the  fabric  rose ; 
No  sound  of  hammer  or  of  saw  was  there : 
Ice  upon  ice,  the  well-adjusted  parts 
Were  soon  conjohied,  nor  other  cement  asked 
Than  water  interfused  to  make  them  one. 
Lamps  gracefully  disposed,  and  of  all  hues, 
Illumined  every  side :  a  watery  light 
Gleamed  through  the  clear  transparency,  that 
seemed 

Another  moon  new  risen,  or  meteor  fallen 
From  Heaven  to  Earth,  of  lambent  flame  serene. 
So  stood  the  brittle  prodigy ;  though  smooth 
And  slippery  the  materials,  yet  frost-bound 
Firm  as  a  rock.    Nor  wanted  aught  within, 
That  royal  residence  might  well  befit. 
For  grandeur  or  for  use.    Long  wavy  wreaths 
Of  flowers  that  feared  no  enemy  but  warmth, 
Blushed  on  the  pannels.  Mirror  needed  none 
Where  all  was  vitreous ;  but  in  order  due 
Convivial  table  and  commodious  seat 
(What  seemed  at  least  commodious  seat)  were 
there ; 

Sofa,  and  couch,  and  high-built  throne  august. 

The  same  lubricity  was  found  in  all. 

And  all  was  moist  to  the  warm  touch ;  a  scene 

Of  evanescent  glory,  once  a  stream, 

And  soon  to  slide  into  a  stream  again. 

Alas!  'twas  but  a  mortifying  stroke 

Of  undeserved  severity  that  glanced 


THE  TASK. 


(Made  by  a  monarch)  on  her  own  estate, 
On  human  grandeur  and  the  courts  of  kings. 
'Twas  transient  in  its  nature,  ls  in  show 
'Twas  durable;  as  worthless  as  it  seemed 
Intrinsically  precious;  to  the  foot 
Treacherous  and  false;  it  smiled,  and  it  was 
cold. 

Great  princes  have  great  plajihings.  Some 
have  played 
At  hewing  mountains  into  men,  and  some 
At  building  human  wonders  mountain  high. 
Some  have  amused  the  dull,  sad  years  of  life, 
(Life  spent  in  indolence,  and  therefore  sad) 
With  schemes  of  monumental  fame;  and  sought 
By  pyramids  and  mausolean  pomp, 
Short-lived  themselves,  t'  immortalize  their  bones. 
Some  seek  diversion  in  the  tented  field. 
And  make  the  sorrows  of  mankind  their  sport. 
But  war's  a  game,  which,  were  their  subjects 
wise. 

Kings  would  not  play  at.    IN  ations  would  do  well 
T'  extort  their  truncheons  from  the  puny  hands 
Of  heroes,  whose  infirm  and  baby  minds 
Are  gratified  with  mischief;  and  who  spoil, 
Because  men  suffer  it,  their  toy  the  world. 

When  Babel  was  confounded,  and  the  great 
Confederacy  of  projectors  wild  and  vain 
Was  split  into  diversity  of  tongues. 
Then,  as  a  shepherd  separates  his  flock, 
These  to  the  upland,  to  the  valley  those, 
God  drave  asunder,  and  assigned  their  lot  i 
To  all  the  nations.    Ample  was  the  boon 
He  gave  them,  in  his  distribution  fair 
And  equal ;  and  he  bade  them  dwell  in  peace. 
Peace  was  awhile  their  care:  they  ploughed  and 


sowed, 

And  reaped  their  plenty  without  grudge  or  strife 
But  violence  can  never  longer  sleep, 
Than  human  passions  please.    In  every  heart 
Are  sown  the  sparks,  that  kindle  fiery  war: 
Occasion  needs  but  fan  them,  and  they  blaze. 
Cain  had  already  shed  a  brother's  blood: 
The  deluge  washed  it  out;  but  left  unquenched 
The  seeds  of  murder  in  the  breast  of  man. 
Soon  by  a  righteous  judgment  in  the  line 
Of  his  descending  progeny  was  found 
The  first  artificer  of  death;  the  shrewd 
Contriver,  who  first  sweated  at  the  forge, 
And  forced  the  blunt  and  yet  unbloodied  steel 
To  a  keen  edge,  and  made  it  bright  for  war. 
Him  Tubal  named,  the  Vulcan  of  old  times, 
The  sword  and  falchion  their  inventor  claim; 
And  the  first  smiih  was  the  first  murderer's  son. 
His  art  survived  the  waters;  and  ere  long. 
When  man  was  multiplied  and  spread  abroad 
In  tribes  and  clans,  and  had  begun  to  call 
These  meadows,  and  that  range  of  hills  his  own, 
The  tasted  sweets  of  property  begat 
Desire  of  more,  and  industry  in  some, 
T  I 


T'  improve  and  cultivate  their  just  demesne, 
Made  others  covet  what  they  saw  so  fair. 
Thus  war  began  on  earth:  these  fought  for 
And  those  in  self-defence.    Savage  at  first 
The  onset,  and  irregular.    At  length 
One  emment  above  the  rest  for  strength,  • 
For  stratagem,  for  courage,  or  for  all,° 
Was  chosen  leader;  him  they  served  in  war, 
And  him  in  peace,  for  sake  of  warlike  deeds 
Reverenced  no  less.    Who  could  with  him  cona 
pare'? 

Or  who  so  worthy  to  control  themselves, 
Ashe,  whose  prowess  had  subdued  their  foes'? 
Thus  war,  affording  field  for  the  display 
Of  virtue,  made  one  chief,  whom  times  of  peacej 
Which  have  their  exigencies  too,  and  call 
For  skill  in  government,  at  length  made  king. 
King  was  a  name  too  proud  for  man  to  wear 
With  modesty  and  meekness;  and  the  crown, 
So  dazzling  in  their  eyes,  who  set  it  on, 
Was  sure  t'  intoxicate  the  brows  it  bound. 
It  is  the  abject  property  of  most, 
That,  being  parcel  of  the  common  mass, 
And  destitute  of  means  to  raise  themselves. 
They  sink,  and  settle  lower  than  they  need. 
They  know  not  what  it  is  to  feel  vnthin 
A  comprehensive  faculty,  that  grasps 
Great  purposes  with  ease,  that  turns  and  wields, 
Almost  without  an  effort,  plans  too  vast 
For  their  conception,  which  they  can  not  move. 
Conscious  of  impotence  they  soon  grow  drunk 
With  gazing,  when  they  see  an  able  man 
Step  forth  to  notice:  and,  besotted  thus. 
Build  him  a  pedestal,  and  say,  "  Stand  there, 
And  be  our  admiration  and  our  praise." 
They  roll  themselves  before  him  in  the  dust, 
Then  most  deserving,  in  their  own  account, 
When  most  extravagant  in  his  applause, 
As  if  exalting  him  they  raised  themselves. 
Thus  by  degrees,  self-cheated  of  their  sound 
And  sober  judgment,  that  he  is  but  man, 
They  demi-deify  and  fume  him  so. 
That  in  due  season  he  forgets  it  too. 
Inflated  and  astrut  with  self-  conceit, 
He  gulps  the  windy  diet;  and  ere  long. 
Adopting  their  mistake,  profoundly  thinks 
The  world  was  made  in  vain,  if  not  for  him. 
Thenceforth  they  are  his  cattle;  drudges,  bom 
To  bear  his  burthens,  drawing  in  his  gears, 
And  sweating  in  his  service,  his  caprice 
Becomes  the  soul  that  animates  them  all. 
He  deems  a  thousand,  or  ten  thousand,  lives. 
Spent  in  the  purchase  of  renown  for  him. 
An  easy  reckoning;  and  they  think  the  same. 
Thus  kings  were  first  invented,  and  thus  kin^ 
j  Were  burnished  into  heroes,  and  became 
'  The  arbiters  of  this  terraqueous  swamp ; 
I  Storks  among  frogs,  that  have  but  croaked  and 
!  died. 


I 


88 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Strange,  that  such  folly,  as  lifts  bloated  man 
To  eminence  fit  only  for  a  god, 
Should  ever  drivel  out  of  human  lips, 
E'en  in  the  cradled  weakness  of  the  world! 
Still  stranger  much,  that  when  at  length  man- 
kind 

Had  reached  the  sinewy  firmness  of  their  youth, 

And  could  discriminate  and  argue  well 

On  subjects  more  mysterious,  they  were  yet 

Babes  in  the  cause  of  freedom,  and  should  fear 

And  quake  before  the  gods  themselves  had  made; 

But  above  measure  strange,  that  neither  proof 

Of  sad  experience,  nor  example  set 

By  some,  whose  patriot  virtue  has  prevailed, 

Can  even  now,  when  they  are  grown  mature 

In  wisdom,  and  with  philosophic  deeds 

Familiar,  serve  t'  emancipate  the  rest ! 

Such  dupes  are  men  to  custom,  and  so  prone 

To  reverence  what  is  ancient,  and  can  plead 

A  course  of  long  observance  for  its  use, 

That  even  servitude,  the  worst  of  ills, 

Because  delivered  down  from  sire  to  son, 

Is  kept  and  guarded  as  a  sacred  thing. 

But  is  it  fit,  or  can  it  bear  the  shock 

Of  rational  discussion,  that  a  man. 

Compounded  and  made  up  like  other  men 

Of  elements  tumultuous,  in  whom  lust 

And  folly  in  as  ample  measure  meet. 

As  in  the  bosoms  of  the  slaves  he  rules, 

Should  be  a  despot  absolute,  and  boast 

Himself  the  only  freeman  of  his  land] 

Should,  when  he  pleases,  and  on  whom  he  will, 

Wage  war,  with  any  or  with  no  pretence 

Of  provocation  given,  or  wrong  sustained, 

And  force  the  beggarly  last  doit  by  means 

That  his  own  humour  dictates,  from  the  clutch 

Of  Poverty,  that  thus  he  may  procure 

His  thousands,  weary  of  penurious  life, 

A  splendid  opportunity  to  diel 

Say  ye,  who  (with  less  prudence  than  of  old 

Jotham  ascribed  to  his  assembling  trees 

In  politic  convention)  put  your  trust 

I'  th'  shadow  of  a  bramble,  and  reclined 

In  fancied  peace  beneath  his  dangerous  branch, 

Rejoice  in  him;  and  celebrate  his  sway. 

Where  find  ye  passive  fortitude'?  Whence  springs 

Your  self-denying  zeal,  that  holds  it  good. 

To  stroke  the  prickly  grievance,  and  to  hang 

H-is  thorns  with  streamers  of  continual  praise'? 

We  too  are  friends  to  loyalty.    We  love 

The  king,  who  loves  the  law,  respects  his  bounds 

And  reigns  Content  within  them:  him  we  serve 

Freely  and  with  deUght,  who  leaves  us  free: 

But  recollecting  still,  that  he  is  man,' 

We  trust  him  not  too  far.    King  though  he  be, 

And  king  in  England  too,  he  may  be  weak, 

And  vain  enough  to  be  ambitious  still; 

May  exercise  amiss  his  proper  powers, 

Or  covet  more  than  freemen  choose  to  grant: 


Beyond  that  mark  is  treason.    He  is  ours, 
T'  administer,  to  guard,  t'  adorn  the  state, 
But  not  to  warp  or  change  it.    We  are  his, 
To  serve  him  nobly  in  the  common  cause, 
True  to  the  death,  but  not  to  be  his  slaves. 
Mark  now  the  difference,  ye  that  boast  your  low 
Of  kings,  between  your  loyalty  and  ours. 
We  love  the  man,  the  paltry  pageant  you: 
We  the  chief  patron  of  the  commonwealth, 
You  the  regardless  author  of  its  woes: 
We  for  the  sake  of  liberty  a  king. 
You  chains  and  bondage  for  a  tyrant's  sake. 
Our  love  is  principle,  and  has  its  root 
In  reason,  is  judicious,  manly,  free; 
Yours,  a  bUnd  instinct,  crouches  to  the  rod, 
And  licks  the  foot  that  treads  it  in  the  dust. 
Were  kingship  as  true  treasure  as  it  seems, 
Sterling  and  worthy  of  a  wise  man's  wish^ 
I  would  not  be  a  king  to  be  beloved 
Causeless,  and  daubed  with  undiscerning  praise, 
Where  love  is  mere  attachment  to  the  throne. 
Not  to  the  man,  who  fills  it  as  he  ought. 

Whose  freedom  is  by  suflerance,  and  at  will 
Of  a  superior,  he  is  never  free. 
Who  lives,  and  is  not  weary  of  a  life 
Exposed  to  manacles,  deserves  them  well. 
The  state,  that  strives  for  liberty,  though  foiled, 
And  forced  t'  abandon  what  she  bravely  sought, 
Deserves  at  least  applause  for  her  attempt 
And  pity  for  her  loss.    But  that's  a  cause 
Not  often  unsuccessful :  power  usurped 
Is  weakness  when  opposed;  conscious  of  wrong, 
'Tis  pusillanimous  and  prone  to  flight. 
But  slaves,  that  once  conceive  the  glowing  thought 
Of  freedom,  in  that  hope  itself  possess 
All  that  the  contest  calls  for;  spirit,  stiength,  , 
The  scorn  of  danger,  and  vmited  hearts; 
The  surest  presage  of  the  good  they  seek,* 

Then  shame  to  manhood,  and  opprobrious  moX9 
To  France  than  all  her  losses  and  defeats. 
Old  or  of  later  date,  by  sea  or  land. 
Her  house  of  bondage,  worse  than  that  of  old 
Which  God  avenged  on  Pharaoh— the  Bastille. 
Ye  horrid  towers,  the  abode  of  broken  hearts; 
Ye  dungeons  and  ye  cages  of  despair, 
That  monarchs  have  supplied  from  age  to  age 
With  music,  such  as  suits  their  sovereign  ears, 
The  sighs  and  groans  of  miserable  men! 
There's  not  an  English  heart  that  would  not  leaf 
To  hear  that  ye  were  fallen  at  last;  to  know 
That  e'en  our  enemies,  so  oft  employed 
In  forging  chains  for  us,  themselves  were  free. 
For  he,  who  values  Liberty,  confines 
His  zeal  for  her  predominance  within 

'  The  author  hopes,  that  he  shall  not  be  censured  for  unne- 
cessary  warmth  upon  so  interesting  a  subject.  He  is  aware, 
that  it  is  became  almost  fashionable  to  stigmatize  such  senti- 
ments as  n»  better  than  empty  declamation ;  but  it  is  an  U! 
symptom,  and  peculiar  t9  modern  times. 


THE  TASK. 


89 


No  narrow  bounds;  her  cause  engages  him 
Wherever  pleaded.    'Tis  the  cause  of  man. 
There  dwell  the  most  forlorn  of  human  kind, 
Immured  though  unaccused,  condemned  untried 
Cruelly  spared,  and  hopeless  of  escape. 
There,  like  the  visionary  emblem  seen 
By  him  of  Babylon,  life  stands  a  stump, 
And,  filleted  about  with  hoops  of  brass, 
Still  hves,  though  all  his  pleasant  boughs  are  gone 
To  count  the  hour-bell  and  expect  no  change; 
And  ever  as  the  sullen  sound  is  heard. 
Still  to  reflect,  that,  though  a  joyless  note 
To  him,  whose  moments  all  have  one  dull  pace, 
Ten  thousand  rovers  in  the  world  at  large 
Account  it  music;  that  it  summons  some 
To  theatre,  or  jocund  feast  or  ball; 
The  wearied  hirehng  finds  it  a  release 
From  labour;  and  the  lover,  who  has  chid 
Its  long  delay,  feels  every  welcome  stroke 
Upon  his  heart-strings,  trembling  with  delight- 
To  fly  for  refuge  from  distracting  thought 
To  such  amusements  as  ingenious  wo 
Contrives,  hard-shifting,  and  without  her  tools— 
To  read  engraven  on  the  mouldy  walls. 
In  staggering  types,  his  predecessor's  tale, 
A  sad  memorial,  and  subjoin  his  own- 
To  turn  purveyor  to  an  overgorged 
And  bloated  spider,  till  the  pampered  pest 
Is  made  familiar,  watches  his  approach, 
Comes  at  his  call,  and  serves  him  for  a  friend- 
To  wear  out  time  in  numbering  to  and  fro 
The  studs,  that  thick  emboss  his  iron  door; 
Then  downward  and  then  upward,  then  aslant 
And  then  alternate ;  with  a  sickly  hope 
By  dint  of  change  to  give  his  tasteless  task 
Some  relish ;  till  the  sum,  exactly  found 
In  all  directions,  he  begins  again — 
Oh  comfortless  existence !  hemmed  around 
With  woes,  which  who  that  suffers  would  not 
kneel 

And  beg  for  exile,  or  the  pangs  of  death? 
That  man  should  thus  encroach  on  fellow-man, 
Abridge  him  of  his  just  and  native  rights, 
Eradicate  him,  tear  him  from  his  hold 
Upon  the  endearments  of  domestic  life 
And  social,  nip  his  fruitfulness  and  use, 
And  doom  him  for  perhaps  a  heedless  word 
To  barrenness,  and  solitude,  and  tears, 
Moves  indignation,  makes  the  name  of  king 
(Of  king  whom  such  prerogative  can  please) 
As  dreadful  as  the  Manichean  god  : 
Adored  through  fear,  strong  only  to  destroy. 

'Tis  liberty  alone  that  gives  the  flower 
Of  fleeting  life  its  lustre  and  perfume ; 
And  we  are  weeds  without  it.    All  constraint, 
Except  what  wisdom  lays,  on  evil  men 
Is  evil :  hurts  the  faculties,  impedes 
Their  progress  in  the  road  of  science,  blinds 
The  eyesight  of  Discovery;  and  begets, 


In  those  that  sutler  it,  a  sordid  mind. 
Bestial,  a  meagre  intellect,  unfit 
To  be  the  tenant  of  man's  noble  form. 
Thee  therefore  still,  blame-worthy  as  thou  art, 
With  all  thy  loss  of  empire,  and  though  squeezed 
By  public  exigence,  till  annual  food 
Falls  for  the  craving  hunger  of  the  state. 
Thee  I  account  still  happy,  and  the  chief 
Among  the  nations,  seeing  thou  art  free ; 
My  native  nook  of  earth !  Thy  clime  is  rude, 
Replete  with  vapours,  and  disposes  much 
AH  hearts  to  sadness,  and  none  more  than  mine: 
Thine  unadulterate  manners  are  less  soft 
And  plausible  than  social  life  requires. 
And  thou  hast  need  of  discipKne  and  art, 
To  give  thee  what  politer  France  receives 
From  nature's  bounty— that  humane  address 
And  sweetness,  without  which  no  pleasure  is 
In  converse,  either  starved  by  cold  reserve, 
Or  flushed  with  fierce  dispute,  a  senseless 'brawl. 
Yet  being  free  I  love  thee :  for  the  sake 
Of  that  one  feature  can  be  well  content, 
Disgraced  as  thou  hast  been,  poor  as  thou  art, 
To  seek  no  sublunary  rest  beside.  ' 
But,  once  enslaved,  farewell!  I  could  endure 
Chains  no  where  patiently;  and  chains  at  home, 
Where  I  am  free  by  birthright,  not  at  all. 
Then  what  were  left  of  roughness  in  the  grain 
Of  British  natures,  wanting  its  excuse 
That  it  belongs  to  freemen,  would  disgust 
And  shock  me.    I  should  then  with  double  pain 
Feel  all  the  rigour  of  thy  fickle  cUme; 
And  if  I  must  bewail  the  blessing  lost. 
For  which  our  Hampdens  and  our  Sidneys  bled, 
I  would  at  least  bewail  it  under  skies  ' 
Milder,  among  a  people  less  austere ; 
In  scenes,  which,  having  never  known  me  free, 
Would  not  reproach  me  with  the  loss  I  felt. 
Do  I  forebode  impossible  events, 
And  tremble  at  vain  dreams  1  Heaven  grant  I  may ! 
But  th'  age  of  virtuous  politics  is  past. 
And  we  are  deep  in  that  of  cold  pretence. 
Patriots  are  grown  too  shrewd  to  be  sincere, 
And  we  too  wise  to  trust  them.    He  that  takes 
Deep  in  his  soft  credulity  the  stamp 
Designed  by  loud  declaimers  on  the  part 
Of  Uberty,  themselves  the  slaves  of  lust, 
Incurs  derision  for  his  easy  faith, 
And  lack  of  knowledge,  and  with  cause  enough : 
For  when  was  public  virtue  to  be  found 
Where  private  was  not  1    Can  he  love  the  whole 
Who  loves  no  part  1    He  be  a  nation's  friend, 
Who  is  in  truth  the  friend  of  no  man  there  1 
Can  he  be  strenuous  in  his  country's  cause 
Who  slights  the  charities,  for  whose  dear  sake 
That  country,  if  at  all,  must  be  beloved  1 

'Tis  therefore  sober  and  good  men  are  sad 
For  England's  glory,  seeing  it  wax  pale 
And  sickly,  while  her  champions  wear  their  heai* 


90 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


So  loose  to  private  duty,  that  no  brain, 
Healthful  and  undisturbed  by  factious  fumes, 
Can  dream  them  trusty  to  the  general  weal. 
Such  were  not  they  of  old,  whose  tempered  blades 
Dispersed  the  shackles  of  usurped  control, 
And  hewed  them  link  from  link  then  Albion's  sons 
Were  sons  indeed:  they  felt  a  filial  heart 
Beat  high  within  them  at  a  mother's  wrongs; 
And,  shining  each  in  his  domestic  sphere. 
Shone  brighter  still,  once  called  to  public  view. 
'Tis  therefore  many,  whose  sequestered  lot 
Forbids  their  interference,  looking  on, 
Anticipate  perforce  some  dire  event; 
And,  seeing  the  old  castle  of  the  state, 
That  promised  once  more  firmness,  so  assailed. 
That  all  its  tempest-beaten  turrets  shake. 
Stand  motionless  expectants  of  its  fall. 
All  has  its  date  below ;  the  fatal  hour 
Was  registered  in  tieaven  ere  time  began. 
We  turn  to  dust,  and  all  our  mightiest  works 
Die  too :  the  deep  foundations  that  we  lay. 
Time  ploughs  them  up,  and  not  a  trace  remains. 
We  build  with  what  we  deem  eternal  rock: 
A  distant  age  asks  where  the  fabric  stood ; 
And  in  the  dust,  sifted  and  searched  in  vain, 
The  undiscoverable  secret  sleeps. 

But  there  is  yet  a  liberty,  unsung 
By  poets,  and  by  senators  unpraised. 
Which  monarchs  can  not  grant,  nor  all  the  powers 
Of  earth  and  hell  confederate  take  away : 
A  liberty,  which  persecution,  fraud. 
Oppression,  prisons,  have  no  power  to  bind ; 
Which  whoso  tastes  can  be  enslaved  no  more. 
Tis  liberty  of  heart  derived  from  Heaven, 
Bought  with  his  blood,  who  gave  it  to  mankind, 
And  sealed  with  the  same  token.    It  is  held 
By  charter,  and  that  charter  sanctioned  sure 
By  th'  unimpeachable  and  awful  oath 
And  promise  of  a  God.    His  other  gifts 
AH  bear  the  royal  stamp,  that  speaks  them  his, 
And  are  august;  but  this  transcends  them  all. 
His  other  works,  the  visible  display 
Of  all  creating  energy  and  might. 
Are  grand,  no  doubt,  and  worthy  of  the  word, 
That  finding  an  interminable  space 
Unoccupied,  has  filled  the  void  so  well. 
And  made  so  sparkling  what  was  dark  before. 
But  these  are  not  his  glory.    Man,  'tis  true, 
Smit  with  the  beauty  of  so  fair  a  scene. 
Might  well  suppose  th'  artificer  divine 
Meant  it  eternal,  had  he  not  himself 
Pronounced  it  transient,  glorious  as  it  is, 
And  still  designing  a  more  glorious  far, 
Doomed  it  as  insufficient  for  his  praise. 
These  therefore  are  occasional,  and  pass; 
Formed  for  the  confutation  of  the  fool. 
Whose  lying  heart  disputes  against  a  God ; 
That  office  served,  they  must  be  swept  away. 
Not  so  the  labours  of  his  love ;  they  shine 


In  other  heavens  than  those  that  we  behold, 
And  fade  not.    There  is  Paradise  that  feai* 
No  forfeiture,  and  of  its  fruits  he  send? 
Large  prelibation  oft  to  saints  below. 
Of  these  the  first  in  order,  and  the  pledge. 
And  confident  assurance  of  the'  rest. 
Is  liberty;  a  flight  into  his  arms, 
Ere  yet  morality's  fine  threads  give  way, 
A  clear  escape  from  tyrannizing  lust. 
And  full  immunity  from  penal  wo. 

Chains  are  the  portion  of"  revolted  man. 
Stripes  and  a  dungeon;  and  his  body  serves 
The  triple  purpose.    In  that  sickly,  foul,  , 
Opprobrious  residence  he  finds  them  all. 
Propense  his  heart  to  idols,  he  is  held 
In  silly  dotage  on  created  things, 
C areless  of  their  Creator.    And  that  low 
And  sordid  gravitation  of  his  powers 
To  a  vile  clod  so  draws  him,  with  such  force 
Resistless  from  the  centre  he  should  seek. 
That  he  at  last  forgets  it.    All  his  hopes 
Tend  dowmvard;  his  ambition  is  to  sink, 
To  reach  a  depth  profounder  still,  and  still 
Profounder,  in  the  fathomless  abyss 
Of  folly,  plunging  in  pursuit  of  death. 
But  ere  he  gain  the  comfortless  repose 
He  seeks,  and  acquiescence  of  bis  soul 
In  Heaven-renouncing  exile,  he  endures— 
What  does  he  not,  from  lusts  opposed  in  vain, 
And  self-reproaching  conscienc(>  1  He  foresees 
The  fatal  issue  to  his  health,  fame,  peace, 
Fortune  and  dignity ;  the  loss  of  all 
That  can  ennoble  man,  and  make  frail  life, 
Short  as  it  is,  supportable.    Still  worse, 
Far  worse  than  all  the  plagues,  with  which  his 
sins 

Infect  his  happiest  moments,  he  forebodes 
Ages  of  hopeless  misery.    Future  death, 
And  death  still  future.    Not  a  hasty  stroke. 
Like  that  which  sends  him  to  the  dusty  grave-, 
But  unrepealable  enduring  death. 
Scripture  is  still  a  trumpet  to  his  fears ; 
What  none  can  prove  a  forgery  may  be  true ; 
What  none  but  bad  men  wish  exploded  must. 
That  scruple  checks  him.    Riot  is  not  loud 
Nor  drunk  enough  to  drown  it.    In  the  midst 
Of  laughter  his  compunctions  are  sincere; 
And  he  abhors  the  jest  by  which  he  shines. 
Remorse  begets  reform.    His  master  lust 
Falls  first  before  his  resolute  rebuke. 
And  seems  dethroned  and  vanquished.  Peace 
ensues. 

But  spurious  and  short-lived;  the  puny  child 
Of  self-congratulating  Pride,  heffot 
On  fancied  Innocence.    Again  he  falls, 
And  fights  again ;  but  finds  his  best  essay 
A  presage  ominious,  portending  still 
Its  own  dishonour  by  a  worse  relapse, 
Till  Nature,  unavailing  Nature,  foiled 


THE  TASK. 


91 


So  oft,  and  wearied  in  the  vain  attempt, 
ScofiPs  at  her  own  performance.  Reason  now 
Takes  part  with  appetite,  and  pleads  the  cause 
Perversely,  which  of  late  she  so  condemned; 
With  shallow  shifts  and  old  devices,  worn 
And  tattered  in  the  service  of  debauch. 
Covering  his  shame  from  his  offended  sight. 

Hath  God  indeed  given  appetites  to  man, 
And  stored  the  earth  so  plenteously  with  means, 
To  gratify  the  hunger  of  his  wish ; 
"  And  doth  he  reprobate,  and  will  he  damn 
The  use  of  his  own  bountyl  making  first 
So  frail  a  kind,  and  then  enacting  laws 
So  strict,  that  less  than  perfect  must  despair? 
Falsehood !  which  whoso  but  suspects  of  truth 
Dishonours  God,  and  makes  a  slave  of  man. 
Do  they  themselves,  who  undertake  for  hire 
The  teacher's  office,  and  dispense  at  large 
Their  weekly  dole  of  edifying  strains. 
Attend  to  their  own  music  1  have  they  faith 
In  what  with  such  solemnity  of  tone 
And  gesture  they  propound  to  our  belief? 
Nay — conduct  hath  the  loudest  tongue.  The 
voice 

Is  but  an  instrument,  on  which  the  priest 
May  play  what  tune  he  pleases.    In  the  deed, 
The  unequivocal,  authentic  deed, 
We  find  sound  argument,  we  read  the  heart." 
Such  reasonings  (if  that  name  must  needs  be- 
long 

T'  excuses  in  which  reason  has  no  part) 
Serve  to  compose  a  spirit  well  inclined 
To  live  on  terms  of  amity  with  vice. 
And  sin  without  disturbance.    Often  urged 
(As  often  as  libidinous  discourse 
Exhausted,  he  resorts  to  solemn  themes 
Of  theological  and  grave  import) 
They  gain  at  last  his  unreserved  assent; 
Till,  hardened  his  heart's  temper  in  the  forge 
Of  lust,  and  the  anvil  of  despair. 
He  slights  the  strokes  of  conscience.  Nothing 
moves. 

Or  nothing  much,  his  constancy  in  ill ; 

Vain  tampering  has  but  fostered  his  disease ; 

'Tis  desperate,  and  he  sleeps  the  sleep  of  death. 

Haste,  now,  philosopher;  and  set  him  free. 

Charm  the  deaf  serpent  wisely.    Make  him  hear 

Of  rectitude  and  fitness,  moral  truth 

How  lovely,  and  the  moral  sense  how  sure, 

Consulted  and  obeyed,  to  guide  his  steps 

Directly  to  the  first  and  only  fair. 

Spare  not  in  such  a  cause.    Spend  all  the  powers 

Of  rant  and  rhapsody  in  virtue's  praise : 

Be  most  sublimely  good,  verbosely  grand, 

And  with  poetic  trappings  grace  thy  prose, 

Till  It  unmantle  all  the  pride  of  verse. — 

Ah,  tinkling  cymbal,  and  high-sounding  brass, 

Bmitten  in  vain  !  such  music  can  not  charm 

The  eclipse,  that  intercepts  truth's  heavenly  beam, 


And  chills  and  darkens  a  wide-wandering  soul. 
The  still  small  voice  is  wanted.    He  must  speak, 
Whose  word  leaps  forth  at  once  to  its  effect ; 
Who  calls  for  things  that  are  not,  and  they  come. 

Grace  makes  the  slave  a  freeman.  'Tis.a  change. 
That  turns  to  ridicule  the  turgid  speech 
And  stately  tone  of  moralists,  who  boast. 
As  if,  like  him  of  fabulous  renown. 
They  had  indeed  ability  to  smooth 
The  shag  of  savage  nature,  and  were  each 
An  Orpheus,  and  omnipotent  in  song  : 
But  transformation  of  apostate  man 
From  fool  to  wise,  from  earthly  to  divine. 
Is  work  for  him  that  made  him.    He  alone, 
And  he  by  means  in  philosophic  eyes 
Trivial  and  worthy  of  disdain,  achieves 
The  wonder ;  humanizing  what  is  brute 
In  the  lost  kind,  extracting  from  the  lips 
Of  asps  their  venom,  overpowering  strength 
By  weakness,  and  hostiUty  by  love. 

Patriots  have  toiled,  and  in  their  country's  cause 
Bled  nobly ;  and  their  deeds,  as  they  deserve, 
Receive  proud  recompense.    We  give  in  charge 
Their  names  to  the  sweet  lyre.    Th'  historic  muse, 
Proud  of  the  treasure,  marches  with  it  down 
To  latest  times ;  and  Sculpture,  in  her  turn, 
Gives  bond  in  stone  and  ever-during  brass 
To  guard  them,  and  t'  immortalize  her  trust ; 
But  fairer  wreaths  are  due,  though  never  paid, 
To  those,  who,  posted  at  the  shrine  of  Truth, 
Have  fallen  in  her  defence.    A  patriot's  blood. 
Well  spent  in  such  a  strife,  may  earn  indeedj. 
And  for  a  time  ensure,  to  his  loved  land 
The  sweets  of  liberty  and  equal  laws ; 
But  martyrs  struggle  for  a  brighter  prize. 
And  win  it  with  more  pain.    Their  blood  is  shed 
In  confirmation  of  the  noblest  claim, 
Our  claim  to  feed  upon  immortal  truth, 
To  walk  with  God,  to  be  divinely  free. 
To  soar,  and  to  anticipate  the  skies. 
Yet  few  remember  them.    They  lived  unknown, 
Till  persecution  dragged  them  into  fame,' 
And  chased  them  up  to  Heaven.    Their  ashes  flew 
— No  marble  tells  us  whither.    With  their  name 
No  bard  embalms  and  sanctifies  his  song : 
And  history,  so  warm  on  meaner  themes. 
Is  cold  on  this.    She  execrates  indeed 
The  tyranny  that  doomed  them  to  the  fire, 
But  gives  the  glorious  sufferers  little  praise.* 

He  is  the  freeman  whom  the  truth  makes  free, 
And  all  are  slaves  besides.    There's  not  a  chain, 
That  hellish  foes,  confederate  for  his  harm, 
Can  wind  around  him,  but  he  casts  it  off 
With  as  much  ease  as  Samson  his  green  wdths. 
He  looks  abroad  into  the  varied  field 
Of  nature,  and  though  poor  perhaps,  compared 
With  those  whose  mansions  glitter  in  his  sight^ 


•  See  Hume. 


92 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Calls  the  delightful  scenery  all  his  own. 
His  are  the  mountains,  and  the  valleys  his, 
And  the  rcs[)lendent  rivers,  his  t'  enjoy 
"With  a  propriety  that  none  can  feel, 
But  who,  with  filial  confidence  inspired. 
Can  lift  to  heaven  an  unpresumptuous  eye. 
And  smiling  say—"  My  father  made  them  all  1" 
Are  they  not  his  by  a  peculiar  right, 
And  by  an  emphasis  of  interest  his. 
Whose  eye  they  fill  with  tears  of  holy  joy. 
Whose  heart  with  praise,  and  whose  exalted  mind 
With  worthy  thoughts  of  that  unwearied  love. 
That  planned,  and  built,  and  still  upholds,  a  world 
So  clothed  with  beauty  for  rebellious  man  1 
Yes — ye  may  fill  your  garners,  ye  that  reap 
The  loaded  soil,  and  ye  may  waste  much  good 
In  senseless  riot ;  but  ye  will  not  find 
In  feast,  or  in  the  chase,  in  song  or  dance, 
A  liberty  like  his,  who  unimpeached 
Of  usurpation,  and  to  no  man's  wrong. 
Appropriates  nature  as  his  Father's  work, 
And  has  a  richer  use  of  yours  than  you. 
He  is  indeed  a  freeman.    Free  by  birth ; 
Of  no  mean  city ;  planned  or  ere  the  hills 
Were  built,  the  fountains  opened,  or  the  sea 
With  all  his  roaring  multitude  of  waves. 
His  freedom  is  the  same  in  every  state ; 
And  no  condition  of  this  changeful  life, 
So  manifold  in  cares,  whose  every  day 
Brings  its  own  evil  with  it,  makes  it  less : 
For  he  has  wings,  that  neither  sickness,  pain, 
Nor  penury,  can  cripple  or  confine. 
No  nook  so  narrow  but  he  spreads  them  there 
With  ease,  and  is  at  large.    Th'  oppressor  holds 
His  body  bound,  but  knows  not  what  a  range 
His  spirit  takes  unconscious  of  a  chain ; 
And  that  to  bind  him  is  a  vain  attempt, 
Whom  God  delights  in,  and  in  whom  he  dwells. 

Acquaint  thyself  with  God,  if  thou  wouldst  taste 
His  works.    Admitted  once  to  his  embrace. 
Thou  shalt  perceive  that  thou  wast  blind  before ; 
Thine  eye  shall  be  instructed ;  and  thine  heart 
Made  pure  shall  relish,  with  divine  delight. 
Till  then  unfelt,  what  hands  divine  have  wrought. 
Brutes  graze  the  mountain  top,  with  faces  prone, 
And  eyes  intent  upon  the  scanty  herb 
It  yields  them ;  or,  recumbent  on  its  brow, 
Ruminate  heedless  of  the  scene  outspread 
Beneath,  beyond,  and  stretching  far  away 
From  inland  regions  to  the  distant  main. 
Man  views  it  and  admires ;  but  rests  content 
With  what  he  views.    The  landscape  has  his 
praise, 

But  not  its  Author.    Unconcerned  who  formed 
The  paradise  he  sees,  he  finds  it  such. 
And  such  well-pleased  to  find  it,  asks  no  more. 
Not  so  the  mind,  that  has  been  touched  from 
Heaven. 

And  in  the  school  of  sacred  wisdom  taught 


To  read  his  wonders,  in  whose  thought  the  world, 
Fair  as  it  is,  existed  ere  it  was. 
Not  for  his  own  sake  merely,  but  for  his 
Much  more,  who  fashioned  it,  he  gives  it  praise; 
Praise  that  from  Earth  resulting,  as  it  ought 
To  earth's  acknowledged  Sovereign,  finds  at  oiK5C 
Its  only  just  proprietor  in  Him. 
The  soul  that  sees  him,  or  receives  sublimed 
New  faculties,  or  learns  at  least  t'  employ 
More  worthily  the  powers  she  owned  before, 
Discerns  in  all  things  what,  with  stupid  gaze 
Of  ignorance,  till  then  she  overlooked 
A  ray  of  heavenly  light,  gilding  all  forms 
Terrestrial  in  the  vast  and  the  minute ; 
The  unambiguous  footsteps  of  the  God. 
Who  gives  its  lustre  to  an  insect's  wing, 
And  wheels  his  throne  upon  the  rolling  worlds. 
Much  conversant  with  Heaven,  she  often  holds 
With  those  fair  ministers  of  light  to  man. 
That  fill  the  skies  nightly  with  silent  pomp, 
Sweet  conference.    Inquires  what  strains  were 
they 

With  which  Heaven  rang,  when  every  star  in 
haste 

To  gratulate  the  new-created  earth, 
Sent  forth  a  voice,  and  all  the  sons  of  God 
Shouted  for  joy. — "Tell  me,  ye  shining  hosts, 
That  navigate  a  sea  that  knows  no  storms, 
Beneath  a  vault  unsullied  with  a  cloud, 
If  from  your  elevation,  whence  ye  view 
Distinctly  scenes  invisible  to  man, 
And  systems  of  whose  birth  no  tidings  yet 
Have  reached  this  nether  world,  ye  spy  a  race 
Favoured  as  ours ;  transgressors  from  the  womb, 
And  hasting  to  a  grave,  yet  doomed  to  rise, 
And  to  possess  a  brighter  heaven  than  yours  1 
As  one,  who,  long  detained  on  foreign  shores, 
Pants  to  return,  and  when  he  sees  afar 
His  country's  weather-bleached  and  battered  rocks 
From  the  green  wave  emerging,  darts  an  eye 
Radiant  with  joy  towards  the  happy  land; 
So  I  with  animated  hopes  behold. 
And  many  an  aching  wish,  your  beamy  fires, 
That  show  like  beacons  in  the  blue  abyss. 
Ordained  to  guide  th'  embodied  spirit  home 
From  toilsome  life  to  never-ending  rest. 
Love  kindles  as  I  gaze.    I  feel  desires 
That  give  assurance  of  their  own  success. 
And  that,  infused  from  Heaven,  must  thither 
tend." 

So  reads  he  nature,  whom  the  lamp  of  truth 
Illuminates.    Thy  lamp,  mysterious  Word! 
Which  whoso  sees  no  longer  wanders  lost, 
With  intellects  bemazed  in  endless  doubt. 
But  runs  the  road  of  wisdom.    Thou  hast  built, 
With  means  that  were  not  till  by  thee  employed, 
Worlds  that  had  never  been,  hadst  thou  in  strength 
Been  less,  or  less  benevolent  than  strong. 
They  are  thy  witnesses,  who  speak  thy  power 


THE  TASK. 


93 


And  goodness  infinite,  but  speak  in  ears 
That  hear  not,  or  receive  not  their  report. 
In  vain  thy  creatures  testify  of  thee. 
Till  thou  proclaim  thyself    Theirs  is  indeed 
A  teaching  voice;  but  'tis  the  praise  of  thine, 
That  whom  it  teaches  it  makes  prompt  to  learn, 
And  with  the  boon  gives  talents  for  its  use. 
Till  thou  art  heard,  imaginations  vain 
Possess  the  heart,  and  fables  false  as  hell; 
Yet,  deemed  oracular,  lure  down  to  death 
The  uninformed  and  heedless  souls  of  men. 
We  give  to  <5hance,  blind  chance,  ourselves  as 
bhnd, 

The  glory  of  thy  work  which  yet  appears 
Perfect  and  unimpeachable  of  blame, 
Challenging  human  scrutiny,  and  proved 
Then  skilful  most  when  most  severely  judged. 
But  chance  is  not;  or  is  not  where  thou  reign'st: 
Thy  providence  forbids  that  fickle  power 
(If  power  she  be,  that  works  but  to  confound) 
To  mix  her  wild  vagaries  vidth  thy  laws. 
Yet  thus  we  dote,  refusing  while  we  can 
Instruction,  and  inventing  to  ourselves 
Gods  such  as  guilt  makes  welcome;  gods  that 
sleep. 

Or  disregard  our  follies,  or  that  sit 
Amused  spectators  of  this  bustling  stage. 
Thee  we  reject,  unable  to  abide 


Thy  purity,  till  pure  as  thou  art  pure. 
Made  such  by  thee,  we  love  thee  for  thy  cause, 
For  which  we  shunned  and  hated  thee  before. 
Then  we  are  free.    Then  liberty,  hke  day, 
Breaks  on  the  soul,  and  by  a  flash  from  Heaven 
Fires  all  the  faculties  with  glorious  joy. 
A  voice  is  heard,  that  mortal  ears  hear  not, 
Till  thou  hast  touched  them;  'tis  the  voice  of 
song, 

A  loud  hosanna  sent  from  all  thy  works, 
Which  he  that  hears  it  with  a  shout  repeats, 
And  adds  his  rapture  to  the  general  praise. 
In  that  blest  moment  Nature,  throwing  wide 
Her  veil  opaque,  discloses  with  a  smile 
The  author  of  her  beauties,  who,  retired 
Behind  his  own  creation,  works  unseen 
By  the  impure,  and  hears  his  power  denied. 
Thou  art  the  source  and  centre  of  all  minds, 
Their  only  point  of  rest,  eternal  Word! 
From  thee  departing  they  are  lost,  and  rove 
At  random  without  honour,  hope,  or  peace. 
From  thee  is  all  that  soothes  the  life  of  man, 
His  high  endeavour,  and  his  glad  success, 
His  strength  to  suffer,  and  his  will  to  serve. 
But  O  thou  bounteous  Giver  of  all  good, 
Thou  art  of  all  thy  gifts  thyeelf  the  crown! 
Give  what  thou  canst,  without  thee  we  are  poorj 
And  with  thee  rich,  take  what  thou  wilt  away. 


BOOK  VI. 

THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


ARGUMENT. 

Bells  at  a  distance.— Their  effect.— A  fine  noon  in  winter.— A  sheltered  walk.— Meditation  better  than  boote.— Our  fami- 
liarity with  the  course  of  nature  makes  it  appear  less  wonderful  than  it  is. — The  transformation  that  spring  effects  in  a  shrub- 
bery described. — A  mistake  concerning  the  course  of  nature  corrected. — God  maintains  it  by  an"  unremitted  act. — Th8 
amusements  fashionable  at  this  hour  of  the  day  reproved. — Animals  happy,  a  delightful  sight. — Origin  of  cruelty  to  animals. 
— That  it  is  a  great  crime  proved  from  Scripture.  That  proof  illustrated  by  a  tale. — A  line  drawn  between  the  lawful  and 
unlawful  destruction  of  them. — Their  good  and  useful  properties  insisted  on.— Apology  for  the  encomiums  bestowed  by  the 
author  on  animals. — Instances  of  man's  extravagant  praise  of  man. — The  groans  of  the  creation  shall  have  an  end. — A  view 
taken  of  the  restoration  of  all  things.— An  invocation  and  an  invitation  of  him,  who  shall  bring  it  to  pass.— The  retired  man 
vindicated  from  the  charge  of  uselessness. — Conclusion. 


There  is  in  souls  a  sympathy  with  sounds; 
And  as  the  mind  is  pitched  the  ear  is  pleased 
With  melting  airs  of  martial,  brisk  or  grave ; 
Some  chord  in  unison  with  what  we  hear 
Is  touched  within  us,  and  the  heart  replies. 
How  soft  the  music  of  those  village  bells, 
Falling  at  intervals  upon  the  ear 
In  cadence  sweet,  now  dying  all  away. 
Now  pealing  loud  again,  and  louder  still 
Clear  and  sonorous,  as  the  gale  comes  on ! 
With  easy  force  it  opens  all  the  cells 
Where  Memory  slept.    Wherever  I  have  heard 
A  kindred  melody,  the  scene  recurs, 


And  with  it  all  its  pleasures  and  its  pains. 
Such  compreliensive  views  the  spirit  takes, 
That  in  a  few  short  moments  I  retrace 
'(As  in  a  map  the  voyager  his  course) 
The  windings  of  my  way  through  many  years. 
Short  as  in  retrospect  the  journey  seems. 
It  seemed  not  always  short;  the  rugged  path. 
And  prospect  oft  so  dreary  and  forlorn, 
Moved  many  a  sigh  at  its  disheartening  length. 
Yet  feeling  present  evils,  while  the  past 
Faintly  impress  the  mind,  or  not  at  all. 
How  readily  we  wish  time  spent^revoked. 
That  we  might  try  the  ground  again  wheie  once 


94 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


(Through  inexperience,  as  wc  now  perceive) 
Wc  missed  tliat  happiness  wc  might  have  found ! 
Some  friend  is  gone,  perhaps  his  son's  best  friend, 
A  father,  whose  authority,  in  show 
When  most  severe  and  mustering  all  its  force, 
Was  but  the  graver  countenance  of  love; 
Whose  favour,  like  the  clouds  of  spring,  might 
lower. 

And  utter  now  and  then  an  awful  voice, 
But  had  a  blessing  in  its  darkest  frown. 
Threatening  at  once  and  nourishing  the  plant. 
We  loved,  but  not  enough,  the  gentle  hand 
That  reared  us.    At  a  thoughtless  age,  allured 
By  every  gilded  folly,  we  renounced 
His  sheltering  side,  and  wilfully  forewent 
That  converse,  which  we  now  in  vain  regret. 
How  gladly  would  the  man  recall  to  life 
The  boy's  neglected  sire !  a  mother  too. 
That  softer  friend,  perhaps  more  gladly  still, 
Might  he  demand  them  at  the  gates  of  death. 
Sorrow  has,  since  they  went,  subdued  and  tamed 
The  playful  humour;  he  could  now  endure, 
(Himself  grown  sober  in  the  vale  of  tears) 
And  feel  a  parent's  presence  no  restraint. 
But  not  to  understand  a  treasure's  worth, 
Till  time  has  stolen  away  the  shghted  good, 
Is  cause  of  half  the  poverty  we  feel, 
And  makes  the  world  the  wilderness  it  is. 
The  few  that  pray  at  all  pray  oft  amiss, 
And  seeking  grace  t'  improve  the  prize  they  hold, 
Would  urge  a  wiser  suit  than  asking  more. 

The  night  was  winter  in  its  roughest  mood; 
The  morning  sharp  and  clear.    But  now  at  noon 
Upon  the  southern  side  of  the  slant  hills, 
And  where  the  woods  fence  off  the  northern  blast. 
The  season  smiles,  resigning  all  its  rage. 
And  has  the  warmth  of  May.   The  vault  is  blue 
Without  a  cloud,  and  white  without  a  speck 
The  dazzling  splendour  of  the  scene  below. 
Again  the  harmony  comes  o'er  the  vale ; 
And  through  the  trees  I  view  th'  embattled  tower, 
Whence  all  the  music.    I  again  perceive 
The  soothing  influence  of  the  wafted  strains. 
And  settle  in  soft  musings  as  I  tread 
The  walk,  still  verdant,  under  oaks  and  elms, 
Whose  outspread  branches  overarch  the  glade. 
The  roof,  though  moveable  through  all  its  length 
As  the  wind  sways  it,  has  yet  well  sufficed, 
And,  intercepting  in  their  silent  fall 
The  frequent  flakes,  has  kept  a  path  for  me. 
No  noise  is  here,  or  none  that  hinders  thought. 
The  redbreast  warbles  still,  but  is  content 
With  slender  notes,  and  more  than  half  sup- 
pressed ; 

Pleased  with  his  solitude,  and  flitting  Ught 
From  spray  to  spay,  where'er  he  rests  he  shakes 
From  many  a  twig  the  pendant  drops  of  ice. 
That  tinkle  in  the  withered  leaves  below. 
Stillness,  accompanied  with  sounds  so  soft, 


Charms  more  than  silence.    Meditation  here 
May  think  down  hours  to  moments.    Here  th© 
heart 

May  give  a  useful  lesson  to  the  head. 
And  learning  wiser  grow  without  his  books. 
Knowledge  and  Wisdom,  far  from  being  one. 
Have  ofttimes  no  connexion.    Knowledge  dwells 
In  heads  replete  with  thoughts  of  other  men ; 
Wisdom  in  minds  attentive  to  their  own. 
Knowledge,  a  rude  unprofitable  mass. 
The  mere  materials  with  which  Wisdom  builds, 
Till  smoothed,  and  squared,  and  fitted  to  its  place, 
Does  but  encumber  whom  it  seems  t'  enrich. 
Knowledge  is  proud  that  he  has  learned  so  much ; 
Wisdom  is  humble  that  he  knows  no  more. 
Books  are  not  seldom  talismans  and  spells, 
By  which  the  magic  art  of  shrewder  wits 
Holds  an  unthinking  multitude  enthralled. 
Some  to  the  fascination  of  a  name 
Surrender  judgment,  hoodwinked.  Some  the  style 
Infatuates,  and  through  labyrinths  and  wilds 
Of  error  leads  them,  by  a  tune  entranced. 
While  sloth  seduces  more,  too  weak  to  bear 
The  insupportable  fatigue  of  thought. 
And  swallowing  therefore  without  pause  or  choice, 
The  total  grist  unsifted,  husks  and  all. 
But  trees  and  rivulets,  whose  rapid  course 
Defies  the  check  of  winter,  haunts  of  deer, 
And  sheep-walks  populous  with  bleating  lambs, 
And  lanes  in  which  the  primrose  ere  her  time 
Peeps  through  the  moss,  that  clothes  the  hawthorn 
root. 

Deceive  no  student.    Wisdom  there,  and  truth, 

Not  shy,  as  in  the  world,  and  to  be  won 

By  slow  solicitation,  seize  at  once 

The  roving  thought,  and  fix  it  on  themselves. 

What  prodigies  can  power  divine  perform 
More  grand  than  it  produces  year  by  year, 
And  all  in  sight  of  inattentive  mani 
Famihar  with  the  effect  we  slight  the  cause, 
And  in  the  constancy  of  nature's  course, 
The  regular  return  of  genial  months, 
And  renovation  of  a  faded  world. 
See  nought  to  wonder  at.  Should  God  again, 
As  once  in  Gibeon,  interrupt  the  race 
Of  the  undeviating  and  punctual  sun. 
How  would  the  world  admire !  but  speaks  it  less 
An  agency  divine,  to  make  him  know 
His  moment  when  to  sink  and  when  to  rise, 
Age  after  age,  than  to  arrest  his  course '? 
All  we  behold  is  miracle;  but  seen 
So  duly,  all  is  miracle  in  vain. 
Where  now  the  vital  energy  that  moved. 
While  summer  was,  the  pure  and  subtle  lymph 
Through  the  imperceptible  meandering  veins 
Of  leaf  and  flower  1  It  sleeps;  and  th'  icy  touch 
Of  unprolific  winter  has  impressed 
A  cold  stagnation  on  th'  intestine  tide. 
But  let  the  months  go  round,  a  few  short  months, 


THE  TASK. 


95 


And  all  shall  be  restored.    These  naked  shoots, 
Barren  as  lances,  among  which  the  wind 
Makes  wintry  music,  sighing  as  it  goes, 
Shall  put  their  graceful  foliage  on  again, 
And  more  aspiring,  and  with  ampler  spread, 
Shall  boast  new  charms,  and  more  than  they  have 
lost. 

Then  each  in  its  peculiar  honours  clad, 
Shall  publish  even  to  the  distant  eye 
Its  family  and  tribe.    Laburnum,  rich 
In  streaming  gold  ;  syringa,  ivory  pure ; 
The  scentless  and  the  scented  rose ;  this  red 
And  of  an  humbler  growth,  the  other*  tall, 
And  throwing  up  into  the  darkest  gloom 
Of  neighbouring  cypress,  or  more  sable  yew, 
Her  silver  globes,  light  as  the  foamy  surf 
That  the  wind  severs  from  the  broken  wave 
The  lilac,  various  in  array,  now  white, 
Now  sanguine,  and  her  beauteous  head  now  set 
With  purple  spikes  pyramidal,  as  if 
Studious  of  ornament,  yet  unresolved 
Which  hue  she  most  approved,  she  chose  them  all; 
Copious  of  flowers  the  woodbine,  pale  and  wan 
But  well  compensating  her  sickly  looks  • 
With  never-cloying  odours,  early  and  late ; 
Hypericum  all  bloom,  so  thick  a  swarm 
Of  flowers  like  flies  clothing  her  slender  rods, 
That  scarce  a  leaf  appears ;  mezereon  too. 
Though  leafless,  well-attired,  and  thick  beset 
With  blushing  wreaths,  investing  every  spray; 
Althaea  with  the  purple  eye ;  the  broom, 
Yellow  and  bright,  as  bullion  unalloyed. 
Her  blossoms;  and  luxuriant  above  all 
The  jasmine,  throwing  wide  her  elegant  sweets. 
The  deep  dark  green  of  whose  unvarnished  leaf 
Makes  more  conspicuous,  and  illumines  more, 
The  bright  profusions  of  her  scattered  stars. — 
These  have  been,  and  these  shall  be,  in  their  day; 
And  all  this  uniform  uncoloured  scene 
Shall  be  dismantled  of  its  fleecy  load. 
And  flush  into  variety  again. 
From  dearth  to  plenty,  and  from  death  to  life. 
Is  Nature's  progress,  when  she  lectures  man 
In  heavenly  truth ;  evincing,  as  she  makes 
The  grand  transition,  that  there  lives  and  works 
A  soul  in  all  things,  and  that  soul  is  God. 
The  beauties  of  the  wilderness  are  his. 
That  makes  so  gay  the  solitary  place, 
Where  no  eye  sees  them.    And  the  fairer  forms. 
That  cultivation  glories  in,  are  his. 
He  sets  the  bright  procession  on  its  way, 
And  marshals  all  the  order  of  the  year; 
He  marks  the  bounds,  which  winter  may  not 
pass. 

And  blunts  his  pointed  fury;  in  its  case, 
Russet  and  rude,  folds  up  the  tender  germ, 
Uninjured  with  inimitable  art; 
And,  ere  one  flowery  season  fades  and  dies, 

*  The  Guelder-rose, 


Designs  the  blooming  wonders  of  the  next. 

Some  say  that  in  the  origin  of  things. 
When  all  creation  started  into  birth, 
The  infant  elements  received  a  law. 
From  which  they  swerved  not  since .    That  under 
force 

Of  that  controlling  ordinance  they  move. 
And  need  not  his  immediate  hand,  who  first 
Prescribed  their  course,  to  regulate  it  now. 
Thus  dream  they,  and  contrive  to  save  a  God 
Th'  encumbrance  of  his  own  concerns,  and  spare 
The  great  artificer  of  all  that  moves 
The  stress  of  a  continual  act,  the  pain 
Of  unremitted  vigilance  and  care. 
As  too  laborious  and  severe  a  task. 
So  man,  the  moth,  is  not  afraid,  it  seems, 
To  span  omnipotence,  and  measure  might. 
That  knows  no  measure,  by  the  scanty  rule 
And  standard  of  his  own,  that  is  to-day, 
And  is  not  ere  to-morrow's  sun  go  down. 
But  how  should  matter  occupy  a  charge, 
Dull  as  it  is,  and  satisfy  a  law 
So  vast  in  its  demands,  unless  impelled 
To  ceaseless  service  by  a  ceaseless  force. 
And  under  pressure  of  some  conscious  cause  1 
The  Lord  of  all,  himself  through  all  diffused. 
Sustains,  and  is  the  hfe  of  all  that  lives. 
Nature  is  but  a  name  for  an  eflfect. 
Whose  cause  is  God.    He  feeds  the  sacred  fire 
By  which  the  mighty  process  is  maintained; 
Who  sleeps  not,  is  not  weary;  in  whose  sight 
Slow  circling  ages  are  as  transient  days; 
Whose  work  is  without  labour;  whose  designs 
No  flaw  deforms,  no  difficulty  thwarts; 
And  whose  beneficence  no  change  exhausts. 
Him  blind  antiquity  profaned,  not  served. 
With  self-taught  rites,  and  under  various  names, 
Female  and  male,  Pomona,  Pales,  Pan, 
And  Flora,  and  Vertumnus ;  peopling  earth 
With  tutelary  goddesses  and  gods. 
That  were  not ;  and  commending  as  they  would 
To  each  some  province,  garden,  field,  or  grove. 
But  all  are  under  one.    One  spirit — His, 
Who  wore  the  platted  thorns  with  bleeding 
brows, — 

Rules  universal  nature.    Not  a  flower 
But  shows  some  touch,  in  freckle,  streak,  or  stain, 
Of  his  unrivalled  pencil.    He  inspires 
Their  balmy  odours,  and  imparts  their  hues. 
And  bathes  their  eyes  with  nectar,  and  includes, 
In  grains  as  countless  as  the  seaside  sands. 
The  forms  with  which  he  sprinkles  all  the  earth. 
Happy  who  walks  with  him!  whom  what  he  finds 
Of  flavour  or  of  scent  in  fruit  or  flower. 
Or  what  he  views  of  beautiful  or  grand 
In  nature,  from  the  broad  majestic  oak 
To  the  green  blade  that  twinkles  in  Ihe'sun, 
Prompts  with  remembrance  of  a  present  God. 
His  presence,  who  made  all  so  fair,  perceived, 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Makes  all  still  fairer.    As  with  him  no  scene 
Is  dreary,  so  with  him  all  seasons  please. 
Though  winter  had  been  none,  had  man  been  true, 
And  earth  be  punished  for  its  tenant's  sake, 
Yet  not  in  vc/ngeance;  as  this  smiling  sky. 
So  soon  succeeding  such  an  angry  night, 
And  these  dissolving  snows,  and  this  clear  stream 
Recovering  fast  its  Uquid  music,  prove. 

Who  then,  that  has  a  mind  well  strung  and 
tuned 

To  contemplation,  and  within  his  reach 
A  scene  so  friendly  to  his  favourite  task, 
Would  waste  attention  at  the  checkered  board, 
His  host  of  wooden  warriors  to  and  fro 
Marching  and  counter-marching,  with  an  eye 
As  fixed  as  marble,  with  a  forehead  ridged 
And  furrowed  into  storms,  and  with  a  hand 
Trembling,  as  if  eternity  were  hung 
In  balance  on  his  conduct  of  a  pin'? 
Nor  envies  he  aught  more  their  idle  sport. 
Who  pant  with  application  misapplied 
To  trivial  toys,  and  pushing  ivory  balls 
Across  a  velvet  level,  feel  a  joy 
Akin  to  rapture,  when  the  bauble  finds 
Its  destined  goal,  of  difficult  access. 
jSTor  deems  he  wiser  him,  who  gives  his  noon 
To  Miss,  the  mercer's  plague,  from  shop  to  shop 
Wandering,  and,  littering  with  unfolded  silks 
The  pohshed  counter,  and  approving  none. 
Or  promising  with  smiles  to  call  again. 
Nor  him,  who  by  his  vanity  seduced. 
And  soothed  into  a  dream  that  he  discerns 
The  difference  of  a  Guido  from  a  daub. 
Frequents  the  crowded  auction :  stationed  there 
As  duly  as  the  Langford  of  the  show, 
With  glass  at  eye,  and  catalogue  in  hand, 
And  tongue  accomplished  in  the  fulsome  cant, 
And  pedantry,  that  coxcombs  learn  with  ease ; 
Oft  as  the  price  deciding  hammer  falls, 
He  notes  it  in  his  book,  then  raps  his  box, 
Swears  'tis  a  bargain,  rails  at  his  hard  fate. 
That  he  has  let  it  pass— but  never  bids. 

Here  unmolested,  through  whatever  sign 
The  sun  proceeds,  I  wander.    Neither  mist, 
Nor  freezing  sky  nor  sultry,  checking  me. 
Nor  stranger,  intermeddling  with  my  joy. 
E'en  in  the  spring  and  playtime  of  the  year, 
That  calls  th'  unwonted  villager  abroad 
With  all  her  little  ones,  a  sportive  train, 
Ta  gather  kinecups  in  the  yellow  mead, 
And  prink  their  hair  with  daisies,  or  to  pick 
A  cheap  but  wholesome  salad  from  the  brook. 
These  shades  are  all  my  own.    The  timorous  hare. 
Grown  so  familiar  with  her  frequent  guest. 
Scarce  shuns  me ;  and  the  stockdove  unalarmed 
Sits  cooing  in  the  pine-tree,  nor  suspends 
His  long  love-^itty  for  my  near  approach, 
Drawn  from  his  refuge  in  some  lonely  elm, 
That  age  or  injury  has  hollowed  deep 


Where,  on  his  bed  of  wool  and  matted  leaves, 
He  has  outslept  the  winter,  ventures  forth 
To  frisk  awhile,  and  bask  in  the  warm  sun. 
The  squirrel,  flippant,  pert,  and  full  of  play; 
He  sees  me,  and  at  once,  swift  as  a  bird. 
Ascends  the  neighbouring  beech ;  there  whisks  his 
brush, 

And  perks  his  ears,  and  stamps,  and  cries  aloud, 
With  all  the  prettiness  of  feigned  alarm, 
And  anger  insignificantly  fierce. 

The  heart  is  hard  in  nature  and  unfit 
For  human  fellowship,  as  being  void 
Of  sympathy,  and  therefore  dead  alike 
To  love  and  friendship  both,  that  is  not  pleased 
With  sight  of  animals  enjoying  life. 
Nor  feels  their  happiness  augment  his  own. 
The  bounding  fawn,  that  darts  across  the  glade. 
When  none  pursues,  through  mere  delight  of  heart, 
And  spirits  buoyant  vdth  excess  of  glee ; 
The  horse  as  wanton,  and  almost  as  fleet, 
That  skims  the  spacious  meadow  at  full  speed, 
Then  stops,  and  snorts,  and,  throwing  high  his 
heels, 

Starts  to  the  voluntary  race  again ; 

The  very  kine,  that  gambol  at  high  noon. 

The  total  herd  receiving  first  from  one. 

That  leads  the  dance,  a  summons  to  be  gay. 

Though  wild  their  strange  vagaries,  and  uncouth 

Their  efforts,  yet  resolved  with  one  consent 

To  give  such  act  and  utterance  as  they  may 

To  ecstacy  too  big  to  be  suppressed — 

These,  and  a  thousand  images  of  bliss. 

With  which  kind  Nature  graces  every  scene, 

Where  cruel  man  defeats  not  her  design. 

Impart  to  the  benevolent,  who  wish 

All  that  are  capable  of  pleasure  pleased, 

A  far  superior  happiness  to  theirs. 

The  comfort  of  a  reasonable  joy. 

Man  scarce  had  risen,  obedient  to  his  call 
Who  formed  him  from  the  dust,  his  future  grave, 
When  he  was  crowned  as  never  king  was  since. 
God  set  the  diadem  upon  his  head, 
And  angel  choirs  attended.    Wondering  stood 
The  new-made  monarch,  while  before  him  passed,- 
All  happy,  and  all  perfect  in  their  kind, 
The  creatures,  summoned  from  their  various  haunts, 
To  see  their  sovereign,  and  confess  his  sway. 
Vast  was  his  empire,  absolute  his  power. 
Or  bounded  only  by  a  law,  whose  force 
Twas  his  sublimest  privilege  to  feel 
And  own,  the  law  of  universal  love. 
He  ruled  with  meekness,  they  obeyed  with  joy ; 
No  cruel  purpose  lurked  within  his  heart, 
And  no  distrust  of  his  intent  in  theirs. 
So  Eden  was  a  scene  of  harmless  sport. 
Where  kindness  on  his  part  who  ruled  the  whole, 
Begat  a  tranquil  confidence  in  all. 
And  fear  as  yet  was  not,  nor  cause  for  fear. 
But  sin  marred  all ;  and  the  revolt  of  man, 


THE  TASK. 


That  source  of  evils  not  exhausted  yet, 
"Was  punished  with  revolt  of  his  from  him. 
Garden  of  God,  how  terrible  the  change 
Thy  groves  and  lawns  then  witnessed!  Every 
heart, 

Each  animal,  of  every  name,  conceived 
A  jealousy,  and  an  instinctive  fear. 
And,  conscious  of  some  danger,  either  fled 
Precipitate  the  loathed  abode  of  man, 
Or  growled  defiance  in  such  angry  sort, 
As  taught  him  too  to  tremble  in  his  turn. 
Thus  harmony  and  family  accord 
Were  driven  from  Paradise ;  and  in  that  hour 
The  seeds  of  cruelty,  that  since  have  swelled 
To  such  gigantic  and  enormous  growth, 
Were  sown  in  human  nature's  fruitful  soil. 
Hence  date  the  persecution  and  the  pain. 
That  man  inflicts  on  all  inferior  kinds, 
Regardless  of  their  plaints.    To  make  him  sport, 
To  gratify  the  frenzy  of  his  wrath. 
Or  his  base  gluttony,  are  causes  good 
And  just  in  his  account,  why  bird  and  beast 
Should  suflfer  torture,  and  the  streams  be  dyed 
With  blood  of  their  inhabitants  impaled. 
Earth  groans  beneath  the  burden  of  a  war 
Waged  with  defenceless  innocence,  while  he, 
Not  satisfied  to  prey  on  all  around. 
Adds  tenfold  bitterness  to  death  by  pangs 
Needless,  and  first  torments  ere  he  devours. 
Now  happiest  they,  that  occupy  the  scenes 
The  most  remote  from  his  abhorred  resort, 
Whom  once,  as  delegate  of  God  on  earth,' 
They  feared,  and  as  his  perfect  image  loved. 
The  wilderness  is  theirs,  with  all  its  caves, 
Its  hollow  glens,  its  thickets,  and  its  plains, 
Unvisited  by  man.    There  they  are  free, 
And  howl  and  roar  as  likes  them,  uncontrolled 
Nor  ask  his  leave  to  slumber  or  to  play. 
Wo  to  the  tyrant,  if  he  dare  intrude 
Within  the  confines  of  their  wild  domain: 
The  lion  tells  him— I  am  monarch  here— 
And,  if  he  spare  him,  spares  him  on  the  terms 
Of  royal  mercy,  and  through  generous  scorn 
To  rend  a  victim  trembling  at  his  foot. 
In  measure,  as  by  force  of  instinct  drawn, 
Or  by  necessity  constrained,  they  live 
Dependant  upon  man;  those  in  his  fields, 
These  at  his  crib,  and  some  beneath  his  roof. 
They  prove  too  ofl;en  at  how  dear  a  rate 
He  sells  protection.— Witness  at  his  foot 
The  spaniel  dying  for  some  venial  fault, 
Under  dissection  of  the  knotted  scourge ; 
Witness  the  patient  ox,  with  stripes  and  yells 
Driven  to  the  slaughter,  goaded,  as  he  runs, 
To  madness;  while  the  savage  at  his  heels  ' 
Laughs  at  the  frantic  sufferer's  fury,  spent 
Upon  the  guiltless  passenger  o'erthrown. 
He  too  is  witness,  noblest  of  the  tra^n 
That  wait  on  man,  the  flight-performing  horse; 


With  unsuspecting  readiness  he  takes 
His  murderer  on  his  back,  and  pushed  all  day 
With  bleeding  sides  and  flanks,  that  heave  for  life, 
To  the  far  distant  goal,  arrives  and  dies. 
So  little  mercy  shows  who  needs  so  much! 
Does  law,  so  jealous  in  the  cause  of  man. 
Denounce  no  doom  on  the  delinquent ?  'None. 
He  lives,  and  o'er  his  brimming  beaker  boasts 
(As  if  barbarity  were  high  desert) 
Th'  inglorious  feat,  and  clamorous  in  praise 
Of  the  poor  brute,  seems  wisely  to  suppose 
The  honours  of  his  matchless  horse  his  own. 
But  many  a  crime,  deemed  innocent  on  earth 
Is  registered  in  heaven;  and  these  no  doubt 
Have  each  their  record,  with  a  curse  annexed, 
Man  may  dismiss  compassion  from  his  heart. 
But  God  will  never.    When  he  charged  the  Jew  , 
T'  assist  his  foe's  down  fallen  beast  to  rise; 
And  when  the  bush-exploring  boy,  that  seized 
The  young,  to  let  the  parent  bird  go  free; 
Proved  he  not  plainly,  that  his  meaner  works 
Are  yet  his  care,  and  have  an  interest  all, 
All,  in  the  universal  Father's  lovel 
On  Noah,  and  in  him  on  all  mankind, 
The  charter  was  conferred,  by  which  we  hold 
The  flesh  of  animals  in  fee,  and  claim 
O'er  all  we  feed  on,  power  of  life  and  death. 
But  read  the  instrument  and  mark  it  well : 
Th'  oppression  of  a  tyrannous  control 
Can  find  no  warrant  there.    Feed  then,  and  yield 
Thanks  for  thy  food.    Carnivorous,  through  sin, 
Feed  on  the  slain,  but  spare  the  hving  brute! 

The  Governor  of  all,  himself  to  all 
So  bountiful,  in  whose  attentive  ear 
The  unfledged  raven  and  the  Uon's  whelp 
Plead  not  in  vain  for  pity  on  the  pangs 
Of  hunger  unassuaged,  has  interposed, 
Not  seldom,  his  avenging  arm,  to  smite 
Th'  injurious  trampler  upon  nature's  law, 
That  claims  forbearance  even  for  a  brute. 
He  hates  the  hardness  of  a  Balaam's  heart; 
And  prophet  as  he  was,  he  might  not  strike 
The  blameless  animal,  without  rebuke, 
On  which  he  rode.    Her  opportune  oflfence 
Saved  him,  or  th'  unrelenting  seer  had  died. 
He  sees  that  human  equity  is  slack 
To  interfere,  though  in  so  just  a  cause; 
And  makes  the  task  his  own.    Inspiring  dumb 
And  helpless  victims  with  a  sense  so  keen 
Of  injury,  with  such  knowledge  of  their  strength, 
And  such  sagacity  to  take  revenge, 
That  oft  the  beast  has  seemed  to  judge  the  man-^ 
An  ancient,  not  a  legendary  tale. 
By  one  of  sound  intelligence  rehearsed, 
(If  such  who  plead  for  Providence  may  seem 
In  modern  eyes,)  shall  make  the  doi^trine  clear. 
Where  England,  stretched  towards  the  settmg 


98 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Narrow  and  long,  o'erlooks  the  western  wave,  ( 
Dwell  young  Mlsagathus;  a  scorner  he  ''■ 
Of  God  and  goodness,  atheist  in  ostent,  I 
Vicious  in  act,  in  temper  savage-fierce.  1 
He  journeyed;  and  his  chance  was,  as  he  went, 
To  join  a  traveller,  of  far  different  note,  ^ 
Evander,  famed  for  piety,  for  years 
Deserving  honour,  but  for  wisdom  more.  1 
Fame  had  not  left  the  venerable  man  1 
A  stranger  to  the  manners  of  the  youth,  J 
Whose  face  too  was  famiUar  to  his  view.  1 
Their  way  was  on  the  margin  of  the  land,  ] 
O'er  the  green  summit  of  the  rocks,  whose  base 
Beats  back  the  roaring  surge,  scarce  heard  so  high.  I 
The  charity,  that  warmed  his  heart,  was  moved 
At  sight  of  the  man-monster.    With  a  smile, 
Gentle,  and  affable,  and  full  of  grace,  i 
As  fearful  of  offending  whom  he  wished 
Much  to  persuade,  lie  plied  his  ear  with  truths 
Not  harshly  thundered  forth,  or  rudely  pressed, 
But,  like  his  purpose,  gracious,  kind,  and  sweet. 
"  And  dost  thou  dream,"  th'  impenetrable  man 
Exclaimed,  "  that  me  the  lullabies  of  age, 
And  fantasies  of  dotards  such  as  thou. 
Can  cheat,  or  move  a  moment's  fear  in  me'? 
Mark  now  the  proof  I  give  thee,  that  the  brave 
Need  no  such  aids,  as  superstition  lends, 
To  steel  their  hearts  against  the  dread  of  death." 
He  spoke,  and  to  the  precipice  at  hand 
Pushed  with  a  madman's  fury.    Fancy  shrinks 
And  the  blood  thrills  and  curdles,  at  the  thought 
Of  such  a  gulf  as  he  designed  his  grave. 
But,  though  the  felon  on  his  back  could  dare 
The  dreadful  leap,  more  rational,  his  steed 
Declined  the  death,  and  wheeUng  swiftly  round, ' 
Or  e'er  his  hoof  had  pressed  the  crumbUng  verge, 
Baffled  his  rider,  saved  against  his  will. 
The  frenzy  of  the  brain  may  be  redressed 
By  medicine  well  applied,  but  without  grace 
The  heart's  insanity  admits  no  cure. 
Enraged  the  more,  by  what  might  have  reformed 
His  horrible  intent,  again  he  sought 
Destruction,  with  a  zeal  to  be  destroyed, 
With  sounding  whip,  and  rowels  dyed  in  blood. 
But  still  in  vain.    The  Providence  that  meant 
A  longer  date  to  the  far  nobler  beast, 
Spared  yet  again  th'  ignoble  for  his  sake. 
And  now,  his  prowess  proved,  and  his  sincere 
Incurable  obduracy  evinced. 
His  rage  grew  cool;  and,  pleased  perhaps  t'  have 
earned 

So  cheaply  the  renown  of  that  attempt, 
With  looks  of  some  complacence  he  resumed 
His  road,  deriding  much  the  blank  amaze 
Of  good  Evander,  still  where  he  was  left 
Fixed  motionless,  and  petrified  with  dread. 
So  on  they  fared.    Discourse  on  other  themes 
Ensuing  seemed  t'  obliterate  the  past; 
And  tamer  far  for  so  much  fury  shown, 


(As  in  the  course  of  rash  and  fiery  men) 
The  rude  companion  smiled,  as  if  transformed. 
But  'twas  a  transient  calm.    A  storm  was  near, 
An  unsuspected  storm.    His  hour  was  come. 
The  impious  challenger  of  Power  divine 
Was  now  to  learn,  that  Heaven,  though  slow  to 
wrath, 

Is  never  vnth  impunity  defied. 
His  horse,  as  he  had  caught  his  master's  mood, 
Snorting,  and  starting  into  sudden  rage. 
Unbidden,  and  not  now  to  be  controlled, 
Rushed  to  the  cliff,  and,  having  reached  it,  stood. 
At  once  the  shock  unseated  him;  he  flew 
Sheer  o'er  the  craggy  barrier;  and,  immersed 
Deep  in  the  flood,  found,  when  he  sought  it  not. 
The  death  he  had  deserved,  and  died  alone. 
So  God  wrought  double  justice ;  made  the  fool 
The  victim  of  his  own  tremendous  choice, 
And  taught  a  brute  the  way  to  safe  revenge. 
I  would  not  enter  on  my  fist  of  friends 
(Though  graced  with  polished  manners  and  fine 
sense, 

Yet  wanting  sensibility)  the  man 
Who  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a  worm. 
An  inadvertent  step  may  crush  the  snail, 
That  crawls  at  evening  in  the  public  path ; 
But  he  that  has  humanity,  forewarned. 
Will  tread  aside,  and  let  the  reptile  live. 
The  creeping  vermin,  loathsome  to  the  sight. 
And  charged  perhaps  with  venom,  that  intrudes, 
A  visiter  unwelcome,  into  scenes 
Sacred  to  neatness  and  repose,  th'  alcove, 
The  chamber,  or  refectory,  may  die: 
A  necessary  act  incurs  no  blame. 
Not  so  when,  held  within  their  proper  bounds, 
And  guiltless  of  offence,  they  range  the  air, 
Or  take  their  pastime  in  the  spacious  field ; 
There  they  are  privileged;  and  he  that  hunts 
Or  harms  them  there  is  guilty  of  a  wrong. 
Disturbs  the  economy  of  Nature's  realm, 
Who,  when  she  formed,  designed  them  an  abode. 
The  sum  is  this.    If  man's  convenience,  health, 
Or  safety,  interfere,  his  rights  and  claims 
Are  paramount,  and  must  extinguish  theirs. 
Else  they  are  all— the  meanest  things  that  are — 
As  free  to  live,  and  to  enjoy  that  life, 
As  God  was  free  to  form  them  at  the  first, 
Who  in  his  sovereign  wisdom  made  them  all. 
Ye,  therefore,  who  love  mercy,  teach  your  sons 
e  To  love  it  too.    The  springtime  of  our  years 
Is  soon  dishonoured  and  defiled  in  most 
By  budding  ills,  and  ask  a  prudent  hand 
To  check  them.    But  alas !  none  sooner  shoots. 
If  unrestrained,  into  luxuriant  growth. 
Than  cruelty,  most  devilish  of  them  all. 
Mercy  to  him  that  shows  it,  is  the  rule 
And  righteous  limitation  of  its  act. 
By  which  Heaven  moves  in  pardoning  guilty  man 
And  he  that  shows  none,  being  ripe  in  years, 


THE  TASK. 


99 


And  conscious  of  the  outrage  he  commits, 
Shall  seek  it,  and  not  find  it,  in  his  turn. 

Distinguished  much  by  reason,  and  still  more 
By  our  capacity  of  grace  divine, 
From  creatures,  that  exist  but  for  our  sake, 
Which,  having  served  us,  perish,  we  are  held 
Accountable;  and  God  some  future  day 
Will  reckon  with  us  roundly  for  the  abuse 
Of  what  he  deems  no  mean  or  trivial  trust. 
Superior  as  we  are,  they  yet  depend 
Not  more  on  human  help  than  we  on  theirs.  • 
Their  strength,  or  speed,  or  vigilance  were  given 
In  aid  of  our  defects.    In  some  are  found 
Such  teachable  and  apprehensive  parts, 
That  man's  attainments  in  his  own  concerns, 
Matched  with  th'  expertness  of  the  brutes  in 
/  theirs. 

Are  ofttimes  vanquished,  and  thrown  far  behind. 
Some  show  that  nice  sagacity  of  smell. 
And  read  with  such  discernment,  in  the  port 
And  figure  of  the  man,  his  secret  aim, 
That  oft  we  owe  our  safety  to  a  skill 
We  could  not  teach,  and  must  despair  to  learn; 
But  learn  we  might,  if  not  too  proud  to  stoop 
To  quadruped  instructers,  many  a  good 
And  useful  quality,  and  virtue  too, 
Rarely  exemplified  among  ourselves; 
Attachment  never  to  be  weaned,  or  changed 
By  any  change  of  fortune;  proof  alike 
Against  unkindness,  absence,  and  neglect; 
Fidelity,  that  neither  bribe  nor  threat 
Can  move  or  warp;  and  gratitude  for  small 
And  trivial  favours,  lasting  as  the  life. 
And  glistening  even  in  the  dying  eye. 
Man  praises  man.    Desert  in  arts  or  arms 
Wins  public  honour;  and  ten  thousand  sit 
Patiently  present  at  a  sacred  song. 
Commemoration-mad;  content  to  hear 
(O  wonderful  effect  of  music's  power!) 
Messiah's  eulogy  for  Handel's  sake. 

But  less,  methinks,  than  sacrilege  might  serve  

(For,  was  it  less,  what  heathen  would  have  dared 
To  strip  Jove's  statue  of  his  oaken  wreath. 
And  hang  it  up  in  honour  of  a  mani) 
Much  less  might  serve,  when  all  that  we  design 
Is  but  to  gratify  an  itching  ear. 
And  give  the  day  to  a  musician's  praise. 
Remember  Handell    Who,  that  was  not  born 
Deaf  as  the  dead  to  harmony,  forgets. 
Or  can,  the  more  than  Homer  of  his  age? 
Yes— we  remember  him:  and  while  we  praise 
A  talent  so  divine,  remember  too 
That  His  most  holy  book,  from  whom  it  came. 
Was  never  meant,  was  never  used  before, 
To  buckram  out  the  memory  of  a  man. 
But  hush! — the  muse  perhaps  is  too  severe; 
And  with  a  gravity  beyond  the  size 
And  measure  of  th'  offence,  rebukes  a  deed 
Less  impious  than  absurd,  and  owing  more 
K 


To  want  of  judgment  than  to  wrong  design. 
So  in  the  chapel  of  old  Ely  House, 
When  wandering  Charles,  who  meant  to  be  the 
third. 

Had  fled  from  William,  and  the  news  was  fresh, 
The  simple  clerk,  but  loyal,  did  announce. 
And  eke  did  rear  right  merrily,  two  staves. 
Sung  to  the  praise  and  glory  of  King  George! 
—Man  praises  man;  and  Garrick's  memory  next. 
When  time  had  somewhat  mellowed  it,  and  made 
The  idol  of  our  worship  while  he  lived 
The  God  of  our  idolatry  once  more. 
Shall  have  its  altar;  and  the  world  shall  go 
In  pilgrimage  to  bow  before  his  shrine. 
The  theatre  too  small  shall  suffocate 
Its  squeezed  contents,  and  more  than  it  admits 
Shall  sigh  at  their  exclusion,  and  return 
Ungratified :  for  there  some  noble  lord 
Shall  stuff  his  shoulders  with  king  Richard's 
bunch. 

Or  wrap  himself  in  Hamlet's  inky  cloak, 
And  strut  and  storm,  and  straddle,  stamp  and 
stare. 

To  show  the  worid  how  Garrick  did  not  act, 
For  Garrick  was  a  worshipper  himself; 
He  drew  the  liturgy,  and  framed  the  rites 
And  solemn  ceremonials  of  the  day, 
And  called  the  worid  to  worship  on  the  banks 
Of  Avon,  famed  in  song.    Ah,  pleasant  proof 
That  piety  has  still  in  human  hearts 
Some  place,  a  spark  or  two  not  yet  extinct. 
The  mulberry-tree  was  hung  with  blooming 
wreaths; 

The  mulberry-tree  stood  centre  of  the  dance; 
The  mulberry-tree  was  hymned  with  dulcet  airS; 
And  from  his  touchwood  trunk  the  mulberry-tree 
Supplied  such  relics  as  devotion  holds 
Still  sacred,  and  preserves  with  pious  care. 
So  'twas  a  hallowed  time :  decorum  reigned. 
And  mirth  without  offence.    No  few  returned, 
Doubtless,  much  edified,  and  all  refreshed. — 
Man  praises  man.    The  rabble  all  alive 
From  tippling  benches,  cellars,  stalls,  and  styes, 
S  w  arm  in  the  streets.    Th*  statesman  of  the  day, 
A  pompous  and  slow-moving  pageant,  comes. 
Some  shout  him,  and  some  hang  upon  his  car. 
To  gaze  in's  eyes,  and  bless  him.    Maidens  wave 
Their  'kerchiefs,  and  old  women  weep  for  joy : 
While  others,  not  so  satisfied,  unhorse 
The  gilded  equipage,  and,  turning  loose 
His  steeds,  usurp  a  place  they  well  deserve. 
Why'?  what  has  charmed  them?  Hath  he  saved 

the  state?  ^ 
No.    Doth  he  purpose  its  salvation?  No. 
Enchanting  novelty,  that  moon  at  fiill. 
That  finds  out  every  crevice  of  the  head 
That  is  not  sound  and  perfect,  hath  in  theirs 
Wrought  this  disturbance.  But  the  wane  is  neaj 
And  his  own  cattle  must  suffice  fmn  soon. 


100 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Thus  idly  do  we  waste  the  breath  of  praise, 
And  dedicate  a  tribute,  in  its  use 
And  just  direction  sacred,  to  a  thing 
Doomed  to  the  dust,  or  lodged  already  there. 
Encomium  in  old  time  was  poets'  work; 
But  poets,  having  lavishly  long  since 
Exhausted  all  materials  of  the  art, 
The  task  now  falls  into  the  public  hand; 
And  I,  contented  with  an  humbler  theme, 
Have  poured  my  stream  of  panegyric  down 
The  vale  of  Nature,  where  it  creeps,  and  winds 
Among  her  lovely  works  with  a  secure 
And  unambitious  course,  reflecting  clear, 
If  not  the  virtues,  yet  the  worth,  of  brutes. 
And  I  am  recompensed,  and  deem  the  toils 
Of  poetry  not  lost,  if  verse  of  mine 
May  stand  between  an  animal  and  wo. 
And  teach  one  tyrant  pity  for  his  drudge. 

The  groans  of  Nature  in  this  nether  world, 
Which  Heaven  has  heard  for  ages,  have  an  end. 
Foretold  by  prophets,  and  by  poets  sung, 
Whose  fire  was  kindled  at  the  prophet's  lamp, 
The  time  of  rest,  the  promised  sabbath,  comes. 
Six  thousand  years  of  sorrow  have  well-nigh 
'  Fulfilled  their  tardy  and  disastrous  course 
Over  a  sinful  world;  and  what  remains 
Of  this  tempestuous  state  of  human  things 
Is  merely  as  the  working  of  a  sea 
Before  a  calm,  that  rocks  itself  to  rest; 
For  He,  whose  car  the  winds  are,  and  the  clouds 
The  dust  that  waits  upon  his  sultry  march,^ 
When  sin  hath  moved  them,  and  his  wrath  is  hot. 
Shall  visit  earth  in  mercy;  shall  descend 
Propitious  in  his  chariot  paved  with  love; 
And  what  his  storms  have  blasted  and  defaced 
For  man's  revolt  shall  with  a  smile  repair. 

Sweet  is  the  harp  of  prophecy  ;  too  sweet 
Not  to  be  wronged  by  a  mere  mortal  touch: 
Nor  can  the  wonders  it  records  be  sung 
To  meaner  music,  and  not  suffer  loss. 
But  when  a  poet,  or  when  one  like  me, 
Happy  to  rove  among  poetic  flowers. 
Though  poor  in  skill  to  rear  them,  lights  at  last, 
On  some  fair  theme,  some  theme  divinely  fair, 
Such  is  the  impulse  and  the  spur  he  feels, 
To  give  it  praise  proportioned  to  its  worth, 
That  not  t'  attempt  it,  arduous  as  he  deems 
The  labour,  were  a  task  more  arduous  still. 

O  scenes  surpassing  fable,  and  yet  true, 
Scenes  of  accomplished  bliss!  which  who  can  see, 
Though  but  in  distant  prospect,  and  not  feel 
His  soul  refreshed  with  foretaste  of  the  joy  1 
Rivers  of  gladness  water  all  the  earth. 
And  clothe  all  climes  with  beauty;  the  reproach 
Of  barrenness  is  past.    The  fruitful  field 
Laughs  with  abundance;  and  the  land,  once  lean, 
Or  fertile  only  in  its  own  disgrace, 
Exults  to  see  its  thistly  curse  repealed. 
The  various  seasons  woven  into  one, 


And  that  one  season  an  eternal  spring. 
The  garden  fears  no  blight,  and  needs  no  fence, 
For  there  is  none  to  covet,  all  are  full. 
The  lion,  and  the  libbard,  and  the  bear, 
Graze  with  the  fearless  flocks;  all  bask  at  noon 
Together,  or  all  gambol  in  the  shade 
Of  the  same  grove,  and  drink  one  common  stream. 
Antipathies  are  none.  No  foe  to  man 
Lurks  in  the  serpent  now;  the  mother  sees, 
And  smiles  to  see,  her  infant's  playful  hand 
Stretched  forth  to  dally  with  the  crested  worm, 
To  stroke  his  azure  neck,  or  to  receive 
The  lambent  homage  of  his  arrowy  tongue. 
All  creatures  worship  man,  and  all  mankind 
One  Lord,  one  Father.    Error  has  no  place: 
That  creeping  pestilence  is  driven  away ; 
The  breath  of  heaven  has  chased  it.  In  the  heart 
No  passion  touches  a  discordant  string, 
But  all  is  harmony  and  love.  Disease 
Is  not ;  the  pure  and  uncontaminate  blood 
Holds  its  due  course,  nor  fears  the  frost  of  age. 
One  song  employs  all  nations ;  and  all  cry, 
"  Worthy  the  Lamb,  for  he  was  slain  for  us  !" 
The  dwellers  in  the  vales  and  on  the  rocks 
Shoxit  to  each  other,  and  the  mountain  tops 
From  distant  mountains  catch  the  flying  joy ; 
Till,  nation  after  nation  taught  the  strain, 
Earth  rolls  the  rapturous  hosanna  round. 
Behold  the  measure  of  the  promise  filled; 
See  Salem  built,  the  labour  of  a  God  ! 
Bright  as  the  sun  the  sacred  city  shines ; 
All  kingdoms  and  all  princes  of  the  earth 
Flock  to  that  light ;  the  glory  of  all  lands 
Flows  into  her ;  unbounded  is  her  joy. 
And  endless  her  increase.    Thy  rams  are  there, 
Nebaioth,  and  the  flocks  of  Kedar  there  :* 
The  looms  of  Ormus,  and  the  mines  of  Ind, 
And  Saba's  spicy  groves  pay  tribute  there. 
Praise  is  in  all  her  gates ;  upon  her  walls. 
And  in  her  streets,  and  in  her  spacious  courts 
Is  heard  salvation.    Eastern  Java  there 
Kneels  with  the  native  of  the  farthest  west ; 
And  ^Ethiopia  spreads  abroad  the  hand. 
And  worships.    Her  report  has  travelled  forth 
Into  all  lands.    From  every  clime  they  come 
To  see  thy  beauty,  and  to  share  thy  joy, 
O  Sion !  an  assembly  such  as  earth 
Saw  never,  such  as  heaven  stoops  down  to  see. 
Thus  heavenward  all  things  tend.    For  all  were 
once 

Perfect,  and  all  must  be  at  length  restored. 
So  God  has  greatly  purposed;  who  could  else 
In  his  dishonoured  works  himself  endure 
Dishonour,  and  be  wronged  without  redress. 
Haste  then,  and  wheel  away  a  shattered  world, 


•  Nebaioth  and  Kedar,  thesonsof  Ishmael,  and  progenitora 
of  the  Arabs,  in  the  prophetic  scripture  here  alluded  to,  may 
be  reasonably  considered  as  representatives  of  the  Gentilea  at 
large. 


THE  TASK. 


101 


Ye  slow-revolving  seasons!  we  would  see 
(A  sight  to  which  our  eyes  are  strangers  yet) 
A  world,  that  does  not  dread  and  hate  his  laws, 
And  suffer  for  its  crime;  would  learn  how  fair 
The  creature  is  that  God  pronounces  good, 
How  pleasant  in  itself  what  pleases  him. 
Here  every  drop  of  honey  hides  a  sting; 
Worms  wind  themselves  into  our  sweetest  flowers 
And  e'en  the  joy,  that  haply  some  poor  heart 
Derives  from  Heaven,  pure  as  the  fountain  is, 
Is  sullied  in  the  stream,  taking  a  taint 
From  touch  of  human  lips,  at  best  impure. 
O  for  a  world  in  principle  as  chaste 
As  this  is  gross  and  selfish !  over  which 
Custom  and  prejudice  shall  bear  no  sway, 
That  govern  all  things  here,  shouldering  aside 
The  meek  and  modest  Truth,  and  forcing  her 
To  seek  a  refuge  from  the  tongue  of  strife 
In  nooks  obscure,  far  from  the  ways  of  men ; 
Where  violence  shall  never  lift  the  sword, 
Nor  cunning  justify  the  proud  man's  wrong. 
Leaving  the  poor  no  remedy  but  tears ; 
Where  he,  that  fills  an  office,  shall  esteem 
Th'  occasion  it  presents  of  doing  good 
More  than  the  perquisite :  where  law  shall  speak 
Seldom,  and  never  but  as  wisdom  prompts 
And  equity  1  not  jealous  more  to  guard 
A  worthless  form,  than  to  decide  aright: 
Where  fashion  shall  not  sanctify  abuse, 
Nor  smooth  good-breeding  (supplemental  grace) 
With  lean  performance  ape  the  work  of  love ! 

Come  then,  and  added  to  thy  many  crowns. 
Receive  yet  one,  the  crown  of  all  the  earth, 
Thou  who  alone  art  worthy !    It  was  thine 
By  ancient  covenant,  ere  Nature's  birth ; 
And  thou  hast  made  it  thine  by  purchase  since, 
And  overpaid  its  value  with  thy  blood. 
Thy  saints  proclaim  thee  king;  and  in  their  hearts 
Thy  title  is  engraven  with  a  pen 
Dipped  in  the  fountain  of  eternal  love. 
Thy  saints  proclaim  thee  king;  and  thy  delay 
Gives  courage  to  their  foes,  who,  could  they  see 
The  dawn  of  thy  last  advent,  long-desired, 
Would  creep  into  the  bowels  of  the  hills, 
And  flee  for  safety  to  the  falling  rocks. 
The  very  spirit  of  the  world  is  tired 
Of  its  own  taunting  question,  asked  so  long, 
"  Where  is  the  promise  of  your  Lord's  approach  T' 
The  infidel  has  shot  his  bolts  away. 
Till,  his  exhausted  quiver  yielding  none, 
He  gleans  the  blunted  shafts,  that  have  recoiled, 
And  aims  them  at  the  shield  of  Truth  again. 
The  veil  is  rent,  rent  too  by  priestly  hands, 
That  hides  divinity  from  mortal  eyes ; 
And  all  the  mysteries  to  faith  proposed. 
Insulted  and  traduced,  are  cast  aside. 
As  useless,  to  the  moles  and  to  the  bats. 
They  now  are  deemed  the  faithful,  and  are  praised, 
Who  constant  only  in  rejecting  thee, 


Deny  thy  Godhead  with  a  martyr's  zeal, 
And  quit  their  office  for  their  error's  sake. 
Blind,  and  in  love  with  darkness  !  yet,  e'en  these 
Worthy,  compared  with  sycophants,  who  knee 
Thy  name  adoring,  and  then  preach  thee  man ! 
So  fares  thy  church.  But  how  thy  church  may  fare 
The  world  takes  little  thought.    Who  will  may 
I  preach, 
And  what  they  will.    All  pastors  are  alike 
To  wandering  sheep,  resolved  to  follow  none. 
Two  gods  divide  them  all— Pleasure  and  Gain ; 
For  these  they  live,  they  sacrifice  to  these, 
And  in  their  service  wage  perpetual  war 
With  conscience  and  witli  thee.    Lust  in  their 
hearts, 

And  mischief  in  their  hands,  they  roam  the  earth 
To  prey  upon  each  other :  stubborn,  fierce, 
High-minded,  foaming  out  their  own  disgrace. 
Thy  prophets  speak  of  such ;  and,  noting  down 
The  features  of  the  last  degenerate  timeS; 
Exhibit  every  lineament  of  these. 
Come  then,  and,  added  to  thy  many  crowns, 
Receive  yet  one,  as  radiant  as  the  rest. 
Due  to  thy  last  and  most  effectual  work. 
Thy  word  fulfilled,  the  conquest  of  a  world ! 

He  is  the  happy  man,  whose  life  e'en  now 
Shows  somewhat  of  that  happier  life  to  come ; 
WTio,  doomed  to  an  obscure  but  tranquil  state. 
Is  pleased  with  it,  and,  were  he  free  to  choose, 
Would  make  his  fate  his  choice ;  whom  peace,  the 
fruit 

Of  virtue,  and  whom  virtue,  fruit  of  faith, 
Prepare  for  happiness ;  bespeak  him  one 
Content  indeed  to  sojourn  while  he  must, 
Bfelow  the  skies,  but  having  there  his  home. 
The  world  o'erlooks  him  in  her  busy  search 
Of  objects,  more  illustrious  in  her  view ; 
And,  occupied  as  earnestly  as  she, 
Though  more  sublimely,  he  o'erlooks  the  world. 
She  scorns  his  pleasures,  for  she  knows  them  not ; 
He  seeks  not  hers,  for  he  has  proved  them  vain. 
He  can  not  skim  the  ground  like  summer  birds 
Pursuing  gilded  flies ;  and  such  she  deems 
Iler  honours,  her  emoluments  her  joys. 
Therefore  in  contemplation  is  his  bliss. 
Whose  power  is  such,  that  whom  she  lifts  from 
earth 

She  makes  familiar  with  a  heaven  unseen. 
And  shows  him  glories  yet  to  be  revealed. 
Not  slothful  he,  though  seeming  unemployed. 
And  censured  oft  as  useless.    Stillest  streams 
Oft  water  fairest  meadows,  and  the  bird 
That  flutters  least  is  longest  on  the  wing. 
Ask  him,  indeed,  what  trophies  he  has  raised, 
Or  what  achievements  of  immortal  fame 
He  purposes,  and  he  shall  answer— None. 
His  warfare  is  within.    There  unfatigued 
His  fervent  spirit  labours.    There  he  fights. 
And  there  obtains  fresh  triiunphs  o'er  himself, 


102 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


And  never-withering  wreaths,  compared  with 
which, 

The  laurels  that  a  Caesar  reaps  arc  weeds. 
Perhaps  the  self-approving  haughty  world. 
That  as  she  sweeps  him  with  her  whistling  silks 
Scarce  deigns  to  notice  him,  or,  if  she  see, 
Deems  him  a  cipher  in  the  works  of  God, 
Receives  advantage  from  his  noiseless  hours, 
Of  which  she  little  dreams.    Perhaps  she  owes 
Her  sunshine  and  her  rain,  her  blooming  spring 
And  plenteous  harvest,  to  the  prayer  he  makes, 
When,  Isaac  like,  the  solitary  saint 
Walks  forth  to  meditate  at  eventide, 
And  think  on  her,  who  thinks  not  for  herself. 
Forgive  him  then,  thou  bustler  in  concerns 
Of  Uttle  worth,  an  idler  in  the  best, 
If,  author  of  no  mischief  and  some  good. 
He  seek  his  proper  happiness  by  means 
That  may  advance,  but  can  not  hinder,  thine. 
Nor,  though  he  tread  the  secret  path  of  life, 
Engage  no  notice,  and  enjoy  much  ease. 
Account  him  an  encumbrance  on  the  state, 
Receiving  benefits,  and  rendering  none. 
His  sphere  though  humble,  if  that  humble  sphere 
Shine  with  his  fair  example,  and  though  small 
His  influence,  if  that  influence  all  be  spent 
In  soothing  sorrow,  and  in  quenching  strife, 
In  aiding  helpless  indigence,  in  works. 
From  which  at  least  a  grateful  few  derive 
Some  taste  of  comfort  in  a  world  of  wo ; 
Then  let  the  supercilious  great  confess 
He  serves  his  country,  recompenses  well 
The  state,  beneath  the  shadow  of  whose  vine 
He  sits  secure,  and  in  the  scale  of  life 
Holds  no  ignoble,  though  a  slighted,  place. 
The  man  whose  virtues  are  more  felt  than  seen, 
Must  drop  indeed  the  hope  of  public  praise ; 
But  he  may  boast,  what  few  that  win  it  can, 
That  if  his  country  stand  not  by  his  skill. 
At  least  his  follies  have  not  wrought  her  fall. 
PoUte  Refinement  offers  him  in  vain 
Her  golden  tube,  through  which  a  sensual  world 
Draws  gross  impurity,  and  likes  it  well. 
The  neat  conveyance  hiding  all  th'  offence. 
Not  that  he  peevishly  rejects  a  mode 


Because  that  world  adopts  it.    If  it  bear 
The  stamp  and  clear  impression  of  good  sense, 
And  be  not  costly  more  than  of  true  worth, 
He  puts  it  on,  and  for  decorum  sake 
Can  wear  it  e'en  as  gracefully  as  she. 
She  judges  of  refinement  by  the  eye, 
Pie  by  the  test  of  conscience,  and  a  heart 
Not  soon  deceived;  aware  that  what  is  base 
No  polish  can  make  sterling ;  and  that  vice, 
Though  well  perfumed  and  elegantly  dressed, 
Like  an  unburied  carcase  tricked  with  flowers, 
Is  but  a  garnished  nuisance,  fitter  far 
For  cleanly  riddance,  than  for  fair  attire. 
So  life  glides  smoothly  and  by  stealth  away, 
More  golden  than  that  age  of  fabled  gold 
Renowned  in  ancient  song ;  not  vexed  with  care 
Or  stained  with  guilt,  beneficent,  approved 
Of  God  and  man,  and  peaceful  in  its  end. 
So  glide  my  life  away,  and  so  at  last, 
My  share  of  duties  decently  fulfilled, 
May  some  disease,  not  tardy  to  perform 
Its  destined  oflSce,  yet  with  gentle  stroke, 
Dismiss  me  weary  to  a  safe  retreat. 
Beneath  the  turf  that  I  have  often  trod. 

It  shall  not  grieve  me  then,  that  once,  when  cal- 
led 

To  dress  a  Sofa  with  the  flowers  of  verse, 
I  played  awhile,  obedient  to  the  fair. 
With  that  light  task ;  but  soon,  to  please  her  more, 
Whom  flowers  alone  I  knew  would  Uttle  please, 
Let  fall  th'  unfinished  wrreath,  and  roved  for  fruit 
Roved  far,  and  gathered  much :  some  harsh,  'tis 
true. 

Picked  from  the  thorns  and  briers  of  reproof, 
But  wholesome,  well  digested ;  grateful  some 
To  palates  that  can  taste  immortal  truth; 
Insipid  else,  and  sure  to  be  despised ; 
But  all  is  in  His  hand,  whose  praise  I  seek. 
In  vain  the  poet  sings,  and  the  world  hears^ 
If  He  regard  not,  though  divine  the  theme. 
'Tis  not  in  artful  measures,  in  the  cliime 
And  idle  tinkling  of  a  minstrel's  lyre. 
To  charm  his  ear,  whose  eye  is  on  the  heart ; 
Whose  frown  can  disappoint  the  proudest  strain, 
Whose  approbation — prosper  even  mine. 


AN  EPISTLE 

TO 

JOSEPH  HIL.Ii,  ESCl' 


Dear  Joseph — five  and  twenty  years  ago— 
Alas,  how  time  escapes ! — 'tis  even  so — 
With  frequent  intercourse,  and  always  sweet, 
And  always  friendly,  we  were  wont  to  cheat 
A  tedious  hour — and  now  we  never  meet ! 


As  some  grave  gentlemen  in  Terence  says, 
('Twas  therefore  much  the  same  in  ancient  days) 
Good  lack,  we  know  not  what  to-morrow  brings — 
Strange  fluctuation  of  all  human  things ! 
True.    Changes  will  befall,  and  friends  may  part, 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 


103 


But  distance  only  can  not  change  the  heart: 
And,  were  I  called  to  prove  th'  assertion  true, 
One  proof  should  serve — a  reference  to  you. 

Whence  comes  it  then,  that  in  the  wane  of  life, 
'Though  nothing  have  occurred  to  kindle  strife. 
We  find  the  friends  w^e  fancied  we  had  won. 
Though  numerous  once,  reduced  to  few  or  none  1 
Can  gold  grow  worthless,  that  has  stood  the  touch'? 
No;  gold  they  seemed,  but  they  were  never  such. 

Horatio's  servant  once,  with  bow  and  cringe, 
Svsdnging  the  parlour  door  upon  its  hinge, 
Dreading  a  negative,  and  overawed 
Lest  he  should  trespass,  begged  to  go  abroad. 
Go,  fellow  1 — whither  1 — turning  short  about — 
Nay.    Stay  at  home — you're  always  going  out. 
'Tis  but  a  step,  sir,  just  at  the  street's  end — 
For  what? — An  please  you,  sir,  to  see  a  friend. — 
A  friend!  Horatio  cried,  and  seemed  to  start — 
Yea,  marry  shalt  thou,  and  with  all  my  heart. — 
And  fetch  my  cloak;  for,  though  the  night  be  raw, 
I'll  see  him  too — the  first  I  ever  saw. 

I  knew  the  man,  and  knew  his  nature  mild. 
And  was  his  plaything  often  when  a  child; 
But  somewhat  at  that  moment  pinched  him  close. 
Else  he  was  seldom  bitter  or  morose. 
Perhaps  his  confidence  just  then  betrayed. 
His  grief  might  prompt  him  with  the  speech  he 
made; 


Perhaps  'twas  mere  good  humour  gave  it  birth, 
The  harmless  play  of  pleasantry  and  mirth. 
Howe'er  it  was,  his  language,  in  my  mind. 
Bespoke  as  least  a  man  that  knew  mankind. 

But  not  to  moraUze  too  much,  and  strain 
To  prove  an  evil,  of  which  all  complain, 
(I  hate  long  arguments  verbosely  spun) 
One  story  more,  dear  Hill,  and  I  have  done. 
Once  on  a  time  an  emperor,  a  wise  man. 
No  matter  where,  in  China,  or  Japan, 
Decreed,  that  whosoever  should  oflEend 
Against  the  well  known  duties  of  a  friend, 
Convicted  once  should  ever  after  wear 
But  half  a  coat,  and  show  his  bosom  bare. 
The  punishment  importing  this,  no  doubt. 
That  all  was  naught  within,  and  all  found  out. 

O  happy  Britain !  we  have  not  to  fear 
Such  hard  and  arbitrary  measure  here; 
Else,  could  a  law,  like  that  which  I  relate. 
Once  have  the  sanction  of  our  triple  state. 
Some  few,  that  I  have  known  in  days  of  old. 
Would  run  most  dreadful  risk  of  catching  cold; 
While  you,  my  friend,  whatever  wind  should 
blow, 

Might  traverse  England  safely  to  and  fro, 
An  honest  man,  close  buttoned  to  the  chin. 
Broad  cloth  withou*,  and  a  warm  heart  within. 


Ktvounmm: 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS. 


K(<pctKiov  J'h  TTuiSita.;  opQn  Tpo<^ii.  Plato. 

Ap^n  7ro?jTucis  etTruans  vioov  <Tpo<^A.    Diog.  Laert. 


TO  THE 

REV.  WM.  CAWTHORNE  UxN^WIN, 

KECTOR  OF  STOCK  IN  ESSEX,  THE  TUTOR  OP  HIS  TWO  SONS,  THE  FOLLOWING  POEM,  RECOMMENDINO 
PRIVATE  TUITION,  IN  PREFERENCE  TO  AN  EDUCATION  AT  SCHOOL,  IS  INSCRIBED,  BY  HIS  AFFECTIOlf- 
ATE  FRIEI*^D, 

Ol7iey,  Nov.  6th,  1784.  WILLIAM  COWPER. 


It  is  not  from  his  form,  in  which  we  trace 
Strength  joined  with  beauty,  dignity  with  grace, 
That -man,  the  master  of  this  globe,  derives 
His  right  of  empire  over  all  that  lives. 
That  form  indeed,  th'  associate  of  a  mind 
Vast  in  its  powers,  ethereal  in  its  Idnd, 
That  form  the  labour  of  almighty  skill, 
Framed  for  the  service  of  a  freeborn  will, 
Asserts  precedence,  and  bespeaks  control, 
But  borrows  all  its  grandeur  from  the  soul. 
8  K2 


Hers  is  the  state,  the  splendour,  and  the  throne 

An  intellectual  kingdom,  all  her  own. 

For  her  the  Memory  fills  her  ample  page 

With  truths  poured  down  from  every  distant  age 

For  her  amasses  an  unbounded  store. 

The  wisdom  of  great  nations,  now  no  more; 

Though  laden,  not  encumbered  with  her  spoUj 

Laborious,  yet  unconscious  of  her  toil ; 

When  copiously  supplied,  then  most  enlarged; 

Still  to  be  fed,  and  not  to  be  surcharged. 


104 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


For  her  the  Fancy,  roving  unconfincd, 
The  present  muse  of  every  pensive  mind, 
"Works  magic  wonders ;  adds  a  hrighter  hue 
To  Nature's  scenes  than  Nature  ever  knew. 
At  her  command  winds  rise,  and  waters  roar, 
Again  she  lays  them  slumbering  on  the  shore; 
With  flower  and  fruit  the  wilderness  supplies, 
Or  bids  the  rocks  in  ruder  pomp  to  rise. 
For  her  the  Judgment,  umpire  in  the  strife, 
That  Grace  and  Nature  have  to  wage  through 
life, 

Cluick-sighted  arbiter  of  good  and  ill. 
Appointed  sage  preceptor  to  the  Will, 
Condemns,  approves,  and  with  a  faithful  voice 
Guides  the  decision  of  a  doubtful  choice. 

Why  did  the  fiat  of  a  God  give  birth 
To  yon  fair  Sun,  and  his  attendant  Earth'? 
And,  when  descending,  he  resigns  the  skies, 
Why  takes  the  gentler  Moon  her  turn  to  rise. 
Whom  Ocean  feels  through  all  his  countless 
waves. 

And  owns  her  power  on  every  shore  he  laves  1 
Why  do  the  seasons  still  enrich  the  year. 
Fruitful  and  young  as  in  their  first  career  1 
Spring  hangs  her  infant  blossoms  on  the  trees, 
Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  western  breeze ; 
Summer  in  haste  the  thriving  charge  receives 
Beneath  the  shade  of  her  expanded  leaves, 
Till  Autimm's  fiercer  heats  and  plenteous  dews 
Dye  them  at  last  in  all  their  glowing  hues. — 
'Twere  wild  confusion  all,  and  bootless  waste, 
Power  misemployed,  munificence  misplaced. 
Had  not  its  author  dignified  the  plan, 
And  crowned  it  with  the  majesty  of  man. 
Thus  formed,  thus  placed,  intelligent,  and  taught, 
Look  where  he  will,  the  wonders  God  has  wrought, 
The  wildest  scorner  of  his  Maker's  laws 
Finds  in  a  sober  moment  time  to  pause, 
To  press  th'  important  question  on  his  heart, 
"Why  formed  at  all,  and  wherefore  as  thou  art 7" 
If  man  be  what  he  seems,  this  hour  a  slave. 
The  next  mere  dust  and  ashes  in  the  grave; 
Endued  with  reason  only  to  descry 
His  crimes  and  follies  with  an  aching  eye ; 
With  passions,  just  that  he  may  prove,  with  pain, 
The  force  he  spends  against  their  fury  vain; 
And  if,  soon  after  having  burnt,  by  turns, 
With  every  lust,  with  which  frail  Nature  burns, 
His  being  end,  where  death  dissolves  the  bond. 
The  tomb  take  all,  and  all  be  blank  beyond; 
Then  he,  of  all  that  Nature  has  brought  forth. 
Stands  self-impeached  the  creature  of  least  worth. 
And  useless  while  he  Uves  and  when  he  dies. 
Brings  into  doubt  the  wisdom  of  the  skies. 

Truths,  that  the  learned  pursue  with  eager 
thought. 

Are  not  important  always  as  dear-bought. 
Proving  at  last,  though  told  in  pompous  strains, 
A  childish  waste  of  philosophic  pains; 


But  truths,  on  which  depends  our  main  concern, 
That  'tis  our  shame  and  misery  not  to  learn, 
Shine  by  the  side  of  every  path  we  tread 
With  such  a  lustre,  he  that  runs  may  read. 
'Tis  true  that,  if  to  trifle  life  away 
Down  to  the  sunset  of  their  latest  day, 
Then  perish  on  futurity's  wide  shore 
Like  fleeting  exhalations,  found  no  more, 
Were  all  that  Heaven  required  of  human  kind, 
And  all  the  plan  their  destiny  designed. 
What  none  could  reverence  all  might  justly  blame, 
And  man  would  breathe  but  for  his  Maker's 
shame. 

But  reason  heard,  and  nature  well  perused, 
At  once  the  dreaming  mind  is  disabused. 
If  all  we  find  possessing  earth,  sea,  air. 
Reflect  his  attributes,  who  placed  them  there, 
Fulfil  the  purpose,  and  appear  designed 
Proofs  of  the  wisdom  of  th'  all-seeing  mind, 
'Tis  plain  the  creature,  whom  he  chose  t'  invest 
With  kingship  and  dominion  o'er  the  rest, 
Received  his  nobler  nature,  and  was  made 
Fit  for  the  power  in  which  he  stands  arrayed; 
That  first,  or  last,  hereafter,  if  not  here. 
He  too  might  make  his  author's  wisdom  clear, 
Praise  him  on  earth,  or,  obstinately  dumb. 
Suffer  his  justice  in  a  world  to  come. 
This  once  believed,  'twere  logic  misapplied, 
To  prove  a  consequence  by  none  denied. 
That  we  are  bound  to  cast  the  minds  of  youth 
Betimes  into  the  mould  of  heavenly  truth. 
That  taught  of  God  they  may  indeed  be  wise, 
Nor  ignorantly  wandering  miss  the  skies. 

In  early  days  the  conscience  has  in  most 
A  quickness,  which  in  later  life  is  lost : 
Preserved  from  guilt  by  salutary  fears, 
Or  guilty  soon  relenting  into  tears. 
Too  careless  often,  as  our  years  proceed, 
What  friends  we  sort  with,  or  what  books  we 
read, 

Our  parents  yet  exert  a  prudent  care. 
To  feed  our  infant  minds  with  proper  fare; 
And  wisely  store  the  nursery  by  degrees 
With  wholesome  learning,  yet  acquired  with  ease. 
Neatly  secured  from  being  soiled  or  torn 
Beneath  a  pane  of  thin  translucent  horn, 
A  book  (to  please  us  at  a  tender  age, 
'Tis  called  a  book,  though  but  a  single  page) 
Presents  the  prayer  the  Saviour  deigned  to  teach. 
Which  children  use,  and  parsons — when  they 
preach; 

Lisping  our  syllables,  we  scramble  next 
Through  moral  narrative,  or  sacred  text; 
And  learn  with  wonder  how  this  world  began. 
Who  made,  who  marred,  and  who  has  ransomed 
man: 

Points,  which,  unless  the  Scripture  made  them 
plain. 

The  wisest  heads  might  agitate  in  vain. 


TIROCINIUM:  OR  A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS, 


105 


0  thou,  whom,  borne  on  Fancy's  eager  wing 
Back  to  the  season  of  Ufe's  happy  spring, 

1  pleased  remember,  and,  while  memory  yet 
Holds  fast  her  office  here,  can  ne'er  forget; 
Ingenious  dreamer,  in  whose  well-told  tale 
Sweet  fiction  and  sweet  truth  alike  prevail; 
Whose  humorous  vein,  strong  sense,  and  simple 

style. 

May  teach  the  gayest,  make  the  gravest  smile ; 
Witty,  and  well  employed,  and,  like  thy  Lord, 
Speaking  in  parables  his  slighted  word ; 
I  name  thee  not,  lest  so  despised  a  name 
Should  move  a  sneer  at  thy  deserved  fame ; 
Yet  e'en  in  transitory  life's  late  day. 
That  mingles  all  my  brown  with  sober  gray, 
Revere  the  man,  whose  pilgrim  marks  the  road, 
And  guides  the  progress  of  the  soul  to  God. 
'Twere  well  with  most,  if  books,  that  could  engage 
Their  childhood,  pleased  them  at  a  riper  age ; 
The  man,  approving  what  had  charmed  the  boy, 
Would  die  at  last  in  comfort,  peace,  and  joy; 
And  not  with  curses  on  his  heart,  who  stole 
The  gem  of  truth  from  his  unguarded  soul. 
The  stamp  of  artless  piety  impressed 
By  kind  tuition  on  his  yielding  breast. 
The  youth  now  bearded,  and  yet  pert  and  raw, 
Regards  with  scorn,  though  once  received  with 
awe; 

And,  warped  into  the  labyrinth  of  lies. 
That  babblers,  called  philosophers,  devise. 
Blasphemes  his  creed,  as  founded  on  a  plan 
Replete  with  dreams,  unworthy  of  a  man. 
Touch  but  his  nature  in  its  ailing  part. 
Assert  the  native  evil  of  his  heart. 
His  pride  resents  the  charge,  although  the  proof* 
Rise  in  his  forehead,  and  seem  rank  enough: 
Point  to  the  cure,  describe  a  Saviour's  cross 
As  God's  expedient  to  retrieve  his  loss, 
The  young  apostate  sickens  at  the  view, 
And  hates  it  with  the  malice  of  a  Jew. 

How  weak  the  barrier  of  mere  nature  proves. 
Opposed  against  the  pleasures  Nature  loves ! 
While  self-betrayed,  and  wilfully  undone. 
She  longs  to  yield,  no  sooner  wooed  than  wen. 
Try  now  the  merits  of  this  blest  exchange 
Of  modest  truth  for  wit's  eccentric  range. 
Time  was,  he  closed  as  he  began  the  day 
With  decent  duty,  not  ashamed  to  pray ; 
The  practice  was  a  bond  upon  his  heart, 
A  pledge  he  gave  for  a  consistent  part; 
Nor  could  he  dare  presumptuously  displease 
A  power,  confessed  so  lately  on  his  knees. 
But  now  farewell  all  legendary  tales. 
The  shadows  fly,  philosophy  prevails  ; 
Pra3'er  to  the  winds,  and  caution  to  the  waves; 
Religion  makes  the  free  by  nature  slaves. 


•  See  2  Chron.  ch.  xxvi  ver.  19. 


Priests  have  invented,  and  the  world  admired 
What  knavish  priests  promulgate  as  inspired; 
Till  reason,  now  no  longer  overawed. 
Resumes  her  powers^  and  spurns  the  clumsy  fraud  J 
And,  common-sense  diffusing  real  day, 
The  meteor  of  the  Gospel  dies  away. 
Such  rhapsodies  our  shrewd  discerning  youth 
Learn  from  expert  inquirers  after  truth ; 
Whose  only  care,  might  truth  presume  to  speak, 
Is  not  to  find  what  they  profess  to  seek. 
And  thus,  well-tutored  only  while  we  share 
A  mother's  lectures  and  a  nurse's  care ; 
And  taught  at  schools  much  mythologic  stuff,* 
But  sound  religion  sparingly  enough; 
Our  early  notices  of  truth,  disgraced, 
Soon  lose  their  credit,  and  are  all  effaced. 
Would  you  your  son  should  be  a  sot  or  dunce, 
Lascivious,  headstrong,  or  all  these  at  once; 
That  in  good  time  the  stripling's  finished  taste 
For  loose  expense,  and  fashionable  waste. 
Should  prove  your  ruin,  and  his  own  at  last ; 
Train  him  in  public  with  a  mob  of  boys. 
Childish  in  mischief  only  and  in  noise. 
Else  of  a  manish  growth,  and  five  in  ten 
In  infidelity  and  lewdness  men. 
There  shall  he  learn,  ere  sixteen  winters  old, 
That  authors  are  most  useful  pawned  or  sold; 
That  pedantry  is  all  that  schools  impart. 
But  taverns  teach  the  knowledge  of  the  heart, 
There  waiter  Dick,  vnth.  Bacchanalian  lays. 
Shall  ^mn  his  heart,  and  have  his  drunken  praiso, 
His  counsellor  and  bosom  friend  shall  prove, 
And  some  street-pacing  harlot  his  first  love. 
Schools,  unless  discipline  were  doubly  strong, 
Detain  their  adolescent  charge  too  long; 
The  management  of  tyros  of  eighteen 
Is  difficult ;  their  punishment  obscene. 
The  stout  tall  captain,  whose  superior  size 
The  minor  heroes  view  with  envious  eyes. 
Becomes  their  pattern,  upon  whom  they  fix 
Their  whole  attention,  and  ape  all  his  tricks. 
His  pride,  that  scorns  t'  obey  or  to  submit, 
With  them  is  courage;  his  effrontery  wit. 
His  wild  excursions,  window-breaking  feats, 
Robbery  of  gardens,  quarrels  in  the  streets. 
His  hairbreadth  'scapes,  and  all  his  daring  schemes 
Transport  them,  and  are  made  their  favourite 
themes. 

In  little  bosoms  such  achievements  strike 
A  kindred  spark:  they  burn  to  do  the  like. 
Thus,  half-accomplished  ere  he  yet  begin 
To  show  the  peeping  down  upon  his  chin; 


*  The  author  begs  leave  to  explain. — Sensible  that,  without 
such  knowledge,  neither  the  ancient  poet  nor  historians  can  be 
tasted,  or  indeed  understood,  he  does  not  mean  to  censure  the 
pains  that  are  taken  to  instruct  a  schoolboy  in  the  religion  of 
the  Heathen,  but  merely  that  neglect  of  Christian  cultme 
which  leaves  him  shamefully  ignorant  of  his  own. 


106 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


And,  as  maturity  of  years  comes  on, 
Made  just  th'  adept  that  you  designed  your  son ; 
T'  ensure  the  perseverance  of  this  course, 
And  give  your  monstrous  project  all  its  force, 
Send  him  to  college.    If  he  there  be  tamed, 
Or  in  one  article  of  vice  reclaimed, 
Where  no  regard  of  ord'nances  is  shown 
Or  looked  for  now,  the  fault  must  be  his  own. 
Some  sneaking  virtue  lurks  in  him,  no  doubt, 
Where  neither  strumpets'  charms,  nor  drinking 
bout. 

Nor  gambling  practices,  can  find  it  out. 

Such  youths  of  spirit,  and  that  spirit  too. 

Ye  nurseries  of  our  boys,  we  owe  to  you : 

Though  from  ourselves  the  mischief  more  proceeds, 

For  public  schools  'tis  public  folly  feeds. 

The  slaves  of  custom  and  established  mode. 

With  packhorse  constancy  we  keep  the  road, 

Crooked  or  straight,  through  quags  or  thorny  dells. 

True  to  the  jingUng  of  our  leader's  bells. 

To  follow  foolish  precedents,  and  v?ink 

With  both  our  eyes,  is  easier  than  to  think: 

And  such  an  age  as  ours  balks  no  expense, 

Except  of  caution,  and  of  common-sense; 

Else  sure  notorious  fact,  and  proof  so  plain, 

Would  turn  our  steps  into  a  wiser  train. 

I  blame  not  those,  who  with  what  care  they  can, 

O'erwatch  the  numerous  and  unruly  clan; 

Or,  if  I  blame,  'tis  only  that  they  dare 

Promise  a  work,  of  which  they  must  despair. 

Have  ye,  ye  sage  intendants  of  the  whole, 

An  ubiquarian  presence  and  control, 

Elisha's  eye,  that,  when  Gehazi  strayed. 

Went  vidth  him,  and  saw  all  the  game  he  played  1 

Yes — ye  are  conscious ;  and  on  all  the  shelves 

Your  pupils  strike  upon,  have  struck  yourselves. 

Or  if,  by  nature  sober,  ye  had  then. 

Boys  as  ye  were,  the  gravity  of  men; 

Ye  knew  at  least,  by  constant  proofs  addressed 

To  ears  and  eyes,  the  vices  of  the  rest. 

But  ye  connive  at  what  ye  can  not  cure, 

And  evils,  not  to  be  endured,  endure. 

Lest  power  exerted,  but  without  success, 

Should  make  the  little  ye  retain  still  less. 

Ye  once  were  justly  famed  for  bringing  forth 

Undoubted  scholarship  and  genuine  worth ; 

And  in  the  firmament  of  fame  still  shines 

A  glory,  bright  as  that  of  all  the  signs. 

Of  poets  raised  by  you,  and  statesmen,  and  divines. 

Peace  to  them  all !  those  brilliant  times  are  fled, 

And  no  such  lights  are  kindling  in  their  stead. 

Our  striplings  shine  indeed,  but  with  such  rays, 

As  set  the  midnight  riot  in  a  blaze ; 

And  seem,  if  judged  by  their  expressive  looks. 

Deeper  in  none  than  in  their  surgeons'  books. 

Say,  muse,  (for  education  made  the  song. 
No  muse  can  hesitate,  or  linger  long) 
What  causes  move  us,  knowing  as  we  must. 
That  these  menageries  all  fail  their  trust, 


To  send  our  sons  to  scout  and  scamper  there. 
While  colts  and  puppies  cost  us  so  much  care*? 

Be  it  a  weakness,  it  deserves  some  praise, 
We  love  the  playplace  of  our  early  days ; 
The  scene  is  touching,  and  the  heart  is  stone, 
That  feels  not  at  the  sight,  and  feels  at  none. 
The  wall  on  which  we  tried  our  graving  skill, 
The  very  name  we  carved  subsisting  still ; 
The  bench  on  which  we  sat  while  deep  employed, 
Tho'  mangled,  hacked,  and  hewed,  not  yet  de- 
stroyed ; 

The  little  ones,  unbuttoned,  glowing  hot, 

Playing  our  games,  and  on  the  very  spot ; 

As  happy  as  we  once,  to  kneel  and  draw 

The  chalky  ring,  and  knuckle  down  at  taw, 

To  pitch  the  ball  into  the  grounded  hat, 

Or  drive  it  devious  with  a  dexterous  pat; 

The  pleasing  spectacle  at  once  excites 

Such  recollection  of  our  own  delights, 

That,  viewing  it,  we  seem  almost  t'  obtain 

Our  innocent  sweet  simple  years  again. 

This  fond  attachment  to  the  well-known  place, 

Whence  first  we  started  into  life's  long  race. 

Maintains  its  hold  with  such  unfailing  sway, 

We  feel  it  e'en  in  age,  and  at  our  latest  day. 

Hark !  how  the  sire  of  chits,  whose  future  share 

Of  classic  food  begins  to  be  his  care. 

With  his  own  likeness  placed  on  either  knee. 

Indulges  all  a  father's  heart-felt  glee ; 

And  tells  them,  as  he  strokes  their  silver  locks. 

That  they  must  soon  learn  Latin,  and  to  box : 

Then  turning  he  regales  his  listening  wife 

With  all  th'  adventures  of  his  early  life ; 

His  skill  in  coachmanship,  or  driving  chaise, 

In  bilking  tavern  bills,  and  spouting  plays ; 

What  shifts  he  u'sed,  detected  in  a  scrape, 

How  he  was  flogged,  or  had  the  luck  t'  escape, 

What  sums  he  lost  at  play,  and  how  he  sold 

Watch,  seals,  and  all — till  all  his  pranks  are  told. 

Retracing  thus  his  frolics,  ('tis  a  name 

That  palliates  deeds  of  folly  and  of  shame) 

He  gives  the  local  bias  all  its  sway ; 

Resolved  that  where  he  played  his  sons  shall  play, 

And  destines  their  bright  genius  to  be  shovm 

Just  in  the  scene  where  he  displayed  his  own. 

The  meek  and  bashful  boy  will  soon  be  taught 

To  be  as  bold  and  forward  as  he  ought ; 

The  rude  will  scuffle  through  with  ease  enough, 

Great  schools  suit  best  the  sturdy  and  the  rough. 

Ah  happy  designation,  prudent  choice, 

Th'  event  is  sure;  expect  it ;  and  rejoice ! 

Soon  see  your  wish  fulfilled  in  either  child. 

The  pert  made  peiler,  and  the  ^me  made  wild. 

The  great  indeed,-  by  titles,  riches,  birth. 
Excused  th'  encumbrance  of  more  solid  worth. 
Are  best  disposed  of  where  with  most  success 
They  may  acquire  that  confident  address. 
Those  habits  of  profuse  and  lewd  expense. 
That  scorn  of  all  delights  but  those  of  sense. 


TIROCINIUM;  OR,  A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS. 


107 


WTiich,  though  in  plain  plebeians  we  condemn, 
With  so  much  reason  all  expect  from  them. 
But  families  of  less  illustrious  fame, 
Whose  chief  distinction  is  their  spotless  name, 
Whose  heirs,  tlieir  honours  none,  their  income 
small, 

Must  shine  by  true  desert,  or  not  at  all, 
What  dream  they  of,  that  with  so  httle  care 


They  risk  their  hopes,  their  dearest  treasure,  there 
They  dream  of  little  Charles  or  William  graced 
With  wig  prolix,  down  flowing  to  his  waist ; 
They  see  th'  attentive  crowds  his  talents  draw, 
They  hear  him  speak— the  oracle  of  law. 
The  father,  who  designs  his  babe  a  priest, 
Dreams  him  episcopally  such  at  least ; 
And,  while  the  playful  jockey  scours  the  room 
Briskly,  astride  upon  the  parlour  broom, 
In  fancy  sees  him  more  superbly  ride 
In  coach  with  purple  lined,  and  mitres  on  its  side 
Events  unprobable  and  strange  as  these, 
Which  only  a  parental  eye  foresees, 
A  public  school  shall  bring  to  pass  with  ease. 
But  how  1  resides  such  virtue  in  that  air, 
As  must  create  an  appetite  for  prayer  ? 
And  will  it  breathe  into  him  all  the  zeal, 
That  candidates  for  such  a  prize  should  feel, 
To  take  the  lead  and  be  the  foremost  still 
In  all  true  worth  and  literary  skill  1 
"  Ah  blind  to  bright  futurity,  untaught 
The  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  dull  of  thought 
Church  ladders  are  not  always  mounted  best 
By  learned  clerics,  and  Latinists  professed. 
Th'  exalted  prize  demands  an  upward  look, 
Not  to  be  found  by  poring  on  a  book. 
Small  skill  in  Latin,  and  still  less  in  Greek, 
Is  more  than  adequate  to  all  I  seek. 
Let  erudition  grace  him,  or  not  grace, 
I  give  the  bauble  but  the  second  place : 
His  wealth,  fame,  honours,  all  that  I  intend, 
Subsist  and  centre  in  one  point — a  friend. 
A  friend,  whate'er  he  studies  or  neglects. 
Shall  give  him  consequence,  heal  all  defects. 
His  intercourse  with  peers  and  sons  of  peers- 
There  dawns  the  splendour  of  his  future  years  : 
In  that  bright  quarter  his  propitious  skies 
Shall  blush  betimes,  and  there  his  glory  rise. 
Your  Lordship,  and  Your  Grace!  what  school 
can  teach 

A  rhetoric  equal  to  those  parts  of  speech  1 
What  need  of  Homer's  verse,  or  Tully's  prose 
Sweet  interjections  !  if  he  learn  but  those  1 
Let  reverend  churls  his  ignorance  rebuke. 
Who  starve  upon  a  dogs-eared  Pentateuch, 
The  Parson  knows  enough,  who  knows  a  duke." 
Egregious  purpose  !  worthily  begun 
In  baybarous  prostitution  of  your  son  ; 
Pressed  on  his  part  by  means  that  would  disgrace 
A  scfjy'ner's  clerk,  or  footman  out  of  place. 


And  ending,  if  at  last  its  end  be  gained. 
In  sacnlege,  in  God's  own  house  profaned. 
It  may  succeed;  and,  if  his  sins  should  call 
For  more  than  common  punishment  it  shall; 
The  wretch  shall  rise,  and  be  the  thing  on  earth 
Least  qualified  in  honour,  learning,  worth, 
To  occupy  a  sacred,  awful  post, 
In  which  the  best  and  worthiest  tremble  most. 

The  royal  letters  are  a  thing  of  course, 
A  King,  that  would,  might  recommend  his  horse  j 
And  deans,  no  doubt,  and  chapters,  with  one  voice, 
As  bound  in  duty,  would  confirm  the  choice. 
Behold  your  bishop!  well  he  plays  his  part. 
Christian  in  name,  and  infidel  in  heart, 
Ghostly  in  office,  earthly  in  his  plan, 
A  slave  at  court,  elsewhere  a  lady's  man. 
Dumb  as  a  senator,  and  as  a  priest 
A  piece  of  mere  church-furniture  at  best; 
To  live  estranged  from  God  his  total  scope, 
And  his  end  sure,  without  one  glimpse  of  hope. 
But  fair  although  and  feasible  it  seem, 
Depend  not  much  upon  your  golden  dream; 
For  Providence,  that  seems  concerned  t'  exempt 
The  hallowed  bench  from  absolute  contempt, 
In  spite  of  all  the  wrigglers  into  place. 
Still  keeps  a  seat  or  two  for  worth  and  grace, 
And  therefore  'tis,  that,  though  the  sight  be  rare, 
We  sometimes  see  a  Lowth  or  Bagot  there. 
Besides,  school-friendships  are  not  always  found, 
Though  fair  in  promise,  permanent  and  sound, 
The  most  disint'rested  and  virtuous  minds, 
In  early  years  connected,  time  unbinds; 
New  situations  give  a  different  cast 
Of  habit,  inclination,  temper,  taste; 
And  he,  that  seemed  our  counterpart  at  first, 
Soon  shows  the  strong  similitude  reversed. 
Young  heads  are  giddy,  and  young  hearts  are 
warm. 

And  make  mistakes  for  manhood  to  reform. 
Boys  are  at  best  but  pretty  buds  unblown. 
Whose  scent  and  hues  are  rather  guessed  than 
known ; 

Each  dreams  that  each  is  just  what  he  appears, 
But  learns  his  error  in  maturer  years, 
When  disposition,  like  a  sail  unfurled, 
Shows  all  its  rents  and  patches  to  the  world. 
If,  therefore,  e'en  when  honest  in  design, 
A  boyish  friendship  may  so  soon  decline, 
'Twere  wiser  sure  t'  inspire  a  little  heart 
With  just  abhorrence  of  so  mean  a  part. 
Than  set  your  son  to  work  at  a  vile  trade 
For  wages  so  unUkely  to  be  paid. 

Our  public  hives  of  puerile  resort, 
That  are  of  chief  and  most  approved  report, 
To  such  base  hopes,  in  many  a  sordid  soul, 
Owe  their  rei)ute  in  part,  but  not  the  whole. 
A  principle,  whose  proud  pretensions  pass 
Unquestioned,  though  the  jewel  be  but  glass-  - 


108 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


That  with  a  world,  not  often  over-nice, 

Ranks  as  a  virtue,  and  is  yet  a  vice; 

Or  rather  a  gross  compound,  justly  tried, 

Of  envy,  hatred,  jealousy,  and  pride — 

Contributes  most  perhaps  t'  enhance  their  fame. 

And  emulation  is  its  specious  name. 

Boys,  once  on  fire  with  that  contentious  zeal. 

Feel  all  the  rage,  that  female  rivals  feel; 

The  prize  of  beauty  in  a  woman's  eyes 

Not  brighter  than  in  theirs  the  scholar's  prize. 

The  spirit  of  that  competition  burns 

With  all  varieties  of  ills  by  turns ; 

Each  vainly  magnifies  his  own  success, 

Resents  his  fellow's,  wishes  it  were  less, 

Exults  in  his  miscarriage,  if  he  fail, 

Deems  his  reward  too  great,  if  he  prevail. 

And  labours  to  surpass  him  day  and  night, 

Less  for  improvement  than  to  tickle  spite. 

The  spur  is  powerful,  and  I  grant  its  force; 

It  pricks  the  genius  forward  in  its  course. 

Allows  short  time  for  play,  and  none  for  sloth; 

And,  felt  alike  by  each,  advances  both; 

But  judge,  where  so  much  evil  intervenes, 

The"'end,  though  plausible,  not  worth  the  means. 

Weigh,  for  a  moment,  classical  desert 

Against  a  heart  depraved  and  temper  hurt; 

Hurt  too  perhaps  for  life;  for  early  wrong, 

Done  to  the  nobler  part,  affects  it  long; 

And  you  are  staunch  indeed  in  learning's  cause. 

If  you  can  crown  a  discipline,  that  draws 

Such  mischiefs  after  it,  with  much  applause. 

Connexion  formed  for  interest,  and  endeared 
By  selfish  views,  thus  censured  and  cashiered; 
And  emulation,  as  engendering  hate. 
Doomed  to  a  no  less  ignominious  fate: 
The  props  of  such  proud  seminaries  fall. 
The  Jachin  and  the  Boaz  of  them  all. 
Great  schools  rejected  then,  as  those  that  swell 
Beyond  a  size  that  can  be  managed  well. 
Shall  royal  institutions  miss  the  bays, 
And  small  academies  win  all  the  laraise'? 
Force  not  my  drift  beyond  its  just  mtent, 
I  praise  a  school  as  Pope  a  government; 
So  take  my  judgment  in  his  language  dressed, 
"  Whate'er  is  best  administered  is  best." 
Few  boys  are  born  with  talents  that  excel. 
But  all  are  capable  of  living  well; 
Then  ask  not,  whether  Umited  or  large 
But,  watch  they  strictly,  or  neglect  their  charge? 
If  anxious  only,  that  their  boys  may  learn, 
While  morals  languish,  a  despised  concern. 
The  great  and  small  deserve  one  common  blame, 
Different  in  size,  but  in  effect  the  same. 
Much  zeal  in  virtue's  cause  all  teachers  boast. 
Though  motives  of  mere  lucre  sway  the  most; 
Therefore  in  towns  and  cities  they  abound, 
For  there  the  game  they  seek  is  easiest  found; 
Though  there  in  spite  of  aU  that  care  can  do. 
Traps  to  catch  youth  are  most  abundant  too. 


If  shrewd,  and  of  a  well-constructed  brain, 
Keen  in  pursuit,  and  vigorous  to  retain. 
Your  son  come  forth  a  prodigy  of  skill ; 
As  wheresoever  taught,  so  formed,  he  will; 
The  pedagogue,  with  self-complacent  air. 
Claims  more  than  half  the  praise  as  his  due  share. 
But  if,  with  all  his  genius,  he  betray, 
Not  more  intelligent  than  loose  and  gay. 
Such  vicious  habits  as  disgrace  his  name, 
Threaten  his  health,  his  fortune,  and  his  fame; 
Though  want  of  due  restraint  alone  have  bred 
The  symptoms,  that  you  see  with  so  much  dread  j 
Unenvied  there,  he  may  sustain  alone 
The  whole  reproach,  the  fault  was  all  his  own. 

O  'tis  a  sight  to  be  with  joy  perused, 
By  all  whom  sentiment  has  not  abused; 
New-fangled  sentiment,  the  boasted  grace 
Of  those  who  never  feel  in  the  right  place; 
A  sight  surpassed  by  none  that  we  can  show, 
Though  Vestris  on  one  leg  still  shine  below; 
A  father  blest  with  an  ingenious  son. 
Father,  and  friend,  and  tutor,  all  in  one. 
How!— turn  again  to  tales  long  since  forgot, 
^sop,  and  Phaedrus,  and  the  rest  1— Why  not% 
He  will  not  blush,  that  has  a  father's  heart, 
To  take  in  childish  plays  a  childish  part; 
But  bends  his  sturdy  back  to  any  toy, 
That  youth  takes  pleasure  in,  to  please  his  boy; 
Then  why  resign  into  a  stranger's  hand 
A  task  as  much  within  your  own  command. 
That  God  and  nature,  and  your  interest  too, 
Seem  with  one  voice  to  delegate  to  yonl 
Why  hire  a  lodging  in  a  house  unknown 
For  one  whose  tenderest  thoughts  all  hover  roun<3 

your  own'? 
This  second  weaning,  needless  as  it  is. 
How  does  it  lacerate  both  your  heart  and  his!  • 
Th'  indented  stick,  that  loses  day  by  day 
Notch  after  notch,  till  all  are  smoothed  away, 
Bear  witness,  long  ere  his  dismission  come. 
With  what  intense  desire  he  wants  his  home. 
But  though  the  joy*  he  hopes  beneath  your  roof 
Bid  fair  enough  to  answer  in  the  proof. 
Harmless,  and  safe,  and  natural,  as  they  are, 
A  disappointment  waits  him  even  there: 
Arrived,  he  feels  an  unexpected  change. 
He  blushes,  hangs  his  head,  is  shy  and  strange, 
No  longer  takes,  at  once,  with  fearless  ease. 
His  favourite  stand  between  his  father's  knees, 
But  seeks  the  corner  of  some  distant  seat, 
And  eyes  the  door,  and  watches  a  retreat, 
And,  least  famiUar  where  he  should  be  most. 
Feels  all  his  happiest  privileges  lost. 
Alas,  poor  boy !— the  natural  effect 
Of  love  by  absence  chilled  into  respect. 
Say,  what  accomplishments,  at  school  acquired, 
Brings  he,  to  sweeten  fruits  so  undesiredT 
Thou  well  deserv'st  an  alienated  son. 
Unless  thy  conscious  heart  acknowledge— none; 


TIROCINIUM:  Oil,  A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS. 


109 


Ni)Jie  that,     thy  domestic  snug  recess^ 
He  had  not  made  his  own  with  more  address, 
Th()ugh  some,  perhaps,  that  shock  thy  feeling 
mind, 

And  better  never  learned,  or  left  behind. 
And  too,  that,  thus  estranged,  thou  canst  obtain 
By  no  kind  arts  his  confidence  again ; 
That  here  begins  with  most  that  long  complaint 
Of  fiUal  frankness  lost,  and  love  grown  faint, 
Which,  oft  neglected,  in  life's  waning  years 
A  parent  pours  into  regardless  ears. 

Like  caterpillars,  dangling  under  trees 
By  slender  threads,  and  swinging  in  the  breeze. 
Which  filthily  bewray  and  sore  disgrace 
The  boughs  in  which  are  bred  th'  unseemly  race 
While  every  worm  industriously  weaves 
And  winds  his  web  about  the  rivelled  leaves ; 
So  numerous  are  the  follies,  that  annoy 
The  mind  and  heart  of  every  sprightly  bOy; 
Imaginations  noxious  and  perverse. 
Which  admonition  can  alone  disperse. 
Th'  encroaching  nuisance  asks  a  faithful  hand, 
Patient,  aflfectionate,  of  high  command, 
To  check  the  procreation  of  a  breed 
Sure  to  exhaust  the  plant  on  which  they  feed. 
'Tis  not  enough,  that  Greek  or  Roman  page. 
At  stated  hours,  his  freakish  thoughts  engage; 
E'en  in  his  pastimes  he  requires  a  friend, 
To  warn,  and  teach  him  safely  to  unbend ; 
O'er  all  his  pleasures  gently  to  preside. 
Watch  his  emotions,  and  control  their  tide : 
And  levying  thus,  and  with  an  easy  sway, 
A  tax  of  profit  from  his  very  play, 
T'  impress  a  value,  not  to  be  erased, 
On  moments  squandered  else,  and  running  all  to 
waste. 

And  seems  it  nothing  in  a  father's  eye, 
That  unimproved  those  many  moments  fly 
And  is  he  well  content  his  son  should  find 
No  nourishment  to  feed  his  growing  mind 
But  conjugated  verbs,  and  nouns  declined'? 
For  such  is  all  the  mental  food  purveyed 
By  public  hackneys  in  the  schooling  trade; 
Who  feed  a  pupil's  intellect  with  store 
Of  syntax,  truly,  but  with  little  more; 
Dismiss  their  cares,  when  they  dismiss  their  flock. 
Machines  themselves,  and  governed  by  a  clock. 
Perhaps  a  father,  blest  with  any  brains, 
Would  deem  it  no  abuse,  or  waste  of  pains, 
T'  improve  this  diet,  at  no  great  expense. 
With  savoury  truth  and  wholesome  common  sense ; 
To  lead  his  son,  for  prospects  of  delight, 
To  some  not  steep,  though  philosophic  height, 
Thence  to  exhibit  to  his  wondering  eyes 
Yon  circling  worlds,  their  distance,  and  their 
size; 

The  moons  of  Jove,  and  Saturn's  belted  ball, 
And  the  harmonious  order  of  them  all: 


To  show  him  in  an  insect  or  a  flower 
Such  microscopic  proof  of  skill  and  power, 
As,  hid  fioni  ages  past,  God  now  displays, 
To  combat  atheists  with  in  modern  days; 
To  spread  the  earth  before  him,  and  commend, 
With  designation  of  the  finger's  end, 
Its  various  parts  to  his  attentive  note. 
Thus  bringing  home  to  him  the  most  remote; 
To  teach  his  heart  to  glow  with  generous  flame, 
Caught  from  the  deeds  of  men  of  ancient  fame: 
And,  more  than  all,  with  commendation  due, 
To  set  some  living  worthy  in  his  view. 
Whose  fair  example  may  at  once  inspire 
A  wish  to  copy  what  he  must  admire. 
Such  knowledge  gained  betimes,  and  which  ap- 
pears 

Though  solid,  not  too  weighty  for  his  years, 
Sweet  in  itself,  and  not  forbidding  sport, 
When  health  demands  it,  of  athletic  sort. 
Would  make  him — what  some  lovely  boys  have 
been, 

And  more  than  one  perhaps  that  I  have  seen — 
An  evidence  and  reprehension  both 
Of  the  mere  shool-boy's  lean  and  tardy  growth. 

Art  thou  a  man  professionally  tied, 
With  all  thy  faculties  elsewhere  applied, 
Too  busy  to  intend  a  meaner  care, 
Than  how  t'  enrich  thyself,  and  next  thine  heir ; 
Or  art  thou  (as  though  rich,  perhaps  thou  art) 
But  poor  in  knowledge,  having  none  t'  impart : 
Behold  that  figure,  neat,  though  plainly  clad ; 
His  sprightly  mingled  with  a  shade  of  sad ; 
Not  of  a  nimble  tongue,  though  now  and  then 
Heard  to  articulate  like  other  men ; 
No  jester,  and  yet  lively  in  discourse. 
His  phrase  well  chosen,  clear,  and  full  of  force ; 
And  his  address,  if  not  quite  French  in  ease, 
Not  EngUsh  stiff",  but  frank,  and  formed  to  please ; 
Low  in  the  world,  because  he  scorns  its  arts ; 
A  man  of  letters,  manners,  morals,  parts ; 
Unpatronized,  and  therefore  little  known ; 
Wise  for  himself  and  his  few  friends  alone — 
In  him  thy  well  appointed  proxy  see. 
Armed  for  a  work  too  difficult  for  thee  ; 
Prepared  by  taste,  by  learning,  and  true  worth, 
To  form  thy  son,  to  strike  his  genius  forth ; 
Beneath  thy  roof,  beneath  thine  eye,  to  prove 
The  force  of  discipline,  when  backed  by  love ; 
To  double  all  thy  pleasure  in  thy  child, 
His  mind  informed,  his  morals  undefiled. 
Safe  under  such  a  wing,  the  boy  shall  show 
No  spots  contracted  among  grooms  below, 
Nor  taint  his  speech  with  meannesses,  designed 
By  footman  Tom  for  witty  and  refined. 
There,  in  his  commerce  with  the  liv'ried  herd, 
Lurks  the  contagion  chiefly  to  be  feared ; 
For  since  (so  fashion  dictates)  all,  who  claim 
A  higher  than  a  mere  plebeian  fame, 


110 


COWPER'S  WqRKS. 


Find  it  expedient,  come  what  mischief  may, 

To  entertain  a  thief  or  two  in  pay, 

(And  they  that  can  afford  th'  expense  of  more, 

Some  half  a  dozen,  and  some  half  a  score,) 

Great  cause  occurs,  to  save  him  from  a  band 

So  sure  to  spoil  him,  and  so  near  at  hand ; 

A  point  secured,  if  once  he  be  supplied 

With  some  such  Mentor  always  at  his  side. 

Are  such  men  rare  1  perhaps  they  would  abound, 

Were  occupation  easier  to  be  found. 

Were  education,  else  so  sure  to  fail, 

Conducted  on  a  manageable  scale, 

And  schools,  that  have  outlivfed  all  just  esteem, 

Exchanged  for  the  secure  domestic  scheme.— 

But,  having  found  him,  be  thou  duke  or  earl, 

Show  thou  hast  sense  enough  to  prize  the  pearl,  ^ 

And,  as  thou  wouldst  th'  advancement  of  thine  heir 

In  all  good  faculties  beneath  his  care. 

Respect,  as  is  but  rational  and  just, 

A  man  deemed  worthy  of  so  dear  a  trust. 

Despised  by  thee,  what  more  can  he  expect 

From  youthful  folly  than  the  same  neglect ; 

A  flat  and  fatal  negative  obtains 

That  instant  upon  all  his  future  pains ; 

His  lessons  tire,  his  mild  rebukes  offend, 

And  all  th'  instructions  of  thy  son's  best  friend 

Are  a  stream  choked,  or  trickUng  to  no  end. 

Doom  him  not  then  to  solitary  meals ; 

But  recollect  that  he  has  sense,  and  feels ; 

And  that,  possessor  of  a  soul  refined, 

An  upright  heart,  and  cultivated  mind, 

His  post  not  mean,  his  talents  not  unknown, 

He  deems  it  hard  to  vegetate  alone, 

And,  if  admitted  at  thy  board  he  sit,  ^ 

Account  him  no  just  mark  for  idle  wit ; 

Offend  not  him,  whom  modesty  restrains 

From  repartee,  with  jokes  that  he  disdains ; 

Much  less  transfix  his  feehngs  with  an  oath ; 

Nor  frown,  unless  he  vanish  with  the  cloth. 

And,  trust  me,  hisntility  may  reach 

To  more  than  he  is  hired  or  bound  to  teach ; 

Much  trash  unuttered,  and  some  ills  undone. 

Through  reverence  of  the  censor  of  thy  son. 

But,  if  thy  table  be  indeed  unclean. 
Foul  with  excess,  and  with  discourse  obscene. 
And  thou  a  wretch,  whom,  following  her  old  plan, 
The  world  accounts  an  honourable  man, 
Because  forsooth  thy  courage  has  been  tried. 
And  stood  the  test,  perhaps,  on  the  wrong  side; 
Though  thou  hadst  never  grace  enough  to  prove 
That  any  thing  but  vice  could  win  thy  love  ;— 
Or  hast  thou  a  polite,  card-playing  wife, 
Chained  to  the  routs  that  she  frequents  for  life ; 
Who,  just  when  industry  begins  to  snore, 
Flies,  winged  with  joy,  to  some  coach-crowded  door, 
And  thrice  in  every  winter  throngs  thine  own 
With  half  the  chariots  and  sedans  in  town. 
Thyself  meanwhile  e'en  shifting  as  thou  mayst : 
Not  very  sober  though,  nor  very  chaste ; 


Or  is  thine  house,  though  less  superb  thy  rank, 
If  not  a  scene  of  pleasure,  a  mere  blank. 
And  thou  at  best,  and  in  thy  soberest  mood, 
A  trifler  vain,  and  empty  of  all  good ; 
Though  mercy  for  thyself  thou  canst  have  none, 
Hear  nature  plead,  show  mercy  to  thy  son. 
Saved  from  his  home,  where  every  day  brmgs  forth 
Some  mischief  fatal  to  his  future  worth, 
Find  him  a  better  in  a  distant  spot, 
Within  some  pious  pastor's  humble  cot. 
Where  vile  example  (yours  I  chiefly  mean. 
The  most  seducing,  and  the  oflenest  seen,) 
May  never  more  be  stamped  upon  his  breast, 
Nor  yet  perhaps  incurably  impressed. 
Where  early  rest  makes  early  rising  sure, 
Disease  or  comes  not,  or  finds  easy  cure,  : 
Prevented  much  by  diet  neat  and  plain ;  t 
Or,  if  it  enter,  soon  starved  out  again : 
"VVhere  all  th'  attention  of  his  faithful  host. 
Discreetly  limited  to  two  at  most, 
May  raise  such  fruits  as  shall  reward  his  care, 
And  not  at  last  evaporate  in  air : 
Where,  stillness  aiding  study,  and  his  mind 
Serene,  and  to  his  duties  much  inclined. 
Not  occupied  in  day-dreams,  as  at  home, 
Of  pleasures  past,  or  follies  yet  to  come, 
His  virtuous  toil  may  terminate  at  last 
In  settled  habit  and  decided  taste. — 
But  whom  do  I  advise  1  the  fashion-led, 
Th'  incorrigibly  young,  the  deaf,  the  dead, 
Whom  care  and  cool  deliberation  suit 
Not  better  much  than  spectacles  a  brute ; 
Who,  if  their  sons  some  slight  tuition  share. 
Deem  it  of  no  great  moment  whose,  or  where ; 
Too  proud  t'  adopt  the  thoughts  of  one  unknown; 
And  much  too  gay  t'  have  any  of  their  own. 
But  courage,  man!  methought  the  muse  replied, 
Mankind  are  various,  and  the  world  is  wide: 
The  ostrich,  silUest  of  the  feathered  kind. 
And  formed  of  God  without  a  parent's  mind, 
Commits  her  eggs  incautious  to  the  dust, 
Forgetful  that  the  foot  may  crush  the  trust ; 
And,  while  on  public  nurseries  they  rely. 
Not  knowing,  and  too  oft  not  caring,  why, 
Irrational  in  what  they  thus  prefer, 
No  few,  that  would  seem  wise,  resemble  her. 
But  all  are  not  alike.    Thy  warning  voice 
May  here  and  there  prevent  erroneous  choice ; 
And  some  perhaps,  who,  busy  as  they  are, 
Yet  make  their  progeny  their  dearest  care, 
(Whose  hearts  will  ache,  once  told  what  ills  may 
reach 

Their  offspring,  left  upon  so  wild  a  beach,) 
Will  need  no  stress  of  argument  t'  enforce 
Th'  expedience  of  a  less  advent'rous  course : 
The  rest  will  slight  thy  counsel,  or  condemn ; 
But  they  have  human  feelings,  turn  to  them. 

To  you  then,  tenants  of  life's  middle  state, 
Securely  placed  between  the  small  and  great, 


TIROCINIUM;  OR,  A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS. 


Ill 


Whose  character,  yet  undebauched,  retains 
Two  thirds  of  all  the  virtue  that  remains. 
Who,  wise  yourselves,  desire  your  son  should  learn 
Your  wisdom  and  your  ways — to  you  I  turn, 
Look  round  you  on  a  world  perversely  blind ; 
See  what  contempt  is  fallen  on  human  kind ; 
See  wealth  abused,  and  dignities  misplaced, 
Great  titles,  offices,  and  trusts  disgraced. 
Long  lines  of  ancestry,  renowned  of  old. 
Their  noble  qualities  all  quenched  and  cold; 
See  Bedlam's  closeted  and  hand-cufFed  charge 
Surpassed  in  frenzy  by  the  mad  at  large ; 
See  great  commanders  making  war  a  trade, 
Great  lawyers,  lawyers  without  study  made ; 
Churchmen,  in  whose  esteem  their  best  employ 
Is  odious,  and  their  wages  all  their  joy. 
Who,  far  enough  from  furnishing  their  shelves 
With  Gospel  lore,  turn  infidels  themselves ; 
See  womanhood  despised,  and  manhood  shamed 
With  infamy  too  nauseous  to  be  named. 
Fops  at  all  corners,  lady-like  in  mien, 
Civeted  fellows,  smelt  ere  they  are  seen. 
Else  coarse  and  rude  in  manners,  and  their  tongue 
On  fire  vdth  curses,  and  with  nonsense  hung, 
Now  flushed  with  drunkenness,  now  with  whore 
dom  pale. 

Their  breath  a  sample  of  last  night's  regale ; 
See  volunteers  in  all  the  vilest  arts. 
Men  well  endowed,  of  honourable  parts. 
Designed  by  Nature  wise,  but  self-made  fools ; 
All  these,  and  more  like  these,  were  bred  at 
schools  ; 

And  if  it  chance,  as  sometimes  chance  it  will. 
That  though  school-bred,  the  boy  be  virtuous  still. 
Such  rare  exceptions,  shining  in  the  dark, 
Prove,  rather  than  impeach,  the  just  remark: 
As  here  and  there  a  twinkling  star  descried, 
Serves  but  to  show  how  black  is  all  beside. 
Now  look  on  him,  whose  very  voice  in  tone 
Just  echoes  thine,  whose  features  are  thine  own, 
And  stroke  his  polished  cheek  of  purest  red. 
And  lay  thine  hand  upon  his  flaxen  head. 
And  say,  My  boy,  th'  unwelcome  hour  is'come, 
When  thou,  transplanted  from  thy  genial  home. 
Must  find  a  colder  soil  and  bleaker  air,  ' 
And  trust  for  safety  to  a  stranger's  care ; 
What  character,  what  turn  thou  wilt  assume 
From  constant  converse  with  I  know  not  whom ; 
Who  there  will  court  thy  friendship,  with  what 
views. 

And,  artless  as  thou  art,  whom  thou  wilt  choose ; 
Though  much  depends  on  what  thy  choice  shall  be. 
Is  all  chance-medley,  and  unknown  to  me. 
Canst  thou,  the  tear  just  trembling  on  thy  lids. 
And  while  the  dreadful  risk  foreseen  forbids,  ' 
Free  too,  and  under  no  constraining  force, 
Unless  the  sway  of  custom  warp  thy  course, 
Lay  such  a  stake  upon  the  losing  side, 
Merely  to  gratify  so  blind  a  guide  1 
L 


Thou  canst  not !  Nature,  pulling  at  thine  heart 
Condemns  th'  unfatherly,  th'  imprudent  part. 
Thou  wouldst  not,  deaf  to  Nature's  tenderest  plea, 
Turn  him  adrift  upon  a  rolling  sea, 
Nor  say,  Go  thither,  conscious  that  there  lay 
A  brood  of  asps,  or  quicksands  in  his  way; 
Then,  only  governed  by  the  self-same  rule 
Of  natural  pity,  send  him  not  to  school. 
No— guard  him  better.  Is  he  not  thine  own, 
Thyself  in  miniature,  thy  flesh,  thy  bone  1 
And  hop'st  thou  not  ('tis  every  father's  hope) 
That,  since  thy  strength  must  with  thy  years  elope, 
And  thou  wilt  need  some  comfort,  to  assuage 
Health's  last  farewell,  a  staflf  of  thine  old  age, 
That  then,  in  recompense  of  all  thy  cares. 
Thy  child  shall  show  respect  to  thy  gray  hairs, 
Befriend  thee,  of  all  other  friends  bereft, 
And  give  thy  hfe  its  only  cordial  left  1 
Aware  then  how  much  danger  intervenes. 
To  compass  that  good  end,  forecast  the  means. 
His  heart,  now  passive,  yields  to  thy  command, 
Secure  it  thine,  its  key  is  in  thine  l^and. 
If  thou  desert  thy  charge,  and  throw  it  wide, 
Nor  heed  what  guests  there  enter  and  abide, 
Complain  not  if  attachments  lewd  and  base 
Supplant  thee  in  it,  and  usurp  thy  place. 
But,  if  thou  guard  its  sacred  chambers  sure 
From  vicious  inmates^  and  deUghts  impure, 
Either  his  gratitude  shall  hold  him  fast. 
And  keep  him  warm  and  filial  to  the  last ; 
Or,  if  he  prove  unkind  (as  who  can  say 
But,  being  man,  and  therefore  frail,  he  may"?) 
One  comfort  yet  shall  cheer  thine  aged  heart, 
Howe'er  he  slight  thee,  thou  hast  done  thy  part. 

Oh,  barbarous !  wouldst  thou  with  a  Gothic  hand; 
Pull  down  the  schools— what !— all  the  schools  i 
th'  land; 

Or  throw  them  up  to  livery-nags  and  grooms, 
Or  turn  them  into  shops  and  auction-rooms  1 — 
A  captious  question,  sir  (and  yours  is  one, ) 
Deserves  an  answer  similar,  or  none. 
Wouldst  thou,  possessor  of  a  flock,  employ 
(Apprised  that  he  is  such)  a  careless  boy,* 
And  feed  him  well,  and  give  him  handsome  pay 
Merely  to  sleep,  and  let  him  run  astray? 
Survey  our  schools  and  colleges,  and  see 
A  sight  not  much  unlike  my  simile. 
From  education,  as  the  leading  cause, 
The  public  character  its  colour  draws; 
Thence  the  prevailing  manners  take  their  cast, 
Extravagant  or  sober,  loose  or  chaste. 
And,  though  1  would  not  advertise  them  yet, 
Nor  write  on  each —  This  building  to  be  let, 
Unless  the  world  were  all  prepared  t'  embrace 
A  plan  well  worthy  to  supply  their  place; 
Yet,  backward  as  they  are,  and  long  have  been 
^  To  cultivate  and  keep  the  morals  clean, 
j  (Forgive  the  crime)  I  wish  them,  I  confess, 
I  Or  better  managed,  or  encouraged  less. 


112 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


THE  YEARLY  DISTRESS, 

OR 

TITHING  TIME  AT  STOCK,  IN  ESSEX. 

Verges  addressed  to  a  country  clergyman,  complaining  of  the 
disagreeablenes  of  the  day  annuaUy  appomted  for  receiving 
the  dues  at  the  parsonage. 
Come,  ponder  well,  for  'tis  no  jest, 

To  laugh  it  would  be  wrong 
The  troubles  of  a  worthy  priest, 
The  burthen  of  my  song. 

The  priest  he  merry  is  and  blithe 

Three  quarters  of  a  year. 
But  oh!  it  cuts  him  like  a  scythe, 

When  tithing  time  draws  near. 

He  then  is  full  of  fright  and  fears, 

As  one  at  point  to  die. 
And  long  before  the  day  appears 

He  heaves  up  many  a  sigh. 

For  then  the  farmers  conie  jog,  jog, 

Along  the  miry  road, 
Each  heart  as  heavy  as  a  log. 

To  make  their  payments  good. 

In  sooth,  the  sorrow  of  such  days 

Is  not  to  be  expressed, 
When  he  that  takes  and  he  that  pays 

Are  both  alike  distressed. 

Now  all  unwelcome  at  his  gates 
The  clumsy  swains  ahght. 

With  rueful  faces  and  bald  pates- 
He  trembles  at  the  sight. 

And  well  he  may,  for  well  he  knows 

Each  bumpkin  of  the  clan. 
Instead  of  paying  what  he  owes, 

Will  cheat  him  if  he  can. 

So  in  they  come— each  makes  his  leg, 

And  flings  his  head  before, 
And  looks  as  if  he  came  to  beg, 

And  not  to  quit  a  score. 

"  And  how  does  miss  and  madam  do, 

The  little  boy  and  all?' 
"  All  tight  and  well.    And  how  do  you. 

Good  Mr.  What-d'ye-cain" 

The  dinner  comes,  and  down  they  sit: 

Were  e'er  such  hungry  folks'? 
There's  little  talking,  and  no  wit: 

It  ist  no  time  to  joke. 


One  wipes  his  nose  upon  his  sleeve, 

One  spits  upon  the  floor. 
Yet  not  to  give  oflfence  or  grieve. 

Hold  up  the  cloth  before. 

The  punch  goes  round,  and  they  are  dull 

And  lumpish  still  as  ever; 
Like  barrels  with  their  bellies  full. 

They  only  weigh  the  heavi». 

At  length  the  busy  time  begins. 

"  Come,  neighbours,  we  must  wag — " 
The  money  chinks,  down  drop  their  chins, 

Each  lugging  out  his  bag. 

One  talks  of  mildew  and  of  frost, 

And  one  of  storms  of  hail. 
And  one  of  pigs  that  he  has  lost 

By  maggots  at  the  tail. 

auoth  one,  "  A  rarer  man  than  you 

In  pulpit  none  shall  hear : 
But  yet,  methinks,  to  tell  you  true, 

You  sell  it  plaguy  dear." 

O  why  are  farmers  made  so  coarse, 

Or  clergy  made  so  fine'? 
A  kick,  that  scarce  would  move  a  horse, 

May  kill  a  sound  divine. 

Then  let  the  boobies  stay  at  home; 

'Twould  cost  him,  I  dare  say. 
Less  trouble  taking  twice  the  sum, 

Without  the  clowns  that  pay. 


SONNET 

ADDRESSED  TO  HENRY  COWPER,  ESft. 

On  hia  emphatical  and  interesting  Delivery  of  the  Defenca 
of  Warren  Hastings,  Esq.,  in  the  House  of  Lords. 

CowPER,  whose  silver  voice,  tasked  sometimes 
hard, 

Legends  prolix  delivers  in  the  ears 
(Attentive  when  thou  read'st)  of  England's 
peers. 

Let  verse  at  length  yield  thee  thy  just  reward. 

Thou  wast  not  heard  with  drowsy  disregard. 
Expending  late  on  all  that  length  of  plea 
Thy  generous  powers;  but  silence  honoured 
thee. 

Mute  as  e'er  gazed  on  orator  or  bard. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Thou  art  not  voice  alone,  but  hast  beside  | 
Both  heart  and  head ;  and  couldst  with  music 
sweet  , 
Of  Attic  phrase  and  senatorial  tone, 
Like  thy  renowned  forefathers,  far  and  wide 
Thy  fame  diffuse,  praised  not  for  utterance  meet 
Of  others^  speech,  but  magic  of  thy  own. 


LINES 

ADDRESSED  TO  DR.  DARWIN, 

Author  of  the  "  Botanic  Garden:^ 

Two  Poets*  (poets,  by  report, 

Not  oft  so  well  agree,) 
Sweet  Harmonist  of  Flora's  court ! 

Conspire  to  honour  Thee. 

They  best  can  judge  a  poet's  worth. 
Who  oft  themselves  have  known 

The  pangs  of  a  poetic  birth 
By  labours  of  their  own. 

We  therefore,  pleased,  extol  thy  song, 
Though  various  yet  complete. 

Rich  in  embeUishment,  as  strong 
And  learned  as  'tis  sweet. 

No  envy  mingles  with  our  praise, 
Though,  could  our  hearts  repine 

At  any  poet's  happier  lays, 

They  would — they  must  at  thine. 

But  we  in  mutual  bondage  knit 

Of  friendship's  closest  tie. 
Can  gaze  on  even  Darwin's  vsdt 

With  an  unjaundiced  eye; 

And  deem  the  Bard,  whoe'er  he  be. 

And  howsoever  known. 
Who  would  not  twine  a  wreath  for  Thee, 

Unworthy  of  his  own. 


ON 

MRS.  MONTAGU'S  FEATHER-HANGINGS. 

The  birds  put  off  their  every  hue. 
To  dress  a  room  for  Montagu. 

The  Peacock  sends  his  heavenly  dyes, 
His  rainbows  and  his  star,ry  eyes; 
The  Pheasant  plumes,  which  round  infold 
His  mantling  neck  with  downy  gold; 
The  Cock  his  arched  tail's  azure  show; 
And,  river-blanched,  the  Swan  his  snow. 
All  tribes  beside  of  Indian  name, 
That  glossy  shine,  or  vivid  flame. 


Where  rises,  and  where  sets  the  day, 

Whate'er  they  boast  of  rich  and  gay, 

Contribute  to  the  gorgeous  plan, 

Proud  to  advance  it  all  they  can. 

This  plumage  neither  dashing  shower. 

Nor  blasts  that  shake  the  dripping  bower, 

Shall  drench  again  or  discompose, 

But,  screened  from  every  storm  that  blows^ 

It  boasts  a  splendour  ever  new, 

Safe  with  protecting  Montagu. 

To  the  same  patroness  resort. 
Secure  of  favour  at  her  court, 
Strong  Genius,  from  whose  forge  of  thought 
Forms  rise,  to  quick  perfection  wrought. 
Which,  though  new-born,  with  vigour  move, 
Like  Pallas  springing  armed  from  Jove- 
Imagination  scattering  round 
Wild  roses  over  furrowed  ground. 
Which  Labour  of  his  frown  beguile. 
And  teach  Philosophy  a  smile — 
Wit  flashing  on  Religion's  side, 
Whose  fires,  to  sacred  Truth  apphed. 
The  gem,  though  limiinous  before. 
Obtrudes  on  human  notice  more, 
Like  sunbeams  on  the  golden  height 
Of  some  tall  temple  playing  bright — 
Well-tutored  Learning,  from  his  books 
Dismissed  with  grave,  not  haughty,  looks. 
Their  order  on  his  shelves  exact, 

Not  more  harmonious  or  compact 
Than  that,  to  which  he  keeps  confined 

The  various  treasures  of  his  mind 

All  these  to  Montagu's  repair. 

Ambitious  of  a  shelter  there. 

There  Genius,  Learning,  Fancy,  Wit, 

Their  rufiled  plumage  calm  refit, 

(For  stormy  troubles  loudest  roar 

Around  their  flight  who  highest  soar) 

And  in  her  eye,  and  by  her  aid, 

Shine  safe  without  a  fear  to  fade. 
She  thus  maintains  divided  sway 

With  yon  bright  regent  of  the  day; 

The  plume  and  poet  both,  we  know. 

Their  lustre  to  his  influence  owe; 

And  she  the  works  of  Phoebus  aiding, 

Both  poet  saves  and  plume  from  fading. 


VERSES 


*  Alluding  to  the  poem  by  Mr.  Hayley,  which  accompanied 
these  lines. 


Supposed  to  be  written  by  Alexander  Selkirk,  duiing  hia 
Bolitary  abode  in  the  island  of  Juan  Fernandez. 
I  AM  monarch  of  all  I  survey, 

My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute ; 
From  the  centre  all  round  to  the  sea, 

I  am  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute. 
O  solitude !  where  are  the  charms 

That  sages  have  seen  in  thy  face? 
Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms. 

Than  reign  in  this  horrible  place. 


114 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


I  am  out  of  humanity's  reach, 

Must  finish  my  journey  alone, 
Never  hear  the  sweet  music  of  speech, 

I  start  at  the  sound  of  my  own. 
The  beasts,  that  roam  over  the  plain, 

My  form  with  indifference  see; 
They  are  so  unacquainted  with  man. 

Their  tameness  is  shocking  to  me. 

Society,  friendship,  and  love. 

Divinely  bestowed  upon  man, 
O,  had  1  the  wdngs  of  a  dove. 

How  soon  would  I  taste  you  again ! 
My  sorrows  I  then  might  assuage 

In  the  ways  of  religion  and  truth, 
Might  learn  from  the  wisdom  of  age. 

And  be  cheered  by  the  sallies  of  youth. 

Religion  •  what  treasure  untold 

Resides  in  that  heavenly  word  ! 
More  precious  than  silver  and  gold. 

Or  all  that  this  earth  can  afford. 
But  the  sound  of  the  church-going  bell 

These  valleys  and  rocks  never  heard^ 
Never  sighed  at  the  sound  of  a  knell. 

Or  smiled  when  a  sabbath  appeared. 

Ye  winds  that  have  made  me  your  sport. 

Convey  to  this  desolate  shore 
Some  cordial  endearing  report 

Of  a  land  I  shall  visit  no  more. 
My  friends,  do  they  now  and  then  send 

A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me  1 
O  tell  me  I  yet  have  a  friend, 

Though  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see. 

How  fleet  is  a  glance  of  the  mind ! 

Compared  with  the  speed  of  its  flight, 
The  tempest  itself  lags  behind. 

And  the  swift  winged  arrows  of  light. 
When  I  think  of  my  own  native  land, 

In  a  moment  I  seem  to  be  there ; 
But  alas !  recollection  at  hand 

Soon  hurries  me  back  to  despair. 

But  the  seafowl  is  gone  to  her  nest. 

The  beast  has  laid  down  in  his  lair ; 
Even  here  is  a  season  of  rest. 

And  I  to  my  cabin  repair. 
There's  mercy  in  every  place. 

And  mercy,  encouraging  thought ! 
Gives  even  affliction  a  grace. 

And  reconciles  man  to  his  lot. 


ON  THE 

PROMOTION  OF  EDWARD  THURLOW,  ESQ. 
To  the  Lord  High  Chancellorship  of  England. 

Round  Thurlow's  head  in  early  youth, 
And  in  his  sportive  days, 


Fair  Science  poured  the  light  of  truth, 
And  Genius  shed  his  rays. 

See !  with  united  wonder  cried  , 
Th'  experienced  and  the  sage, 

Ambition  in  a  boy  supplied 
With  all  the  skill  of  age ! 

Discernment,  eloquence,  and  grace, 

Proclaim  him  born  to  sway 
The  balance  in  the  highest  place. 

And  bear  the  palm  away. 

The  praise  bestowed  was  just  and  wise; 

He  sprang  impetuous  forth, 
Secure  of  conquest,  where  the  prize 

Attends  superior  worth. 

So  the  best  courser  on  the  plain 

Ere  yet  he  starts  is  known. 
And  does  but  at  the  goal  obtain. 

What  all  had  deemed  his  own. 


ODE  TO  PEACE. 

Come,  peace  of  mind,  (Jelightful  guest ! 
Return,  and  make  thy  downy  nest 

Once  more  in  this  sad  heart: 
Nor  riches  I  nor  power  pursue. 
Nor  hold  forbidden  joys  in  view ; 

We  therefore  need  not  part. 

Where  wilt  thou  dwell,  if  not  with  me, 
From  avarice  and  ambition  free, 

And  pleasure's  fatal  wiles  1 
For  whom,  alas  !  dost  thou  prepare 
The  sweets  that  I  was  wont  to  share. 

The  banquet  of  thy  smiles  1 

The  great,  the  gay,  shall  they  partake 
The  heaven  that  thou  alone  canst  make, 

And  wilt  thou  quit  the  stream 
That  murmurs  through  the  dewy  mead. 
The  grove  and  the  sequestered  shed, 

To  be  a  guest  with  them'? 

For  thee  I  panted,  thee~  I  prized, 
For  thee  I  gladly  sacrificed 

Whate'er  I  loved  before  ; 
And  shall  I  see  thee  start  away. 
And  helpless,  hopeless,  hear  thee  say — 

Farewell !  we  meet  no  more  1 


HUMAN  FRAILTY. 

Weak  and  irresolute  is  man; 

The  purpose  of  to-day. 
Woven  with  pains  into  his  plan, 

To-morrow  rends  away.  - 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


115 


The  bow  well  bent,  and  smart  the  spring, 

Vice  seems  already  slain; 
But  passion  rudely  snaps  the  string, 

And  it  revives  again. 

Some  foe  to  his  upright  intent 

Finds  out  his  weaker  part; 
Virtue  engages  his  assent, 

But  pleasure  wins  his  heart. 

'Tis  here  the  folly  of  the  wise 

Through  all  his  art  we  view; 
And,  while  his  tongue  the  charge  denies, 

His  conscience  owns  it  true. 

Bound  on  a  voyage  of  awful  length, 

And  dangers  little  known, 
A  stranger  to  superior  strength, 

Man  vainly  trusts  his  own. 

But  oars  alone  can  ne'er  prevail, 

To  reach  the  distant  coast; 
The  breath  of  heaven  must  swell  the  sailj 

Or  all  the  toil  is  lost. 


THE  MODERN  PATRIOT. 

Rebellion  is  my  theme  all  day; 

I  only  wish  f  would  come 
(As  who  knows  but  perhaps  it  may'?) 

A  little  nearer  home. 

Yon  roaring  boys,  who  rave  and  fight 
On  t'  other  side  th'  Atlantic, 

I  always  held  them  in  the  right, 
But  most  so  when  most  frantic. 

When  lawless  mobs  insult  the  court, 
That  man  shall  be  my  toast, 

If  breaking  windows  be  the  sport. 
Who  bravely  breaks  the  most. 

But  oh !  for  him  my  fancy  culls 
The  choicest  flowers  she  bears. 

Who  constitutionally  pulls 
Your  house  about  your  ears. 

Such  civil  broils  are  my  delight. 

Though  some  folks  can't  endure  them, 

Who  say  the  mob  are  mad  outright, 
And  that  a  rope  must  cure  them. 

A  rope !  I  wish  we  patriot  had 

Such  strings  for  all  who  need  'em — 

What !  hang  a  man  for  going  mad ! 
Then  farewell  British  freedom. 


ON  OBSERVING  SOME  NAMES  OF  LITTLE  NOTE  RE- 
CORDED IN  THE  BIOGRAPHIA  BRITANNICA.  , 

Oh,  fond  attempt  to  give  a  deathless  lot 
To  names  ignoble,  born  to  be  forgot! 

I.  3 


In  vain,  recorded  in  historic  page, 
They  court  the  notice  of  a  future  age: 
Those  twinkling  tiny  lustres  of  the  land 
Drop  one  by  one  from  Fame's  neglecting  hand; 
Lethaean  gulfs  receive  them  as  they  fall. 
And  dark  oblivion  soon  absorbs  them  all. 

So  when  a  child,  as  playful  children  use. 
Has  burnt  to  tinder  a  stale  last  year's  news, 
The  flame  extinct,  he  views  the  roving  fire — 
There  goes  my  lady,  and  there  goes  the  squire, 
There  goes  the  parson,  oh  illustrious  spark ! 
And  there,  scarce  less  illustrious,  goes  the  clerk! 


REPORT  OF  AN  ADJUDGED  CASE, 

NOT  TO  BE  FOUND  IN  ANY  OF  THE  BOOKS. 

Between  Nose  and  Eyes  a  strange  contest  arose, 
The  spectacles  set  them  unhappily  wvong; 

The  point  in  dispute  was,  as  all  the  world  knows, 
To  which  the  said  spectacles  ought  to  belong. 

So  Tongue  was  the  lawyer,  and  argued  the  cause 
With  a  great  deal  of  skill,  and  a  vvig  full  of 
learning ; 

While  chief  baron  Ear  sat  to  balance  the  laws. 
So  famed  for  his  talent  in  nicely  discerning. 

In  behalf  of  the  Nose  it  will  quickly  ap^pear. 
And  your  lordship,  he  said,  will  undoubtedly 
find, 

That  the  Nose  has  had  spectacles  always  to  wear, 
Which  amounts  to  possession  time  out  of  mind. 

Then  holding  the  spectacles  up  to  the  court — 
Your  lordship  observes  they  are  made  with  a 
straddle 

As  wide  as  the  ridge  of  the  Nose  is;  in  short, 
Designed  to  sit  close  to  it,  just  like  a  saddle. 

Again,  would  your  lordship  a  moment  suppose 
('Tis  a  case  that  has  happened,  and  may  be 
again) 

That  the  visage  or  countenance  had  not  a  nose. 
Pray  who  would,  or  who  could,  wear  spectacles 
then'? 

On  the  whole  it  appears,  and  my  argument  shows, 
With  a  reasoning  the  court  will  never  condemn, 

That  the  spectacles  plainly  were  made  for  the  Nose, 
And  the  Nose  was  as  plainly  intended  for  them. 

Then  shifting  his  side  (as  a  lawyer  knows  how,) 
He  pleaded  again  in  behalf  of  the  Eyes; 

But  what  were  his  arguments  few  people  know, 
For  the  court  did  not  think  they  were  equally  wise. 

So  his  lordship  decreed  with  a  grave  solemn  tone, 
Decisive  and  clear,  without  one  if  or  but — 

That,  whenever  the  Nose  put  his  spectacles  on, 
By  daylight  or  candlelight — Eyes  should  be  shut! 


lie 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


ON  THE  BURNING 

OF 

LORD  MANSFIELD'S  LIBRARY, 

TOGETHER  WITH  HIS  MSS., 
By  the  mob,  in  the  month  of  June,  1780. 

So  then — the  Vandals  of  our  isle, 

Sworn  foes  to  sense  and  laW, 
Have  burnt  to  dust  a  nobler  pile 

Than  ever  Roman  saw ! 

And  Murray  sighs  o'er  Pope  and  Swift, 

And  many  a  treasure  more. 
The  well-judged  purchase,  and  the  gift, 

That  graced  his  lettered  store. 

Their  pages  mangled,  burnt  and  torn, 

The  loss  was  his  alone; 
But  ages  yet  to  come  shall  mourn 

The  burning  of  his  own. 


ON  THE  SAME. 

When  wit  and  genius  meet  their  doom 

In  all  devouring  flame, 
They  tell  us  of  the  fate  of  Rome, 

And  bid  us  fear  the  same. 

O'er  Murray's  loss  the  Muses  wept, 

They  felt  the  rude  alarm. 
Yet  blest  the  guardian  care  that  kept 

His  sacred  head  from  harm. 

There  Memory,  like  the  bee,  that's  fed 

From  Flora's  balmy  store, 
The  quintessence  of  ail  he  read 

Had  treasured  up  before. 

The  lawless  herd,  with  fury  blind, 
Have  done  him  cruel  wrong; 

The  flowers  are  gone — but  still  we  find 
The  honey  on  his  tongue. 


TIIE  LOVE  OF  THE  WORLD  REPROVED; 
OR 

HYPOCRISY  DETECTED,* 

Thus  says  the  prophet  of  the  Turk, 
Good  Mussulman,  abstain  from  pork; 
There  is  a  part  in  every  swine 
No  friend  or  follower  of  mine 


*  It  may  be  proper  to  inform  the  reader,  that  this  piece  has 
already  appeared  in  print,  having  found  its  way,  though  with 
some  unnecessary  additions  by  an  unknown  hand,  into  the 
Leeds  Journal  without  the  author's  privity. 


May  taste,  what'er  his  inclination, 
On  pain  of  excommunication. 
Such  Mahomet's  mysterious  charge, 
And  thus  he  left  the  point  at  large. 
Had  he  the  sinful  part  expressed. 
They  might  with  safety  eat  the  rest; 
But  for  one  piece  they  thought  it  hard 
From  the  whole  hog  to  be  debarred; 
And  set  their  wit  at  work  to  find 
What  joint  the  prophet  had  in  mind, 
Much  controversy  straight  arose. 
These  choose  the  back,  the  belly  those; 
By  some  'tis  confidently  said 
He  meant  not  to  forbid  the  head; 
While  others  at  that  doctrine  raU, 
And  piously  prefer  the  tail. 
Thus,  conscience  freed  from  every  clog, 
Mahometans  eat  up  the  hog. 

You  laugh — 'tis  well. — The  tale  applied 
May  make  you  laugh  on  t'  other  side. 
Renounce  the  world — the  preacher  cries. 
We  do — a  multitude  replies. 
While  one  as  innocent  regards 
A  snug  and  friendly  game  at  cards ; 
And  one,  whatever  you  may  say, 
Can  see  no  evil  in  a  play; 
Some  love  a  concert,  or  a  race ; 
And  others  shooting,  and  thPchase. 
Reviled  and  loved,  renounced  and  followed, 
Thus,  bit  by  bit,  the  world  is  swallowed; 
Each  thinks  his  neighbour  makes  too  free, 
Yet  likes  a  slice  as  well  as  he ; 
With  sophistry  their  sauce  they  sweeten, 
Till  quite  from  tail  to  snout  'tis  eaten. 


ON  THE  DEATH 

OF 

MBS.  (now  lady)  Throckmorton's  bulfinch. 
Ye  nymphs !  if  e'er  your  eyes,  were  red 
With  tears  o'er  hapless  favourites  shed, 

O  share  Maria's  grief! 
Her  favourite,  even  in  his  cage, 
(What  will  not  hunger's  cruel  ragel) 

Assassined  by  a  thief. 

Where  Rhenus  strays  his  vines  among, 
The  egg  was  laid  from  which  he  sprung; 

And,  though  by  nature  mute, 
Or  only  with  a  whistle  blest, 
Well-taught  he  all  the  sounds  expressed 

Of  flagelet  or  flute. 

The  honours  of  his  ebon  poll 

Were  brighter  than  the  sleekest  mole; 

His  bosom  of  the  hue 
With  which  Aurora  decks  the  skies, 
When  piping  winds  shall  soon  arise, 

To  sweep  away  the  dew. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


117 


Above,  below,  in  all  the  house, 
Dire  foe  alike  of  bird  and  mouse, 

No  cat  had  leave  to  dwell; 
And  bully's  cage  supported  stood 
On  props  of  smoothest-shaven  wood, 

Large  built  and  latticed  well, 

"Well  latticed — but  the  grate,  alas ! 
Not  rough  with  wire  of  steel  or  brass, 

For  bully's  plurhage  sake. 
But  smooth  with  wands  from  Ouse's  side, 
With  which,  when  neatly  peeled  and  dried, 

The  swains  their  baskets  make. 

Night  veiled  the  pole,  all  seemed  secure : 
When  led  by  instinct  sharp  and  sure, 

Subsistence  to  provide, 
A  beast  forth  saUied  on  the  scout, 
Long-backed,  long-tailed,  with  whiskered  snout, 

And  badger-coloured  hide. 

He,  entering  at  the  study  door, 
Its  ample  area  'gan  explore ; 

And  something  in  the  wind 
Conjectured,  sniffing  round  and  round, 
Better  than  all  the  books  he  found, 

Food  chiefly  for  the  mind. 

Just  then,  by  adferse  fate  impressed, 
A  dream  disturbed  poor  bully's  rest ; 

In  sleep  he  seemed  to  view 
A  rat  fast  clingihg  to  the  cage. 
And  screaming  at  the  sad  presage. 

Awoke  and  found  it  true. 

For,  aided  both  by  ear  and  scent, 
Right  to  his  mark  the  monster  went — 

Ah,  muse !  forbear  to  speak 
Minute  the  horrors  that  ensued ; 
His  teeth  were  strong,  the  cage  was  wood — 

He  left  poor  bully's  beak. 

Oh  had  he  made  that  too  his  prey ; 
That  beak  whence  issued  many  a  lay 

Of  such  mellifluous  tone, 
Might  have  repaid  him  well,  I  wote. 
For  silencing  so  sweet  a  throat, 

Fast  stuck  within  his  own. 

Maria  weeps^— the  muses  mourn — 
So,  when  by  Bachanalians  torn, 

On  Thracian  Hebrus'  side 
The  tree-enchanter  Orpheus  fell. 
His  head  alone  remained  to  tell 

The  cruel  death  he  died. 


THE  ROSE. 

The  Rose  had  been  washed,  just  washed  in  a 
shower. 

Which  Mary  to  Anna  conveyed, 


The  plentiful  moisture  encumbered  the  flower, 
And  weighed  down  its  beautiful  head. 

The  cup  was  all  filled,  and  the  leaves  were  all  wet, 

And  it  seemed  to  a  fanciful  view. 
To  weep  for  the  buds  it  had  left  with  regret, 

On  the  flourishing  bush  where  it  grew, 

I  hastily  seized  it,  unfit  as  it  was 

For  a  nosegay,  so  dripping  and  drowned 

And  swinging  it  rudely,  too  rudely,  alas ! 
I  snapped  it,  it  fell  to  the  ground. 

And  such,  I  exclaimed,  is  the  pitiless  part 

Some  act  by  the  delicate  mind. 
Regardless  of  wringing  and  breaking  a  heart 

Already  to  sorrow  resigned. 

This  elegant  rose,  had  I  shaken  it  less. 
Might  have  bloomed  with  its  owner  awhile ; 

And  the  tear  that  is  wiped  with  a  little  address, 
May  be  followed  perhaps  by  a  smile. 


THE  DOVES. 

Reasoning  at  every  step  he  treads, 

Man  yet  mistakes  his  way, 
While  meaner  things,  whom  instinct  leads,  • 

Are  rarely  known  to  stray. 

One  silent  eve  I  wandered  late. 

And  heard  the  voice  of  love ; 
The  turtle  thus  addressed  her  mate. 

And  soothed  the  listening  dove : 

Our  mutual  bond  of  faith  and  truth 

No  time  shall  disengage. 
Those  blessings  of  our  early  youth 

Shall  cheer  our  latest  age : 

While  innocence  without  disguise, 

And  constancy  sincere, 
Shall  fill  the  circle  of  those  eyes, 

And  mine  can  read  them  there 

Those  ills  that  wait  on  all  below. 

Shall  ne'er  be  felt  by  me, 
Or  gently  felt,  and  only  so, 

As  being  shared  with  thee. 

Whe5i  lightnings  flash  among  the  trees, 

Or  kites  are  hovering  near, 
I  fear  lest  thee  alone  they  seize. 

And  know  no  other  fear. 

'Tis  then  I  feel  myself  a  wife, 

And  press  thy  wedded  side, 
Resolved  a  union  formed  for  life. 

Death  never  shall  divide. 


118 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


But  oh !  if  fickle  and  unchaste, 
(Forgive  a  transient  thought) 

Thou  couldst  become  unkind  at  last, 
And  scorn  thy  present  lot. 

No  need  of  lightnings  from  on  high, 

Or  kites  with  cruel  beak ; 
Denied  the  endearments  of  thine  eye, 

This  widowed  heart  would  break. 

Thus  sang  the  sweet  sequestered  bird, 

Soft  as  the  passing  wind ; 
And  I  recorded  what  I  heard. 

A  lesson  for  mankind. 


A  FABLE. 

A  RAVEN,  whil6  with  glossy  breast 

Her  new-laid  eggs  she  fondly  pressed, 

And  on  her  wickerwork  high  mounted. 

Her  chickens  prematurely  counted. 

(A  fa\dt  philosophers  might  blame. 

If  quite  exempted  from  the  same,) 

Enjoyed  at  ease  the  genial  day ; 

'Twas  April,  as  the  bumpkins  say, 

The  legislature  called  it  May. 

But  suddenly  a  wind  as  high 

As  ever  swept  a  winter  sky. 

Shook  the  young  leaves  about  her  ears, 

And  filled  her  with  a  thousand  fears. 

Lest  the  rude  blast  should  snap  the  bough. 

And  spread  her  golden  hopes  below. 

But  just  at  eve  the  blowing  weather 

And  all  her  fears  were  hushed  together; 

And  now,  quoth  poor  unthinking  Ralph, 

'Tis  over  and  the  brood  is  safe ; 

(For  ravens,  though  as  birds  of  omen 

They  teach  both  conjurers  and  old  women, 

To  tell  us  what  is  to  befall, 

Can't  prophesy  themselves  at  all.) 

The  morning  came,  when  neighbour  Hodge. 

Who  long  had  marked  her  airy  lodge. 

And  destined  all  the  treasure  there 

A  gift  to  his  expecting  fair, 

Climbed  Uke  a  squirrel  to  his  dray. 

And  bore  the  worthless  prize  away. 


'Tis  Providence  dlone  secures 
In  every  change  both  mine  and  yours : 
Safety  consists  not  in  escape 
From  dangers  of  a  frightful  shape ; 
An  earthquake  may  be  bid  to  spare 
The  man,  that's  strangled  by  a  hair. 
Fate  steals  along  with  silent  tread, 
Found  oilenest  in  what  least  we  dread  ; 
Frowns  in  the  storm  with  angry  brow, 
But  in  the  sunshine  strikes  the  blow. 


A  COMPARISON. 

The  lapse  of  time  and  rivers  is  the  same, 

Both  speed  their  journey  with  a  restless  stream ; 

The  silent  pace,  with  which  they  steal  away, 

No  wealth  can  bribe,  no  prayers  persuade  to  stay; 

Alike  irrevocable  both  when  past 

And  a  wide  ocean  swallows  both  at  last. 

Though  each  resemble  each  in  every  part, 

A  difiTcrence  strikes  at  length  the  musing  heart ; 

Streams  never  flow  in  vain  where  streams  abound, 

How  laughs  the  land  with  various  plenty  crowned ! 

But  time,  that  should  enrich  the  nobler  mind, 

Neglected  leaves  a  dreary  waste  behind. 


ANOTHER. 

ADDRESSED  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

Sweet  stream,  that  winds  through  yonder  glade, 

Apt  emblem  of  a  virtuous  maid — 

Silent  and  chaste  she  steals  along. 

Far  from  the  world's  gay  busy  throng  ; 

With  gentle  yet  prevaiUng  force. 

Intent  upon  her  destined  course ; 

Graceful  and  useful  all  she  does. 

Blessing  and  blest  where'er  she  goes : 

Pure  bosomed  as  that  watery  glass, 

And  heaven  reflected  hi  her  face. 


THE  POET'S  NEW-YEAR'S  GIFT. 

TO  MRS.  (now  lady)  THROCKMORTON. 

Maria  !  I  have  every  good 
For  thee  vdshed  many  a  time, 

Both  sad  and  in  a  cheerful  mood. 
But  never  yet  in  rhyme. 

To  wish  thee  fairer  is  no  need. 
More  prudent  or  more  sprightly, 

Or  more  ingenious,  or  more  freed 
From  temper-flaws  unsightly. 

What  favour  then  not  yet  possessed, 

Can  I  for  thee  require. 
In  wedded  love  already  blest, 

To  thy  whole  heart's  desire  1 

None  here  is  happy  but  in  part ; 

Full  bUss  is  bliss  divine ; 
There  dwells  some  wish  in  every  heart. 

And  doubtless  one  in  thine. 

That  wish,  on  some  fair  future  day, 
Which  Fate  shall  brightly  gild, 

('Tis  blameless,  be  it  what  it  may,) 
I  wish  it  all  fulfilled. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


119 


ODE  TO  APOLLO. 

£>isr  AN  JNK-GLASS  ALMOST  BRIED  IN  THE  SUN. 

Patron  of  all  those  luckless  brains, 
That,  to  the  wrong  side  leaning, 

Indite  much  metre  with  much  pains, 
And  little  or  no  meaning: 

'        Ah  why,  since  oceans,  rivers,  streams. 
That  water  all  the  nations, 
Pay  tribute  to  thy  glorious  beams, 
In  constant  exhalations;  , 

Why,  stooping  from  the  noon  of  day, 

Too  covetous  of  drink, 
Apollo,  hast  thou  stolen  away 

A  poet's  drop  of  ink  1 

Upborne  into  the  viewless  air 

It  floats  a  vapour  now. 
Impelled  through  regions  dense  and  rare, 

By  all  the  winds  that  blow. 

Ordained  perhaps  ere  summer  flies. 
Combined  with  millions  more,  , 

To  form  an  Iris  in  the  skies. 
Though  black  and  foul  before. 

Illustrious  drop !  and  happy  then 

Beyond  the  happiest  lot, 
Of  all  that  ever  past  my  pen, 

So  soon  to  be  forgot ! 

Phoebus,  if  such  be  thy  design. 

To  place  it  in  thy  bow, 
Give  wit,  that  what  is  left  may  shine 
0         With  equal  grace  below. 


PAIRING  TIME  ANTICIPATED. 

A  FABLE. 

T  SHALL  not  ask  Jean  Jacques  Rosseau,* 
Jl  birds  confabulate  or  no ; 
'Tis  clear,  that  they  were  always  able 
To  hold  discourse,  at  least  in  fable; 
And  e'en  the  child,  that  knows  no  better 
Than  to  interpret  by  the  letter 
A  story  of  a  cock  and  bull, 
Must  have  a  most  uncommon  scull. 

It/ehanced  then  on  a  winter's  day, 
But  warm,  and  bright,  and  calm  as  May, 
The  birds,  conceiving  a  design 
To  forestall  sweet  St.  Valentine, 


*  It  was  one  of  the  whimsical  speculations  of  this  philoso- 
pher,  that  all  fables  which  ascribe  reason  and  speech  to  animals 
shoHid  be  withheld  from  children,  as  being  only  vehicles  of 
deception.  Sut  what  child  was  ever  deceived  by  them,  or  can 
be,  agaiaat  the  evidence  of  his  senses  ] 
9 


In  many  an  orchard,  copse,  and  grove. 

Assembled  on  aflfairs  of  love, 

And  with  much  twitter  and  much  chatter, 

Began  to  agitate  the  matter. 

At  length  a  Bulfinch,  who  could  boast 

More  years  and  wisdom  than  the  most. 

Entreated,  opening  wide  his  beak, 

A  moment's  liberty  to  speak; 

And,  silence  publicly  enjoined, 

Dehvered  briefly  thus  his  mind: 

My  friends !  be  cautious  how  ye  treat 
The  subject  upon  which  we  meet: 
I  fear  we  shall  have  winter  yet. 

A  Finch,  whose  tongue  knew  no  control. 
With  golden  wing,  and  satin  poll, 
A  last  year's  bird,  who  ne'er  had  tried 
What  marriage  means,  thus  pert  replied: 

Methinks  the  gentleman,  quoth  she, 
Opposite  in  the  apple-tree, 
By  his  good  will  would  keep  us  single 
Till  yonder  heaven  and  earth  shall  mingle, 
Or  (which  is  likelier  to  befall) 
Till  death  exterminate  us  all. 
I'll  marry  without  more  ado. 
My  dear  Dick  Redcap,  what  say  you'? 

Dick  heard,  and  tweedling,  ogling,  bridling 
Turning  short  round,  strutting  and  sideling. 
Attested,  glad,  his  approbation 
Of  an  immediate  conjugation. 
Their  sentiments,  so  well  expressed. 
Influenced  mightily  the  rest ; 
All  paired,  and  each  pair  built  a  nest. 

But  though  the  birds  were  thus  in  haste, 
The  leaves  came  on  not  quite  so  fast. 
And  Destiny,  that  sometimes  bears 
An  aspect  stern  on  man's  affairs. 
Not  altogether  smiled  on  theirs. 
The  wind,  of  late  breathed  gently  forth, 
Now  shifted  east,  and  east  by  north ; 
Bare  trees  and  shrubs  but  ill,  you  know, 
Could  shelter  them  from  rain  or  snow ; 
Stepping  into  their  nests,  they  paddled. 
Themselves  were  chilled,  their  eggs  were  addlej; 
Soon  every  father  bird  and  mother 
Grew  quarrelsome  and  pecked  each  other, 
Parted  without  the  least  regret. 
Except  that  they  had  ever  met. 
And  learned  in  future  to  be  wiser, 
Than  to  neglect  a  good  adviser. 

MORAL. 

Misses !  the  tale  that  I  relate 
This  lesson  seems  to  carry — 

Choose  not  alone  a  proper  mate, 
But  proper  time  to  marry. 


120 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


THE  DOG  AND  THE  WATER-LILY. 

NO  FABLE. 

The  noon  was  shady,  and  soft  airs 

Swept  Ouse's  silent  tide, 
When,  'scaped  from  Hterary  cares, 

I  wandered  on  his  side. 

My  spaniel,  prettiest  of  his  race, 

And  high  in  pedigree, 
(Two  nymphs*  adorned  with  every  grace 

That  spaniel  found  for  me.) 

Now  wantoned  lost  in  flags  and  reeds, 

Now  starting  into  sight, 
Pursued  the  swallows  o'er  the  meads 

With  scarce  a  slower  flight. 

It  was  the  time  when  Ouse  di  played 

His  lilies  newly  blown ; 
Their  beauties  I  intent  surveyed, 

And  one  I  wished  my  own. 

With  cane  extended  far  I  sought 

To  steer  it  close  to  land ; 
But  still  the  prize,  though  nearly  caught, 

Escaped  my  eager  hand. 

Beau  marked  my  unsuccessful  pains 

With  fixed  considerate  face. 
And  pUzzUng  set  his  puppy  brains 

To  comprehend  the  case. 

But  with  a  cherup  clear  and  strong, 
Dispersing  all  his  dream, 
,    I  thence  withdrew,  and  followed  long 
The  windings  of  the  stream. 

My  ramble  ended,  I  returned ; 

Beau,  trotting  far  before. 
The  floating  wreath  again  discerned. 

And  plunging  left  the  shore. 

I  saw  him  with  that  lily  cropped 

Impatient  swim  to  meet 
My  quick  approach,  and  soon  he  dropped 

The  treasure  at  my  feet. 

Charmed  with  the  sight,  the  world,  I  cried, 

Shall  hear  of  this  thy  deed : 
My  dog  shall  mortify  the  pride 

Of  man's  superior  breed 

But  chief  myself  I  will  enjoin. 

Awake  at  duty's  call, 
To  show  a  love  as  prompt  as  thine 

To  Him  who  gives  me  all. 


*  Sir  Robert  Gunning's  daughters. 


THE  POET,  THE  OYSTER,  AND  SEN- 
SITIVE PLANT. 

An  Oyster,  cast  upon  the  shore. 
Was  heard,  though  never  heard  before, 
Complaining  in  a  speech  well  worded — 
And  worthy  thus  to  be  recorded : — 

Ah,  hapless  v/retch,  condemned  to  dwell 
For  ever  in  my  native  shell ; 
Ordained  to  move  when  others  please, 
Not  for  my  own  content  or  ease ; 
But  tossed  and  buffeted  about, 
Now  in  the  water  and  now  out. 
'Twere  better  to  be  born  a  stone. 
Of  ruder  shape,  and  feeling  none. 
Than  with  a  tenderness  like  mine. 
And  sensibilities  so  fine ! 
I  envy  that  unfeeling  shrub. 
Fast-rooted  against  every  rub. 

The  plant  he  meant,  grew  not  far  off, 
And  felt  the  sneer  with  scorn  enough ; 
Was  hurt,  disgusted,  mortified, 
And  with  asperity  replied. 

When,  cry  the  botanists,  and  stare, 
Did  plants  called  sensitive  grow  there  1 
No  matter  when — a  poet's  muse  is 
To  make  them  grow  just  where  she  chooses. 

You  shapeless  nothing  in  a  dish. 
You  that  are  but  almost  a  fish, 
I  scorn  your  coarse  insinuation, 
And  huve  most  plentiful  occasion 
To  wish  myself  the  rock  I  view. 
Or  such  another  dolt  as  you:  ^ 
For  many  a  grave  and  learned  clerk, 
And  many  a  gay  unlettered  spark, 
With  curious  touch  examines  me, 
If  I  can  feel  as  well  as  he; 
And  when  I  bend,  retire  and  shrink, 
gays— Well,  'tis  more  than  one  would  think! 
Thus  life  is  spent  (oh  fie  upon 't!) 
In  being  touched,  and  crying — Don't! 

A  poet,  in  his  evening  walk, 
O'erheard  and  checked  this  idle  talk. 
And  your  fine  sense,  he  said,  a^d  yours, 
Whatever  evil  it  endures. 
Deserves  not,  if  so  soon  offended. 
Much  to  be  pitied  or  commended. 
Disputes,  though  short,  are  far  too  long, 
Where  both  alike  are  in  the  wrong; 
Your  feelings  in  their  full  amount, 
Are  all  upon  your  own  account. 

You,  in  your  grotto-work  enclosed, 
Complain  of  being  thus  exposed; 
Yet  nothing  feel  in  that  rough  coat, 
Save  when  the  knife  is  at  your  throat, 
Wherever  driven  by  wind  or  tide. 
Exempt  from  every  ill  beside. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


121 


And  as  for  you,  my  Lady  Squeamish, 
Who  reckon  every  touch  a  blemish, 
If  all  the  plants,  that  can  be  found 
Embellishing  the  scene  around, 
Should  droop  and  wither  where  they  grow, 
You  would  not  feel  at  all — not  you. 
The  noblest  minds  their  virtue  prove 
By  pity,  sympathy,  and  love: 
These,  these  are  feeUngs  truly  fine, 
And  prove  their  owner  half  divine. 

His  censure  reached  them  as  he  dealt  it, 
And  each  by  shrinking  showed  he  felt  it. 


THE  SHRUBBERY. 

WRITTEN  IN  A  TIME  OP  AFFLICTION. 

Oh,  happy  shades — to  me  unblest! 

Friendly  to  peace,  but  not  to  me! 
How  ill  the  scene  that  ofiTers  rest, 

And  heart  that  can  not  rest,  agree ! 

This  glassy  stream,  that  spreading  pine, 
Those  alders  quivering  to  the  breeze, 

Might  soothe  a  soul  less  hurt  than  mine, 
And  please,  if  any  things  could  please. 

But  fixed  unalterable  Care 
Foregoes  not  what  she  feels  within. 

Shows  the  same  sadness  every  where. 
And  slights  the  season  and  the  scene. 

For  all  that  pleased  in  wood  or  lawn, 
While  Peace  possessed  these  silent  bowers. 

Her  animating  smile  withdrawn, 
Has  lost  its  beauties  and  its  powers 

The  saint  or  moralist  should  tread 
This  moss-grown  alley  musing,  slow ; 

They  seek  like  me  the  secret  shade. 
But  not  like  me  to  nourish  wo ! 

Me  fruitful  scenes  and  prospects  waste 

Alike  admonish  not  to  roam; 
These  tell  me  of  enjoyments  past, 

And  those  of  sorrows  yet  to  come. 


THE  WINTER  NOSEGAY. 

What  Nature,  alas!  has  denied 

To  the  delicate  growth  of  our  isle, 
Art  has  iii  a  measure  supplied. 

And  vdnter  is  decked  with  a  smile. 
See,  Mary,  what  beauties  I  bring 

From  the  shelter  of  that  sunny  shed, 
Where  the  flowers  have  the  charms  of  the  spring, 

Though  abroad  they  are  frozen  and  dead. 


^Tis  a  bower  of  Arcadian  sweets, 

Where  Flora  is  still  in  her  prime, 
A  fortress  to  which  she  retreats 

From  the  cruel  assaults  of  the  clime. 
While  Earth  wears  a  mantle  of  snow, 

These  pinks  are  as  fresh  and  as  gay 
As  the  fairest  and  sweetest  that  blow 

On  the  beautiful  bosom  of  May. 

See  how  they  have  safely  survived 

The  frowns  of  a  sky  so  severe; 
Such  Mary's  true  love,  that  has  lived 

Through  many  a  turbulent  year. 
The  charms  of  the  late  blowing  rose 

Seemed  graced  with  a  livelier  hue, 
And  the  winter  of  sorrow  best  shows 

The  truth  of  a  friend  such  as  you. 

MUTUAL  FORBEARANCE 

necessary  to  the  happiness  op  the  MARRIiSB 
STATE. 

The  lady  thus  addressed  her  spouse: 
What  a  mere  dungeon  is  this  house! 
By  no  means  large  enough:  and  was  it, 
Yet  this  dull  room,  and  that  dark  closet, 
Those  hangings  with  their  worn  out  graces, 
Long  beards,  long  noses,  and  pale  faces, 
Are  such  an  antiquated  scene, 
They  overwhelm  me  with  the  spleen.  ^ 
Sir  Humphrey,  shooting  in  the  daxk, 
Makes  answer  quite  beside  the  mark: 
No  doubt,  my  dear,  I  bade  him  come, 
Engaged  myself  to  be  at  home, 
And  shall  expect  him  at  the  door 
Precisely  when  the  clock  strikes  four. 
You  are  so  deaf,  the  lady  cried, 

(And  raised  her  voice,  and  frowned  beside,) 

You  are  so  sadly  deaf,  my  dear,  '  • 

What  shall  I  do  to  make  you  hear  1 
Dismiss  poor  Harry  !  he  replies ; 

Some  people  are  more  nice  than  wise : 

For  one  slight  trespass  all  this  stir  1 

What  if  he  did  ride  whip  and  spur, 

'Twas  but  a  mile — your  favourite  horse 

Will  never  look  one  hair  the  worse. 
Well,  I  protest  'tis  past  all  bearing — 

Child !  I  am  rather  hard  of  hearing — 

Yes,  truly ;  one  must  scream  and  bawl : 

I  tell  you,  you  can't  hear  at  all ! 

Then,  with  a  voice  exceeding  low, 

No  matter  if  you  hear  or  no. 
Alas !  and  is  domestic  strife, 

That  sorest  ill  of  human  life, 

A  plague  so  little  to  be  feared, 

,As  to  be  wantonly  incurred, 

To  gratify  a  fretful  passion, 

On  every  trivial  provocation  ? 


122 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


The  kindest  and  the  happiest  pair 
Will  find  occasion  to  forbear : 
And  something,  every  day  they  live, 
To  pity,  and  perhaps  forgive. 
But  if  infirmities,  that  fall 
In  common  to  the  lot  of  all, 
A  blemish  or  a  sense  impaired, 
Are  crimes  so  little  to  be  spared, 
Then  farev(rell  all  that  must  create 
The  comfort,  of  the  wedded  state ; 
Instead  of  harmony,  'tis  jar. 
And  tumult,  and  intestine  wax. 

The  love  that  cheers  life's  latest  stage, 
Proof  against  sickness  and  old  age. 
Preserved  by  virtue  from  declension, 
Becomes  not  weary  of  attention ; 
But  lives,  when  that  exterior  grace. 
Which  first  inspired  the  flame,  decays. 
'Tis  gentle,  delicate',  and  kind. 
To  faults  compassionate  or  bUnd, 
And  will  with  sympathy  endure 
Those  evils  it  would  gladly  cure : 
But  angry,  coarse,  and  harsh  expression, 
Shows  love  to  be  a  mere  profession ; 
Proves  that  the  heart  is  none  of  his, 
Or  soon  expels  him  if  it  is. 


THE  NEGRO'S  COMPLAINT. 
Forced  from  home  and  all  its  pleasures, 

Afric's  coast  I  left  forlorn ; 
To  increase  a  stranger's  treasures. 

O'er  the  raging  billows  borne. 
Men  from  England  bought  and  sold  me, 

Paid  my  price  in  paltry  gold ; 
.But,  though  slave  they  have  enrolled  me 

Minds  are  never  to  be  sold. 

Still  in  thought  as  free  as  ever, 

*  What  are  England's  rights,  I  ask, 

Me  from  my  delights  to  sever. 

Me  to  torture,  me  to  task  1 
Fleecy  locks  and  black  complexion 

Can  not  forfeit  Nature's  claim ; 
Skins  may  differ,  but  affection 

Dwells  in  white  and  black  the  same. 

Why  did  all  creating  Nature 

Make  the  plant  for  which  we  toil  1 
Sighs  must  fan  it,  tears  must  water, 

Sweat  of  ours  must  dress  the  soil. 
Think,  ye  masters,  iron-hearted. 

Lolling  at  your  jovial  boards ; 
Think  how  many  backs  have  smarted 

For  the  sweets  your  cane  aflfords. 

Is  there,  as  ye  sometimes  tell  us, 
Is  thtre  one  who  reigns  on  high  T 

Has  he  bid  you  buy  and  sell  us, 
Speaking  from  his  throne  the  sky  1 


Ask  him,  if  your  knotted  scourges, 
Matches,  blood-extorting  screws. 

Are  the  means  that  duty  urges 
Agents  of  his  will  to  use  1 

Hark !  he  answers — wild  tornadoes, 

Strewing  yonder  sea  with  wrecks ; 
Wasting  towns,  plantations,  meadows, 

Are  the  voice  with  which  he  speaks  , 
He,  foreseeing  what  vexations 

Afric's  sons  should  undergo. 
Fixed  their  tyrant's  habitations 

Where  his  whirlwinds  answer — no 

By  our  blood  in  Afric  wasted, 

Ere  our  necks  received  the  chain ; 
By  the  miseries  that  we  tasted, 

Crossing  in  your  barks  the  main ; 
By  our  suflering  since  ye  brought  us 

To  the  man-degrading  mart ; 
All,  sustained  by  patience,  taught  ua 

Only  by  a  broken  heart : 

Deem  our  nation  brutes  no  longer, 

Till  some  reason  ye  shall  find 
Worthier  of  regard,  and  stronger 

Than  the  colour  of  our  kind. 
Slaves  of  gold,  yvhose  sordid  dealings 

Tarnish  all  your  boasted  powers, 
Prove  that  you  have  human  feelings, 

Ere  you  proudly  question  ours! 


PITY  FOR  POOR  AFRICANS? 

'Video  meliora  proboque, 
Deteriora  sequor  '— 

I  OWN  I  am  shocked  at  the  purchase  of  slaves. 
And  fear  those  who  buy  them  and  sell  them  are 
knaves; 

What  I  hear  of  their  hardships,  their  tortures,  and 
groans, 

Is  almost  enough  to  draw  pity  from  stones. 

I  pity  them  greatly,  but  I  must  be  mum, 

For  how  could  we  do  without  sugar  and  rum  7 

Especially  sugar,  so  needful  we  see  1 

What,  give  up  our  desserts,  our  coffee,  and  teal 

Besides,  if  we  do,  the  French,  Dutch,  and  Danes, 
Will  heartily  thank  us,  no  doubt,  for  our  pains; 
If  we  do  not  buy  the  poor  creatures,  they  will, 
And  tortures  and  groans  will  be  multiplied  still. 

If  foreigners  likewise  would  give  up  the  trade. 
Much  more  in  behalf  of  your  wish  might  be  said; 
But,  while  they  get  riches  by  purchasing  blacks, 
Pray  tell  me  why  we  may  not  also  go  snacks  1 

Your  scruples  and  arguments  bnng  to  my  mind 
A  story  so  pat,  you  may  think  it  is  coined, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


123 


On  purpose  to  answer  you,  out  of  my  mint ; 
But  I  can  assure  you  I  saw  it  in  print. 

A  youngster  at  school,  more  sedate  than  the  rest, 
Had  once  his  integrity  put  to  the  test; 
His  comrades  had  plotted  an  orchard  to  rob, 
And  asked  him  to  go  and  assist  in  the  job. 

He  was  shocked,  sir,  like  you,  and  answered — '  Oh 
no! 

What !  rob  our  good  neighbour!  I  pray  you  don't 
go; 

Besides,  the  man's  poor,  his  orchard's  his  bread. 
Then  think  of  his  children,  for  they  must  be  fed,' 

*  You  speak  very  fine,  and  you  look  very  grave, 
But  apples  we  want,  and  apples  we'll  have; 
If  you  will  go  with  us,  you  shall  have  a  share. 
If  not,  you  shall  have  neither  apple  nor  pear.' 

They  spoke,  and  Tom  pondered—'  I  see  they  will 
go: 

Poor  man !  what  a  pity  to  injure  him  so! 

Poor  man !  I  would  save  him  his  fruit  if  I  could, 

But  staying  behind  would  do  him  no  good. 

'  If  the  matter  depended  alone  upon  me. 
His  apples  might  hang,  till  they  dropped  from  the 
tree; 

But,  since  they  will  take  them,  I  think  I'll  go  too. 
He  will  lose  none  by  me,  though  I  get  a  few.' 

His  scruples  thus  silenced,  Tom  felt  more  at  ease. 
And  went  with  his  comrades  the  apples  to  seize; 
He  blamed  and  protested,  but  joined  in  the  plan; 
He  shared  in  the  plunder,  but  pitied  the  man. 


THE  MORNING  DREAM. 

'TWAS  in  the  glad  season  of  spring, 

Asleep  at  the  dawn  of  the  day, 
I  dreamed  what  I  can  not  but  sing, 

So  pleasant  it  seemed  as  I  lay. 
I  dreamed,  that,  on  ocean  afloat, 

Far  hence  to  the  westward  I  sailed, 
While  the  billows  high-lifted  the  boat. 

And  the  fresh-blowing  breeze  never  failed. 

In  the  steerage  a  woman  I  saw, 

Such  at  least  was  the  form  that  she  wore, 
Whose  beauty  impressed  me  with  awe, 

Ne'er  taught  me  by  woman  before. 
She  sat,  and  a  shield  at  her  side 

Shed  light,  like  a  sun  on  the  waves 
And,  smiling  divinely,  she  cried — 

*  I  go  to  make  freemen  of  slaves.' 

Then  raising  her  voice  to  a  strain 
The  sweetest  that  ear  ever  heard, 

She  sung  of  the  slave's  broken  chain, 
Wherever  her  glory  appeared. 

M 


Some  clouds  which  had  over  us  hung, 

Fled,  chased  by  her  melody  clear, 
And  methought  while  she  Uberty  sung, 

'Twas  liberty  only  to  hear. 

Thus  swiftly  dividing  the  flood. 

To  a  slave-cultured  island  we  came, 
Where  a  demon,  her  enemy,  stood — 

Oppression  his  terrible  name. 
In  his  hand,  as  the  sign  of  his  sway, 

A  scourge  hung  with  lashes  he  bore, 
And  stood  looking  out  for  his  prey 

From  Africa's  soiTowful  shore. 

But  soon  as  approaching  the  land 

That  goddess-like  woman  he  viewed, 
The  scourge  he  let  fall  from  his  hand. 

With  the  blood  of  his  subjects  imbrued. 
I  saw  him  both  sicken  and  die. 

And  the  moment  the  monster  expired. 
Heard  shouts  that  ascended  the  sky, 

From  thousands  with  rapture  inspired. 

Awaking  how  could  I  but  muse 

At  what  such  a  dream  should  betide  1 
But  soon  ray  ear  caught  the  glad  news. 

Which  served  my  weak  thought  for  a  guide— 
That  Britannia,  renowned  o'er  the  waves 

For  the  hatred  she  ever  has  shown, 
To  the  black-sceptered  rulers  of  slaves, 

Resolves  to  have  none  of  her  own. 


THE 

NIGHTINGALE  AND  GLOW-WORM. 

A  NIGHTINGALE,  that  all  day  long 
Had  cheered  the  village  with  a  song, 
Nor  yet  at  eve  his  note  suspended, 
Nor  yet  when  eventide  was  ended, 
Began  to  feel,  as  well  he  might. 
The  keen  demands  of  appetite; 
When,  looking  eagerly  around. 
He  spied  far  off'  upon  the  ground, 
A  something  shining  in  the  dark, 
And  knew  the  glow-worm  by  his  spark ; 
So,  stooping  down  from  hawthorn  top, 
He  thought  to  put  him  in  his  crop. 
The  worm,  aware  of  his  intent, 
Harangued  him  thus,  right  eloquent : 
Did  you  admire  my  lamp,  quoth  he, 
As  much  as  I  your  minstrelsy. 
You  would  abhor  to  do  me  wrong, 
As  much  as  I  to  spoil  your  song ; 
For  'twas  the  selfsame  power  divine 
Taught  you  to  sing,  and  me  to  shine; 
That  you  with  music,  t  with  light. 
Might  beautify  and  cheer  the  night. 


m 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


The  songster  heard  this  short  oration, 
And  warbling  out  his  approbation, 
Released  him,  as  my  story  tells, 
And  found  a  supper  somewhere  else  ! 

Hence  jarring  sectaries  may  learn 
Their  real  interest  to  discern  ; 
That  brother  should  not  war  with  brother. 
And  worry  and  devour  each  other : 
But  sing  and  shine  by  sweet  consent, 
Till  life's  poor  transient  night  is  spent, 
Respecting  in  each  other's  case 
The  gifts  of  nature  and  of  grace. 

Those  Christians  best  deserve  the  name, 
Who  studiously  make  peace  their  aim ; 
Peace,  both  the  duty  and  the  prize 
Of  him  that  creeps  and  him  that  flies. 


ON  A' GOLDFINCH, 

STARVED  TO  DEATH  IN  HIS  CAGE, 

Time  was  when  I  was  free  as  air, 
The  thistle's  downy  seed  my  fare. 

My  drink  the  morning  dew ; 
I  perched  at  will  on  every  spray. 
My  form  genteel,  my  plumage  gay, 

My  strains  for  ever  new. 

But  gaudy  plumage,  sprightly  strain, 
And  form  genteel,  were  all  in  vain, 

And  of  a  transient  date ; 
For  caught,  and  caged,  and  starved  to  death, 
In  dying  sighs  my  little  breath 

Soon  passed  the  wiry  grate. 

Thanks,  gentle  swain,  for  all  my  woes, 
And  thanks  for  this  effectual  close 

And  cure  of  every  ill ; 
More  cruelty  could  none  express ; 
And  I,  if  you  had  shovm  me  less, 

Had  been  your  prisoner  still. 


THE  PINE-APPLE  AND  BEE. 

The  pine-apples,  in  triple  row, 
Were  basking  hot,  and  all  in  blow ; 
A  bee  of  most  discerning  taste. 
Perceived  the  fragrance  as  he  passed. 
On  eager  wing  the  spoiler  came. 
And  searched  for  crannies  in  the  frame, 
Urged  his  attempt  on  every  side, 
To  every  pane  his  trunk  applied ; 
But  still  in  vain,  the  frame  was  tight. 
And  only  pervious  to  the  light ; 
Thus  having  wasted  half  the  day. 
He  trimmed  his  flight  another  way. 

Methinks,  I  said,  in  thee  I  find 
The  sin  and  madness  of  mankind. 


To  joys  forbidden  man  aspires, 

Consumes  his  soul  with  vain  desires ; 

Polly  the  spring  of  his  pursuit, 

And  disappointment  all  the  fruit. 

While  Cynthio  ogles,  as  she  passes, 

The  nymph  between  two  chariot  glasses, 

She  is  the  pine-apple,  and  he 

The  silly  unsuccessful  bee. 

The  maid,  who  views  with  pensive  air 

The  show-glass  fraught  with  glittering  ware, 

Sees  watches,  bracelets,  rings,  and  lockets, 

But  sighs  at  thought  of  empty  pockeAs ; 

Like  thine,  her  appetite  is  keen. 

But  ah,  the  cruel  glass  between  ! 

Our  dear  delights  are  often  such. 
Exposed  to  view,  but  not  to  touch ; 
The  sight  our  foolish  heart  inflames, 
We  long  for  pine- apples  in  frames; 
With  hopeless  wish  one  looks  and  lingers ; 
One  breaks  the  glass  and  cuts  his  fingers: 
But  they  whom  truth  and  wisdom  lead. 
Can  gather  honey  from  a  weed. 


HORACE.   BOOK  II.  ODE  X. 

Receive,  dear  friend,  the  truths  I  teach, 
So  shalt  thou  live  beyond  the  reach 

Of  adverse  Fortune's  power ; 
Not  always  tempt  the  distant  deep, 
Nor  always  timorously  creep 

Along  the  treacherous  shore. 

He  that  holds  fast  the  golden  mean, 
And  lives  contentedly  between 

The  little  and  the  great. 
Feels  not  the  wants  that  pinch  the  poor, 
Nor  plagues  that  haunt  the  rich  man's  door 

Imbittering  all  his  state. 

The  tallest  pines  feel  most  the  power 
Of  winter  blasts;  the  loftiest  tower 

Comes  heaviest  to  the  ground ; 
The  bolts,  that  spare  the  mountain's  side, 
His  cloud-capt  eminence  divide, 

And  spread  the  ruin  round. 

The  well-informed  philosopher 
Rejoices  with  a  wholesome  fear, 

And  hopes,  in  spite  of  pain; 
If  Winter  bellow  from  the  north. 
Soon  the  sweet  Spring  comes  dancing  forth, 

And  Nature  laughs  again. 

What  if  thine  heaven  be  overcast. 
The  dark  appearance  will  not  last; 

Expect  a  brighter  sky. 
The  God  that  strings  the  silver  bow, 
Awakes  sometime?  the  muses  too, 

And  lays  his  arrows  by. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


125 


If  hindrances  obstruct  thy  way, 
Thy  magnanimity  display, 

And  let  thy  strength  be  seen; 
But  O!  if  fortune  fill  thy  sail 
With  more  than  a  propitious  gale, 

Take  half  thy  canvass  in. 


REFLECTION  ON  THE  FOREGOING  ODE. 

And  is  this  alH    Can  Reason  do  no  more, 
Than  bid  me  shun  the  deep,  and  dread  the  shore 
Sweet  morahst !  afloat  on  life's  rough  sea. 
The  Christian  has  an  art  unknown  to  thee. 
He  holds  no  parley  with  unmanly  fears ; 
Where  duty  bids,  he  confidently  steers. 
Faces  a  thousand  dangers  at  her  call, 
And,  trusting  in  his  God,  surmounts  them  all. 


THE  LILY  AND  THE  ROSE. 

The  nymph  must  lose  her  female  friend, 

If  more  admired  than  she — 
But  where  will  fierce  contention  end. 

If  flowers  can  disagree  1 

Within  the  garden's  peaceful  scene 

Appeared  two  lovely  foes 
Aspiring  to  the  rank  of  queen 

The  Lily  and  the  Rose. 

The  Rose  soon  reddened  into  rage, 

And,  swelling  with  disdain. 
Appealed  to  many  a  poet's  page 

To  prove  her  right  to  reign. 

The  Lily's  height  bespoke  command, 

A  fair  imperial  flower; 
She  seemed  designed  for  Flora's  hand, 

The  sceptre  of  her  power. 

This  civil  bickering  and  debate 
The  goddess  chanced  to  hear. 

And  flew  to  save,  ere  yet  too  late. 
The  pride  of  the  parterre. 

Yours  is,  she  said,  the  nobler  hue. 
And  yours  the  statelier  mien; 

And,  till  a  third  surpasses  you. 
Let  each  be  deemed  a  queen. 


Thus,  soothed  and  reconciled,  each 

The  fairest  British  fair: 
The  seat  of  empire  is  her  cheeks, 

They  reign  united  there. 


IDEM  LATINE  REDDITUM. 

Heu  inimicitias  quoties  parit  aemula  forma, 
Cluam  raro  pulchrae  pulchra  placere  potest 


Sed  fines  ultra  solitos  discordia  tendit, 
Cum  flores  ipsos  bills  et  ira  movent. 

Hortus  ubi  dulces  praebet  tacitosque  recessus, 
Se  rapit  in  partes  gens  animosa  duas; 

Hie  sibi  regalis  AmaryUis  Candida  cultus, 
lUic  purpureo  vindicat  ore  Rosa. 

Ira  Rosam  et  meritis  qusesita  superbia  tangunt, 
Multaque  ferventi  vix  cohibenda  sinu, 

Dum  sibi  fautorum  ciet  undique  nomina  vatum, 
Jusque  suum,  multo  carmine  fulta,  probat. 

Altior  emicat  ilia,  et  celso  vertice  nutat, 
Ceu  flores  inter  non  habitura  parem, 

Fastiditque  alios,  et  nata  videtur  in  usus 
Imperii,  sceptrum.  Flora  quod  ipsa  gerat. 

Nec  Dea  non  sensit  civilis  murmura  rixae, 
Cui  curae  est  pictas  pandere  ruris  opes, 

Deliciasque  suas  nunquam  non  prompta  tueri, 
Dum  hcet  et  locus  est,  ut  tueatur,  adest. 

Et  tibi  forma  datur  procerior  omnibus,  inquit ; 

Et  tibi,  principibus  qui  solet  esse,  color ; 
Et  donee  vincat  qusedam  formosior  ambas, 

Et  tibi  reginae  nomen,  et  esto  tibi. 

His  ubi  sedatus  furor  est,  petit  utraque  nympham, 

Glualem  inter  Veneres  Anglia  sola  parit ; 
Hancpenes  imperium  est,  nihil  optant  amplius, 
hujus 

Regnant  in  nitidis,  et  sine  Ute,  genis. 


THE  POPLAR  FIELD. 

The  poplars  are  felled,  farewell  to  the  shade, 
And  the  whispering  sound  of  the  cool  colonnade ; 
The  winds  play  no  longer  and  sing  in  the  leaves, 
Nor  Ouse  on  his  bosom  their  image  receives. 

Twelve  years  have  elapsed,  since  I  last  took  a 
view 

Of  my  favourite  fleld,  and  the  bank  where  they 
grew ; 

Mid  now  in  the  grass  behold  they  are  laid. 
And  the  tree  is  my  seat,  that  once  lent  me  a 
shade. 

The  blackbird  has  fled  to  another  retreat. 
Where  the  hazels  afford  him  a  screen  from  the 
heat. 

And  the  scene  where  his  melody  charmed  me  be- 
fore. 

Resounds  with  his  sweet-flowing  ditty  no  more. 

My  fugitive  years  are  all  hasting  away, 
And  I  must  ere  long  lie  as  lowly  as  they, 
With  a  turf  on  my  breast,  and  a  stone  at  my  head. 
Ere  another  such  grove  shall  arise  in  its  stead. 


126 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Tis  a  sight  to  chgagc  mc,  if  any  thing  can, 
To  muse  on  the  perishing  pleasures  of  man : 
Though  his  Ufe  be  a  dream,  his  enjoyments,  I  see. 
Have  a  being  less  durable  even  than  he* 


IDEM  LATINE  REDDITUM. 
POPUL/B  cecidet  gratissima  copia  silvse, 
Conticuere  susurri,  omnisque  evanuit  umbra. 
NuUe  jam  levibus  se  miscent  frondibus  aurse, 
Et  nulla  in  fluvio  ramorum  ludit  imago, 

Hei  mihi !  bis  senos  dum  luctu  torqueor  annos, 
His  cogor  silvis  suetoque  carrere  recessu, 
Cum  sero  rediens,  stratasque  in  gramine  cernens, 
Insedi  arboribus,  sub  queis  errare  solebam. 

Ah  ubi  nunc  merulse  cantus  1  Felicior  ilium 
Silva  tegit,  durae  nondum  permissa  bipenni ; 
Scilicet  exustos  coUes  camposque  patentes 
Odit,  et  indignans  et  non  rediturus  abivit. 

Sed  qui  succisas  doleo  succidar  et  ipse, 
Et  prius  huic  parihs  quam  creverit  altera  silva 
Flebor,  et,  exquiis  parvis  donatus,  habebo 
Defixum  lapidum  tumulique  cubantis  acervum. 

Tam  subito  periisse  videns  tam  digna  man  ere, 
Agnosco  humanas  sortes  et  tristia  fata, — 
Sit  licit  ipse  brevis,  ^lucrique  simillimus  umbrae, 
Est  homini  brevior  citiusque  obitura  voluptas. 


VOTUM. 

O  MATUTiNi  rores  auraeque  salubres, 
O  nemora,  et  Isetse  rivis  felicibus  herbse, 
Graminei  coUes,  et  amcenae  in  vallibus  umbrae  ! 
Fata  modo  dederint  quas  olim  in  rure  paterno 
Delicias,  procul  arte,  formidine  novi. 
Q,uam  vellem  ignotus,  quod  mens  mea  semper 
avebat. 

Ante  larem  proprium  placidam  expectare  senec- 
tam, 

Tum  demnm,  exactis  non  infeliciter  annis, 
Sortiri  taciturn  lapidem,  aut  sub  cespite  condi ! 


TRANSLATION  OP 

PRIOR'S  CHLOE  AND  EUPHELIA, 

Mercator,  vigiles  oculos  ut  fallere  possit, 
Nomine  sub  ficto  trans  mare  mittit  opes; 


*  Mr.  Cowper  afterwards  altered  this  last  stanza  in  the  fol- 
lowing manner : 

The  change  both  my  heart  and  my  fancy  employs, 
I  reflect  on  the  frailty  of  man  and  his  joys ; 
Short-lived  as  we  are,  yet  our  pleasures  we  see, 
Have  a  still  shorter  date,  and  die  sooner  than  we. 


Lenc  sonat  liquidumquc  meis  Euphelia  chordis, 
Sed  solam  exoptant  te,  mea  vota,  Chloe. 

Ad  speculum  ornabat  nitidos  Euphelia  crines, 
Cum  dixit  mea  lux,  Heus,  cane,  sume  lyram, 

Namquc  lyram  juxta  positam  cum  carmine  vidit, 
Suave  quidem  carmen  dulcisonamque  lyram. 

Fila  lyrae  vocemque  paro  suspiria  surgunt, 
Et  miscent  numeris  murmura  moesta  meis, 

Dumque  tuse  memora  laudes,  Euphelia  formse, 
Tota  anima  interia  pendet  ab  ore  Chloes. 

Subrubet  ilia  pudore,  et  contrahit  altera  frontem, 
Me  torquet  mea  mens  conscia,  psallo,  tremoj 

Atque  Cupidinea  dixit  Dea  cincta  corona, 
Heu!  fallendi  artem  quam  didicere  parum. 


THE  DIVERTING 

HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN. 

Showing  how  he  went  farther  than  he  intended,  and  camfl 
safe  home  again. 

John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen 

Of  credit  and  renown, 
A  train-band  captain  eke  was  he 

Of  famous  London  town 

John  Gilpin's  spouse  said  to  her  dear, 

Though  wedded  we  have  been 
These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 

No  holiday  have  seen. 

To-morrow  is  our  wedding  day, 

And  we  will  then  repair 
Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton 

All  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 

My  sister,  and  my  sister's  child, 

Myself,  and  children  three, 
Will  fill  the  chaise;  so  you  must  ride 

On  horseback  after  we. 

He  soon  replied,  I  do  admire 

Qf  womankind  but  one, 
And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear, 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 

I  am  a  linen-draper  bold. 

As  all  the  world  doth  know. 
And  my  good  friend  the  calender 

Will  lend  his  horse  to  go, 

auoth  Mrs.  Gilpin,  That's  well  said; 

And  for  that  wine  is  dear. 
We  will  be  furnished  with  our  own, 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


127 


John  Gilpin  kissed  his  loving  wife; 

O'erjoyed  was  he  to  find, 
That,  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 

She  had  a  frugal  mind. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought. 

But  yet  was  not  allowed 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 

Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  stayed, 

Where  they  did  all  get  in ; 
Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 

To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the  wheels. 

Were  ever  folks  so  glad. 
The  stones  did  rattle  underneath, 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin  at  his  horse's  side 

Seized  fast  the  flowing  mane, 
And  up  lie  got  in  haste  to  ride, 

But  soon  came  down  again: 

For  saddle-tree  scarce  reached  had  he, 

His  journey  to  begin, 
When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 

Three  customers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came;  for  loss  of  time, 

Although  it  grieved  him  sore; 
Yet  loss  of  pence,  fall  well  he  knew, 

Would  trouble  him  much  more. 

'Twas  long  before  the  customers 

Were  suited  to  their  mind. 
When  Betty  screaming  came  down  stairs, 

"  The  wine  is  left  behind!" 

Good  lack!  quoth  he— yet  bring  it  me, 

My  leathern  belt  likewise. 
In  which  I  bear  my  trusty  sword, 

When  I  do  exercise. 

Now  mistress  Gilpin  (careful  soul !) 

Had  two  stone  bottles  found, 
To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved. 

And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 

Each  bottle  had  a  curling  ear, 
Through  which  the  belt  he  drew. 

And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  sidfe, 
To  make  his  balance  true. 

Then  over  all,  that  he  might  be 

Equipped  from  top  to  toe, 
His  long  red  cloak,  well  brushed  and  neat 

He  manfully  did  throw. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 
Upon  his  nimble  steed, 

M  2 


Full  slowly  pacing  o'er  the  stones, 
With  caution  and  good  heed. 

But  finding  soon  a  smoother  road 

Beneath  his  well-shod  feet, 
The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 

Which  galled  him  in  his  seat. 

So,  fair  and  softly,  John  he  cried, 

But  John  he  cried  in  vain; 
That  trot  became  a  gallop  soon, 

In  spite  of  curb  or  rein. 

So  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must, 

Who  can  not  sit  upright. 
He  grasped  the  mane  with  both  his  hands, 

And  eke  with  all  his  might. 

His  horse,  who  never  in  that  sort 

Had  handled  been  before, 
What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got, 

Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  nought, 

Away  went  hat  and  wig; 
He  little  dreamt,  when  he  sat  out, 

Of  running  such  a  rig. 

The  wind  did  blow,  the  cloak  did  fly, 
Like  streamers  long  and  gay. 

Till  loop  and  button  failing  both. 
At  last  it  flew  away. 

Then  might  all  people  well  discern 

The  bottles  he  had  slung; 
A  bottle  swinging  at  each  side. 

As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  screamed, 

Up  flew  the  windows  all; 
And  every  soul  cried  out,  Well  done! 

As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 

Away  went  Gilpin — who  but  hel 
His  fame  soon  sprea.d  around. 

He  carries  weight !  he  rides  a  race ! 
'Tis  for  a  thousand  pound! 

And  still,  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 

'Twas  wonderful  to  view, 
How  in  a  trice  the  turnpike  men 

Their  gates  wide  open  threw. 

And  now,  as  he  Avent  bowing  down 

His  reeking  head  full  low. 
The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back 

Where  Shattered  at  a  blow. 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road. 


Most  piteous  to  be  seen, 
Which  made  his  horse's  flanks  to  smoke 
As  they  had  basted  been. 


128 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


But  still  he  seemed  to  carry  weight, 

With  leathern  girdle  braced; 
For  all  might  see  the  bottles'  necks 

Still  dangling  at  his  waist. 

Thus  all  through  merry  Islington 

These  gambols  he  did  play, 
Until  he  came  into  the  Wash 

Of  E(^monton  so  gay; 

And  there  he  threw  the  wash  about 

On  both  sides  of  the  way, 
Just  like  unto  a  trundling  mop, 

Or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 

At  Ednionton  his  loving  wife 

From  the  balcony  spied 
Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much 

To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin ! — Here's  the  house — 

They  all  aloud  did  cry; 
The  dinner  waits  and  we  are  tired; 

Said  Gilpin — So  am  I ! 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 

Inclined  to  tarry  there; 
For  why  1 — his  owner  had  a  house 

Full  ten  miles  oflj  at  Ware. 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew, 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong ; 
So  did  he  fly — which  brings  me  to 

The  middle  of  my  song. 

Away  went  Gilpin  out  of  breath. 

And  sore  against  his  will. 
Till  at  his  friend  the  calender's 

His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 

The  calentler,  amazed  to  see 

His  neighbour  in  such  trim, 
Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate, 

And  thus  accosted  him: 

What  news'?  what  newsl  your  tidings  tell; 

Tell  me  you  must  and  shall — 
Say  why  bareheaded  you  are  come. 

Or  why  you  come  at  all  ? 

Now  Gilpin  had  a  pleasant  wit, 

And  loved  a  timely  joke; 
And  thus  unto  the  calender 

In  merry  guise  he  spoke; 

I  came  because  your  horse  would  come; 

Anil,  if  I  well  forebode. 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here. 

They  are  upon  the  road. 

The  calender  right  glad  to  find 

His  friend  in  merry  pin,  , 
Returned  him  not  a  single  word, 

But  to  the  house  went  in ; 


Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and  wig ; 

A  wig  that  flowed  behind, 
A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear. 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 

That  showed  his  ready  wit. 
My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 

They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 

But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away, 

That  hangs  upon  your  face ; 
And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 

Be  in  a  hungry  case. 

Said  John,  it  is  my  wedding-day, 

And  all  the  world  would  stare, 
If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton, 

And  I  should  dine  at  Ware. 

So  turning  to  his  horse  he  said, 

I  am  in  haste  to  dine  ; 
'Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here; 

You  shall  go  back  for  mine. 

Ah  luckless  speech,  and  bootless  boast ! 

For  which  he  paid  full  dear ; 
For,  while  he  spoke,  a  braying  ass 

Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear ; 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 

Had  heard  a  lion  roar. 
And  galloped  off  with  all  his  might, 
As  he  had  done  before. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  Gilpin's  hat  and  wig  : 
He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first. 

For  why'? — they  were  too  big. 

Now  mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 

Her  husband  posting  down 
Into  the  country  far  away. 

She  pulled  out  half  a  crown ; 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said. 

That  drove  them  to  the  Bell, 
This  shall  be  yours,  when  you  bring  back 

My  husband  safe  and  well. 

The  youth  did  ride  and  soon  did  meet 

John  coming  back  amain ; 
Whom  in  a  trice  he  tried  to  stop, 
By  catching  at  his  rein ; 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant, 

And  gladly  would  have  done. 
The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more, 

And  made  him  faster  run. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  postboy  at  his  heels. 
The  postboy's  horse  right  glad  to  miss 

The  lumbering  of  the  wheels. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


129 


Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road, 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 
With  postboy  scampering  in  the  rear, 

They  raised  the  hue  and  cry, — 

Stop  thief!  stop  thief !— a  highwayman! 

Not  one  of  them  was  mute ; 
And  all  and  each  that  passed  that  way 

Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again 

Flew  open  in  short  space ; 
The  toll-men  thinking  as  before, 

That  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 

And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too, 

For  he  got  first  to  town ; 
Nor  stopped  till  where  he  had  got  up 

He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing,  long  live  the  king, 

And  Gilpin,  long  Hve  he ; 
And,  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad, 

May  1  be  there  to  see! 


AN  EPISTLE 

TO  AN 

AFFLICTED  PROTESTANT  LADY  IN  FEANCE. 
Madar.i, 

A  str'anger's  purpose  in  these  lays 
Is  to  congratulate  and  not  to  praise. 
To  give  the  creature  the  Creator's  due 
Were  sin  in  me,  and  an  offence  to  you. 
From  man  to  man,  or  e'en  to  woman  paid, 
Praise  is  the  medium  of  a  knavish  trade, 
A  coin  by  craft  for  folly's  use  designed, 
Spurious,  and  only  current  with  the  Wind. 

The  path  of  sorrow  and  that  path  alone, 
Leads  to  the  land  where  sorrow  is  unknown ; 
No  traveller  ever  reached  that  blest  abode, 
Who  found  nol  thorns  and  briers  in  his  road, 
The  world  may  dance  along  the  flowery  plain, 
Cheered  as  they  go  by  many  a  sprightly  strain, 
Where  Nature  has  her  mossy  velvet  spread, 
With  unshod  feet  they  yet  securely  tread. 
Admonished,  scorn  the  caution  and  the  friend, 
Bent  all  on  pleasure,  heedless  of  its  end. 
But  he,  who  knew  what  human  hearts  would  prove, 
Plow  slow  to  learn  the  dictates  of  his  love. 
That,  hard  by  nature  and  of  stubborn  will, 
A  life  of  ease  would  make  them  harder  still, 
In  pity  to  the  souls  his  grace  designed 
To  rescue  from  the  ruins  of  mankind. 
Called  for  a  cloud  to  darken  all  their  years. 
And  said,  "  Go,  spend  them  in  the  vale  of  tears." 
O  balmy  gales  of  soul-reviving  air  ! 
O  salutary  streams  that  murmur  there ! 


These  flowing  from  the  fount  of  grace  above, 
Those  breathed  from  lips  of  everlasting  love. 
The  flinty  soil  indeed  their  feet  annoys ; 
Chill  blasts  of  trouble  nip  their  springing  joys ; 
An  envious  world  will  interpose  its  frown, 
To  mar  delights  superior  to  its  own ; 
And  many  a  pang,  experienced  still  within, 
Reminds  them  of  their  hated  inmate.  Sin : 
But  ills  of  every  shape  and  every  name. 
Transformed  to  blessings,  miss  their  cruel  aim ; 
And  every  moment's  calm  that  soothes  the  breast, 
Is  given  in  earnest  of  eternal  rest. 

Ah,  be  not  sad,  although  thy  lot  be  cast 
Far  from  the  flock,  and  in  a  boundless  waste ! 
No  shepherd's  tents  within  thy  view  appear. 
But  the  chief  Shepherd  even  there  is  near  ; 
Thy  tender  sorrows  and  thy  plaintive  strain 
Flow  in  a  foreign  land,  but  not  in  vain ; 
Thy  tears  all  issue  from  a  source  divine. 
And  every  drop  bespeaks  a  Saviour  thine — 
So  once  in  Gideon's  fleece  the  dews  were  found, 
And  drought  on  all  the  drooping  herbs  around, 

TO  THK 

REV.  W.  CAWTHORNE  UNWIN. 

Unwin,  I  should  but  ill  repay 

The  kindness  of  a  friend. 
Whose  worth  deserves  as  warm  a  lay, 

As  ever  friendship  penned. 
Thy  name  omitted  in  a  page. 
That  would  reclaim  a  vicious  age. 

A  union  formed,  as  mine  with  thee. 

Not  raTshly,  nor  in  sport. 
May  be  as  fervent  in  degree, 

And  faithful  in  its  sort. 
And  may  as  rich  in  comfort  prove 
As  that  of  true  fraternal  lovct 

The  bud  inserted  in  the  rind. 

The  bud  of  peach  or  rose. 
Adorns,  though  differing  in  its  kind, 

The  stock  whereon  it  grows. 
With  flower  as  sweet,  or  fruit  as  fair 
As  if  produced  by  nature  there. 

Not  rich,  I  render  what  I  may, 

I  seize  thy  name  in  haste. 
And  place  it  i:i  thi^  Brat  essay, 

Lest  this  should  prove  the  last. 
'Tis  where  it  should  be — in  a  plan, 
That  holds  in  view  the  good  of  man. 

The  poet's  lyre,  to  fix  his  fame. 

Should  be  the  poet's  heart ; 
AflTection  lights  a  brighter  flame 

Than  ever  blazed  by  art. 
No  muses  on  these  lines  attend, 
I  sink  the  poet  in  the  friend. 


130 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


TO  THE  REVEREND  MR.  NEWTON. 

An  Invitation  into  the  Country. 

The  swallows  in  their  torpid  state 

Compose  their  useless  wing, 
And  bees  in  hives  as  idly  wait 

The  call  of  early  Spring. 

The  keenest  frost  that  binds  the  stream, 

The  wildest  wind  that  blows, 
Are  neither  felt  nor  feared  by  them, 

Secure  of  their  repose. 

But  man,  all  feeling  and  awake, 

The  gloomy  scene  surveys ; 
With  present  ills  his  heart  must  ache. 

And  pant  for  brighter  days. 

Old  Winter,  halting  o'er  the  mead. 

Bids  me  and  Mary  mourn : 
But  lovely  Spring  peeps  o'er  his  head, 

And  wliispers  your  return. 

Then  April,  with  her  sister  May, 
Shall  chase  him  from  the  bowers, 

And  weave  fresh  garlands  every  day, 
To  crown  the  smiling  hours. 

And  if  a  tear,  that  speaks  regret 

Of  happier  times,  appear, 
A  gUmpse  of  joy,  that  we  have  met, 

Shall  shine  and  dry  the  tear. 


CATHARINA. 

TO  MISS  STAPLETON,  (nOW  MRS.  COURTNAY.) 

She  came — she  is  gone — we  have  met — 

And  meet  perhaps  never  again ; 
The  sun  of  that  moment  is  set, 

And  seems  to  have  risen  in  vain. 
Catharina  has  fled  like  a  dream — 

(So  vanishes  pleasure,  alas !) 
But  has  left  a  regret  and  esteem, 

That  will  not  so  suddenly  pass. 

The  last  evening  ramble  we  made, 

Catharina,  Maria,  and  I, 
Our  progress  was  often  delayed 

By  the  nightingale  warbling  nigh. 
We  paused  under  many  a  tree, 

And  much  she  was  charmed  with  a  tone 
Less  sweet  to  Maria  and  me, 

Who  so  lately  had  witnessed  her  own. 

My  numbers  that  day  she  had  sung. 
And  gave  them  a  grace  so  divine. 

As  only  her  musical  tongue 
Could  infuse  into  numbers  of  mine. 


The  longer  I  heard,  I  esteemed 
The  work  of  my  fancy  the  more, 

And  e'en  to  myself  never  seemed 
So  tuneful  a  poet  before. 

Though  the  pleasures  of  London  exceed 

In  number  the  days  of  the  year, 
Catharina,  did  nothing  impede, 

Would  feel  herself  happier  here ; 
For  the  close-woven  arches  of  limes 

On  the  banks  of  our  river,  I  know, 
Are  sweeter  to  her  many  times 

Than  aught  that  the  city  can  show. 

So  it  is,  when  the  mind  is  endued 

With  a  well-judging  taste  from  above; 
Then,  whether  embellished  or  rude, 

'Tis  nature  alone  that  we  love. 
The  achievements  of  art  may  amuse, 

May  even  our  wonder  excite, 
But  groves,  hills,  and  valleys,  diffuse 

A  lasting,  a  sacred  delight. 

Since  then  in  the  rural  recess 

Catharina  alone  can  rejoice. 
May  it  still  be  her  lot  to  possess 

The  scene  of  her  sensible  choice ! 
To  inhabit  a  mansion  remote 

From  the  clatter  of  street-pacing  steeds, 
And  by  Philomel's  annual  note 

To  measure  the  life  that  she  leads. 

With  her  book,  and  her  voice,  and  her  lyre, 

To  wing  all  her  moments  at  home ; 
And  with  scenes  that  new  rapture  inspire, 

As  oft  as  it  suits  her  to  roam ; 
She  will  have  just  the  life  she  prefers. 

With  little  to  hope  or  to  fear. 
And  ours  would  be  pleasant  as  hers, 

Might  we  view  her  enjoying  it  here. 


THE  MORALIZER  CORRECTED. 

A  TALE. 

A  HERMIT,  (or  if  'chance  you  hold 

That  title  now  too  trite  and  old) 

A  man,  once  young,  who  lived  retired, 

As  hermit  could  have  well  desired. 

His  hours  of  study  closed  at  last, 

And  finished  his  concise  repast, 

Stoppled  his  cruise,  replaced  his  book 

Within  its  customary  nook, 

And,  staff  in  hand,  set  forth  to  share 

The  sober  cordial  of  sweet  air, 

Like  Isaac,  with  a  mind  applied 

To  serious  thought  at  evening  tide. 

Autumnal  rains  had  made  it  chill. 

And  from  the  trees,  that  fringed  his  Mil, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


131 


Shades  slantmgf  at  the  close  of  day 

Chilled  more  his  else  delightful  way. 

Distant  a  little  mile  he  spied 

A  western  bank's  still  sunny  side, 

And  right  toward  the  favoured  place 

Proceeding  with  his  nimblest  pace, 

In  hope  to  bask  a  little  yet, 

Just  reached  it  when  the  sun  was  set. 

Your  hermit,  young  and  jovial  sirs ! 
Learns  something  from  whate'er  occurs — 
And  hence,  he  said,  my  mind  computes 
The  real  worth  of  man's  pursuits. 
His  object  chosen,  wealth  or  fame, 
Or  other  sublunary  game, 
Imagination  to  his  view 
Presents  it  decked  with  every  hue 
That  can  seduce  him  not  to  spare 
His  powers  of  best  exertion  there. 
But  youth,  health,  vigour  to  expend 
On  so  desirable  an  end. 
Ere  long  approach  life's  evening  shades. 
The  glow  that  fancy  gave  it  fades; 
And,  earned,  too  late,  it  wants  the  grace 
That  first  engaged  him  in  the  chase. 

True,  answered  an  angelic  guide, 
Attendant  at  the  senior's  side — 
But  whether  all  the  time  it  cost. 
To  urge  the  fruitless  chase  be  lost, 
JNIust  be  decided  by  the  worth 
Of  that,  which  called  his  ardour  forth. 
Trifles  pursued,  whate'er  th'  event. 
Must  cause  him  shame  or  discontent; 
A  vicious  object  still  is  worse. 
Successful  there  he  wins  a  curse; 
But  he,  who  e'en  in  hfe's  last  stage 
Endeavours  laudable  engage, 
Is  paid  at  least  in  peace  of  mind, 
And  sense  of  having  well  designed ; 
And  if,  ere  he  attain  his  end, 
His  sun  precipitate  descend, 
A  brighter  prize  than  that  he  meant 
Shall  recompense  his  mere  intent. 
No  virtuous  wish  can  bear  a  date 
Either  too  early  or  too  late. 


THE  FAITHFUL  BIRD. 

The  greenhouse  is  my  summer  seat; 
My  shrubs  displaced  from  that  retreat 

Enjoyed  the  open  air ; 
Two  goldfinches,  whose  sprightly  song 
Had  been  their  mutual  solace  long, 

Lived  happy  prisoners  there. 

They  sang,  as  blithe  as  finches  sing, 
That  flutter  loose  on  golden  wing, 
And  frolic  where  they  Ust  j 


Strangers  to  Hberty,  'tis  true. 
But  that  delight  they  never  knew, 
And  therefore  never  missed. 

But  nature  works  in  every  breast, 
With  force  not  easily  suppressed; 

And  Dick  felt  some  desires, 
That  after  many  an  effort  vain, 
Instructed  him  at  length  to  gain 

A  pass  between  his  wires. 

The  open  windows  seemed  t'  invite 
The  freeman  to  a  farewell  flight ; 

But  Tom  was  still  confined ; 
And  Dick,  although  his  way  was  clear, 
Was  much  too  generous  and  sincere, 

Te  leave  his  friend  behind. 

So  settling  on  his  cage,  by  play, 

And  chirp,  and  kiss,  he  seemed  to  say, 

You  must  not  live  alone — 
Nor  would  he  quit  that  chosen  stand 
Till  I,  with  slow  and  cautious  hand. 

Returned  him  to  his  own. 

O  ye,  whenever  taste  the  joys 

Of  Friendship,  satisfied  with  noise. 

Fandango,  ball,  and  rout ! 
Blush,  when  I  tell  you  how  a  bird, 
A  prison  with  a  friend  preferred 

To  hberty  without. 


THE  NEEDLESS  ALARM. 

A  TALE. 

Theke  is  a  field  through  which  I  often  pass, 
Thick  overspread  with  moss  and  silky  grass, 
Adjoining  close  to  Kilwick's  echoing  wood, 
Where  oft  the  bitch-fox  hides  her  hapless  brood, 
Reserved  to  solace  many  a  neighbouring  squire, 
That  he  may  follow  them  through  brake  and  brier, 
Contusion  hazarding  of  neck  or  spine, 
Which  rural  gentlemen  call  sport  divine. 
A  narrow  brook,  by  rushy  banks  concealed. 
Runs  in  a  bottom,  and  divides  the  field ; 
Oaks  intersperse  it,  that  had  once  a  head, 
But  now  wear  crests  of  oven- wood  instead ; 
And  where  the  land  slopes  to  its  watery  bourn. 
Wide  yawns  a  gulf  beside  a  ragged  thorn ; 
Bricks  line  the  sides,  but  shivered  long  ago 
And  horrid  brambles  intertwine  below ; 
A  hollow  scooped,  I  judge,  in  ancient  time, 
For  baking  earth,  or  burning  rock  to  lime. 

Not  yet  the  hawthorn  bore  her  berries  red, 
With  which  the  fieldfare,  wintry  guest,  is  fed; 
Nor  autumn  yet  had  brushed  from  every  spray 

j  With  her  chill  hand,  the  mellow  leaves  away; 
But  corn  was  housed,  and  beans  were  in  the  stack, 

I  Now  therefore  issued  forth  the  spotted  pack, 


132 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


With  tails  high  mounted,  ears  hung  low,  and 
throats, 

With  a  whole  gamut  filled  of  heavenly  notes, 

For  which,  alas  !  my  destiny  severe, 

Though  ears  she  gave  me  two,  gave  me  no  ear. 

The  sun,  accomplishing  his  early  march, 
His  lamp  now  planted  on  Heaven's  topmast  arch. 
When,  exercise  and  air  my  only  aim. 
And  heedless  whither,  to  that  field  I  came. 
Ere  yet  with  ruthless  joy  the  happy  hound 
Told  hill  and  dale  that  Reynard's  track  was  found, 
Or  with  the  high-raised  horn's  melodious  clang 
All  Killwick*  and  all  Dinglederry*  rang. 

Sheep  grazed  the  field:  some  with  soft  bosom 
pressed 

The  herb  as  soft,  while  nibbling  strayed  the  rest ; 
Nor  noise  was  heard  but  of  the  hasty  brook. 
Struggling,  detained  in  many  a  petty  nook. 
All  seemed  so  peaceful,  that,  from  them  conveyed, 
To  me  their  peace  by  kind  contagion  spread. 
But  when  the  huntsman  with  distended  cheek, 
'Gan  make  his  instrument  o£  music  speak, 
And  from  within  the  wood  that  crash  was  heard. 
Though  not  a  hound  from  whom  it  burst  appeared. 
The  sheep  recumbent,  and  the  sheep  that  grazed ; 
All  huddling  into  phalanx,  stood  and  gazed, 
Admiring,  terrified,  the  novel  strain. 
Then  coursed  the  field  around,  and  coursed  it 

round  again ; 
But,  recollecting,  with  a  sudden  thought. 
That  flight  in  circles  urged  advanced  them  nought. 
They  gathered  close  round  the  old  pit's  brink. 
And  thought  again— but  knew  not  what  to  think. 

The  man  to  solitude  accustomed  long. 
Perceives  in  evei;y  thing  that  fives  a  tongue ; 
Not  animals  alone,  but  shrubs  and  trees 
Have  speech  for  him,  and  understood  with  ease ; 
After  long  drought,  when  rains  abundant  fall. 
He  hears  the  herbs  and  flowers  rejoicing  all ; 
Knows  what  the  freshness  of  their  hue  implies, 
How  glad  they  catch  the  largess  of  the  skies ; 
But,  with  precision  nicer  still,  the  mind 
He  scans  of  every  locomotive  kind ; 
Birds  of  all  feather,  beasts  of  every  name. 
That  serve  mankind,  or  shun  them,  wild  or  tame ; 
The  looks  and  gestures  of  their  griefs  and  fears 
Have  all  articulation  in  his  ears ; 
He  spells  them  true  by  intuition's  Ught, 
And  needs  no  glossary  to  set  him  right. 

This  truth  premised  was  needful  as  a  text, 
To  win  due  credence  to  what  follows  next. 

Awhile  they  mused ;  surveying  every  face, 
Thou  hadst  supposed  them  of  superior  race ; 
Their  periwigs  of  wool,  and  fears  combined. 
Stamped  on  each  countenance  such  marks  of  mind. 


•  Two  woods  belonging  to  John  Throckmorton,  Esq. 


That  sage  they  seemed,  as  lawyers  o'er  a  doubt, 
Which,  puzzling  long,  at  last  they  puzzle  out ; 
Or  academic  tutors,  teaching  youths. 
Sure  ne'er  to  want  them,  mathematic  truths; 
When  thus  a  mutton,  statelier  than  the  rest, 
A  ram,  the  ewes  and  wethers  sad  addressed — 

Friends!  we  have  lived  too  long.  I  never  heard 
Sounds  such  as  these,  so  worthy  to  be  feared. 
Could  I  believe,  that  winds  for  ages  pent 
In  earth's  dark  womb  have  found  at  last  a  vent 
And  from  their  prison-house  below  arise. 
With  all  these  hideous  bowlings  to  the  skies, 
I  could  be  much  composed,  nor  should  appear, 
For  such  a  cause,  to  feel  the  slightest  fear. 
Yourselves  have  seen,  what  time  the  thunders  rolled, 
All  night,  me  resting  quiet  in  the  fold. 
Or  heard  we  that  tremendous  bray  alone, 
I  could  expound  the  melancholy  tone ; 
Should  deem  it  by  our  old  companion  made, 
The  ass ;  for  he,  we  know,  has  lately  strayed. 
And  being  lost,  perhaps,  and  wandering  wide 
Might  be  supposed  to  clamour  for  a  guide. 
But  ah !  those  dreaded  yells  what  soul  can  hear 
That  owns  a  carcase,  and  not  quake  for  fear '? 
Demons  produce  them  doubtless ;  brazen-clawed 
And  fanged  with  brass  the  demons  are  abroad ; 
I  hold  it  therefore  wisest  and  most  fit. 
That,  life  to  save,  we  leap  into  the  pit. 

Him  answered  then  his  loving  mate  and  true 
But  more  discreet  than  he,  a  Cambrian  ewe 

How  !  leap  into  the  pit  our  life  to  save  1 
To  save  our  fife  leap  all  into  the  grave  1 
For  can  we  find  it  less'?  Contemplate  first 
The  depth,  how  awful !  falling  there,  we  burst ; 
Or  should  the  brambles,  interposed,  our  fall 
In  part  abate,  that  happiness  were  small ; 
For  with  a  race  like  theirs  no  chance  I  see 
Of  peace  or  ease  to  creatures  clad  as  we. 
Mean-time,  noise  kills  not.    Be  it  Dapple's  bray, 
Or  be  it  not,  or  be  it  whose  it  may. 
And  rush  those  other  sounds,  that  seem  by  tongues* 
Of  demons  uttered,  from  whatever  lungs. 
Sounds  are  but  sounds  ;  and,  till  the  cause  appear, 
We  have  at  least  commodious  standing  here. 
Come  fiend,  come  fury,  giant,  monster,  blast 
From  earth  or  hell,  we  can  but  plunge  at  last. 

While  thus  she  spake,  I  fainter  heard  the  peals, 
For  Reynard,  close  attended  at  his  heels 
By  panting  dog,  tired  man,  and  spattered  horse. 
Through  mere  good  fortune  took  a  different  course. . 
The  flock  grew  calm  again ;  and  I,  the  road 
Following,  that  led  me  to  my  own  abode. 
Much  wondered  that  the  silly  sheep  had  found 
Siich  cause  of  terror  in  an  empty  sound. 
So  sweet  to  huntsman,  gentleman,  and  hound. 

MORAL. 

Beware  of  desperate  steps.    The  darkest  day, 
Live  till  to-morrow,  will  have  passed  away. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


133 


BOADICEA. 

AN  ODE. 

When  the  British  warrior  queen, 
Bleeding  from  the  Roman  rods, 

Sought,  with  an  indignant  mien, 
Counsel  of  her  country's  gods ; 

Sage  beneath  the  spreading  oak 
Sat  the  Druid,  hoary  chief ; 

Every  burning  word  he  spoke 
Full  of  rage,  and  full  of  grief. 

Princess !  if  our  aged  eyes 

Weep  upon  thy  matchless  wrongs, 

'Tis  because  resentment  ties 
All  the  terrors  of  our  tongues. 

Rome  shall  perish — write  that  word 
In  the  blood  that  she  has  spilt ; 

Perish,  hopeless  and  abhorred, 
Deep  in  ruin  as  in  guilt. 

Rome,  for  empire  far  renowned. 
Tramples  on  a  thousand  states, 

Soon  her  pride  shall  kiss  the  ground — 
Hark !  the  Gaul  is  at  her  gates ! 

Other  Romans  shall  arise, 
Heedless  of  a  soldier's  name ; 

Sounds,  not  arras,  shall  win  the  prize, 
Harmony  the  path  to  fame. 

Then  the  progeny  that  springs 
From  the  forests  of  our  land, 

Armed  with  thunder,  clad  with  wings. 
Shall  a  wider  world  command. 

Regions  Caesar  never  knew 
Thy  posterity  shall  sway; 

Where  his  eagles  never  flew, 
None  invincible  as  they. 

Such  the  bard's  prophetic  words, 
Pregnant  with  celestial  fire, 

Bending  as  he  swept  the  chords 
Of  his  sweet  but  awful  lyre. 

She  with  all  a  monarch's  pride. 
Felt  them  in  her  bosom  glow : 

Rushed  to  battle,  fought  and  died ; 
Dying  hurled  them  at  the  foe. 

Ruffians,  pitiless  as  proud, 
'  Heaven  awards  the  vengeance  due ; 
Empire  is  on  us  bestowed, 
Shame  and  ruin  wait  for  you. 

HEROISM. 
Thbre  was  a  time  when  Etna's  silent  fire 
Slept  unperceived,  the  mountain  yet  entire ; 


When,  conscious  of  no  danger  from  below, 
She  towered  a  cloud-capt  pyramid  of  snow. 
No  thunders  shook  with  deep  intestine  sound 
The  blooming  groves,  that  girdled  her  around. 
Her  unctuous  olives,  and  her  purple  vines 
(Unfelt  the  fury  of  those  bursting  mines) 
The  peasant's  hopes,  and  not  in  vain,  assured, 
In  peace  upon  her  sloping  sides  matured. 
When  on  a  day,  like  that  of  the  last  doom, 
A  conflagration  labouring  in  her  womb, 
She  teemed  and  heaved  with  an  infernal  birth, 
That  shook  the  circling  seas  and  solid  earth. 
Dark  and  voluminous  the  vapours  rise. 
And  hang  their  horrors  in  the  neighbouring  skies, 
While  through  the  Stygian  veil,  that  blots  the  day, 
In  dazzling  streaks  the  vivid  lightnings  play. 
But  oh !  what  muse,  and  in  what  powers  of  song, 
Can  trace  the  torrent  as  it  burns  along ; 
Havoc  and  devastation  in  the  van, 
'It  marches  o'er  the  prostrate  works  of  man ; 
Vines,  olives,  herbage,  forests  disappear, 
And  all  the  charms  of  a  Sicilian  year. 

Revolving  seasons,  fruitless  as  they  pass. 
See  it  an  uninformed  and  idle  mass ; 
Without  a  soil  t'  invite  the  tiller's  care. 
Or  blade,  that  might  redeem  it  from  despair. 
Yet  time  at  length  (what  will  not  time  achieve  1) 
Clothes  it  with  earth,  and  bids  the  produce  live. 
Once  more  the  spiry  myrtle  crowns  the  glade, 
And  ruminating  flocks  enjoy  the  shade. 
O  bliss  precarious,  and  unsafe  retreats, 
O  charming  Paradise  of  short-lived  sweets !  ' 
The  selfsame  gale,  that  wafts  the  fragrance  round, 
Brings  to  the  distant  ear  a  sullen  sound  : 
Again  the  mountain  feels  th'  imprisoned  foe, 
Again  pours  ruin  on  the  vale  below. 
Ten  thousand  swains  the  wasted  scene  deplore, 
That  only  future  ages  can  restore. 

Ye  monarchs,  whom  the  lure  of  honour  draws, 
Who  write  in  blood  the  merits  of  your  cause, 
Who  strike  the  blow,  then  plead  your  own  defence, 
Glory  your  aim,  but  justice  your  pretence ; 
Behold  in  Etna's  emblematic  fires, 
The  mischiefs  your  ambitious  pride  inspires ! 
Fast  by  the  stream,  that  bounds  your  just  domain, 
And  tells  you  where  you  have  a  right  to  reign, 
A  nation  dwells,  not  envious  of  your  throne, 
Studious  of  peace,  their  neighbours',  and  their  own. 
Ill-fated  race  !  how  deeply  must  they  rue 
Their  only  crime,  vicinity  to  you ! 
The  trumpet  sounds,  your  legions  swarm  abroad 
Through  the  ripe  harvest  lies  their  destined  road 
At  every  step  beneath  their  feet  they  tread 
The  life  of  multitudes,  a  nation's  bread  ! 
Earth  seems  a  garden  in  its  loveliest  dress 
Before  them,  and  behind  a  wilderness. 
Famine,  and  Pestilence,  her  first-born  son. 
Attend  to  finish  what  the  sword  begun ; 


134 


COWPER'S  WORKS 


And  echoing  praises,  such  as  fiends  might  cam, 
And  Folly  pays,  resounds  at  your  return. 
A  calm  succeeds— but  Plenty,  with  her  train 
Of  heart-felt  joys,  succeeds  not  soon  again, 
And  years  of  pining  indigence  must  show 
What  scourges  are  the  gods  that  rule  below. 

Yet  man,  laborious  man,  by  slow  degrees, 
(Such  is  his  thirst  of  opulence  and  ease) 
PUes  all  the  sinews  of  industrious  toil, 
Gleans  up  the  refuse  of  the  general  spoil, 
Rebuilds  the  towers,  that  smoked  upon  the  plain, 
And  the  sun  gilds  the  shining  spires  again. 

Increasing  commerce  and  reviving  art 
Renew  the  quarrel  on  the  conqueror's  part ; 
And  the  sad  lesson  must  be  learned  once  more. 
That  wealth  within  is  ruin  at  the  door. 
What  are  ye,  monarchs,  laureled  heroes,  say. 
But  iEtnas  of  the  suffering  world  ye  sway  1 
Sweet  Nature,  stripped  of  her  embroidered  robe. 
Deplores  the  wasted  regions  of  her  globe ; 
And  stands  a  witness  at  Truth's  awful  bar. 
To  prove  you  there  destroyers  as  ye  are. 

O  place  me  in  some  Heaven-protected  isle, 
Where  Peace,  and  Equity,  and  Freedom  smile ; 
Where  no  volcano  pours  his  fiery  flood. 
No  crested  warrior  dips  his  plume  in  blood  ; 
Where  Power  secures  what  industry  has  won; 
Where  to  succeed  is  not  to  be  undone ; 
A  land,  that  distant  tyrants  hate  in  vain, 
In  Britain's  isle,  beneath  a  George's  reign ! 


ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF  MY  MOTHER'S  PICTURE 

OUT  OP  NORFOLK. 

The  Gift  of  my  Cousin  Anne  Bodham. 

O  THAT  those  lips  had  language !    Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine— thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see. 
The  same,  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me ; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
"  Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away!" 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 
The  art  that  baffles  Time's  tyrannic  claiiTi 
To  quench  it)  here  shine  on  me  still  the  same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here ! 
Who  bidd'st  me  honour  with  an  artless  song, 
Aflfectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long. 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 
But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own; 
And,  while  that  face  renews  m}'  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  reUef, 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 

My  Mother !  when  1  learned  that  thou  wast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed'? 


Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son. 

Wretched  e'en  then,  life's  journey  just  begun 

Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss  • 

Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 

Ah,  that  maternal  smile  1  it  answers— Yes. 

I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day, 

I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away. 

And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 

A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu ! 

But  was  it  suchl — It  was. — Where  thou  art  gone. 

Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 

May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore. 

The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more ! 

Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 

Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 

What  ardently  I  wished,  I  long  believed. 

And  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived. 

By  expectation  every  day  beguiled. 

Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 

Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 

Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 

I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot. 

But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day. 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  pubUc  way, 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapped 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  cap, 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known. 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Short-lived  possession!  but  the  record  fair 
That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm,  that  has  effaced 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  m^  chamber  made, 
That  thou  might'st  know  me  safe  and  warmly 
laid ; 

Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home. 
The  biscuit,  or  confectionary  plum ; 
The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestowed 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glowed: ' 
All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all, 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, 
Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks 
That  humour  interposed  too  often  makes ; 
All  this  still  legible  in  memory's  page. 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age. 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  day 
Such  honourrs  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may; 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere. 
Not  scorned  in  Heaven  though  little  noticed  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours, 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowers. 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin, 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  ajid 
pmile) 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear, 
Miglit  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them 
here'? 

I  would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight 
{Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might — 
But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much. 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast 
(The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean  crossed) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened  isle, 
Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay; 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift!  hast  reached  the 
shore, 

'•Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar,"* 
And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchored  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest. 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distressed — 
Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest  tossed, 
Sails  ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass 
lost. 

And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course. 
Yet  O  the  thought,  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not,  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise— 
The  son  of  parents  past  into  the  skies. 
And  now,  farewell — Time  unrevoked  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wished  is  done. 
By  Contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  t'  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again; 
To  have  lenewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine; 
And,  while  the  wings  of  fancy  still  are  free, 
A  nd  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee. 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft — 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  sooth  me  left. 

FRIENDSHIP. 
What  virtue,  or  what  mental  grace, 
But  men  unqualified  and  base 

Will  boast  it  their  possession! 
Profusion  apes  their  noble  part 
Of  liberality  of  heart, 

And  dullness  of  discretion. 

If  every  polished  gem  we  find, 
Illuminating  heart  or  mind: 
Provoke  to  imitation: 


10 


Garth. 


N 


No  wonder  friendship  does  the  same, 
That  jewel  of  the  purest  flame, 
Or  rather  constellation. 

No  knave  but  boldly  vnll  pretend, 
The  requisites  that  form  a  friend, 

A  real  and  a  sound  one; 
Nor  any  fool,  he  would  deceive 
But  prove  as  ready  to  beUeve, 

And  dream  that  he  had  found  one. 

Candid,  and  generous,  and  just. 
Boys  care  but  httle  whom  they  trust, 

An  error  soon  corrected — 
For  who  but  learns  in  riper  years. 
That  man,  when  smoothest  he  appears, 

Is  most  to  be  suspected'? 

But  here  again,  a  danger  hes. 
Lest,  having  misapplied  our  eyes, 

And  taken  trash  for  treasure, 
We  should  unwarily  conclude 
Friendship  a  false  ideal  good, 

A  mere  Utopian  pleasure. 

An  acquisition  rather  rare 
Is  yet  no  subject  of  despair ; 

Nor  is  it  wise  complaining, 
If  either  on  forbidden  ground, 
Or  where  it  was  not  to  be  found,. 

We  sought  without  attaining. 

No  friendship  will  abide  the  test, 
That  stands  on  sordid  interest, 

Or  mean  self-love  erected ; 
Nor  such  as  may  awhile  subsist, 
Between  the  sot  and  sensualist. 

For  vicious  ends  connected. 

Who  seeks  a  friend  should  come  disposed 
T'  exhibit  in  full  bloom  disclosed 

The  graces  and  the  beauties 
That  from  the  character  he  seeks; 
For  'tis  a  union,  that  bespeaks 

Reciprocated  duties. 

Mutual  attention  is  implied, 
And  equal  truth  on  either  side, 

And  constantly  supported; 
'Tis  senseless  arrogance  t'  accuse 
Another  of  sinister  views, 

Our  own  as  much  distorted. 

But  will  sincerity  suffice'? 
It  is  indeed  above  all  price, 

And  must  be  made  the  basis; 
But  every  virtue  of  the  soul 
Must  constitute  the  charming  whole, 

All  shining  in  their  places. 


130 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


A  fretful  temper  will  divide 

The  closest  knot  that  may  be  tied, 

By  ceaseless  sharp  corrosion; 
A  temper  passionate  and  fierce 
May  suddenly  youi  joys  disperse 

A  t  one  immense  explosion. 

In  vain  the  talkative  unite 

In  hopes  of  permanent  delight — 

The  secret  just  committed, 
Forgetting  its  important  vsreight, 
They  drop  through  mere  desire  to  prate. 

And  by  themselves  outv^ritted. 

How  bright  soe'er  the  prospect  seems, 
AH  thoughts  of  friendship  are  but  dreams, 

If  envy  chance  to  creep  in; 
An  envious  man,  if  you  succeed. 
May  prove  a  dangerous  foe  indeed, 

But  not  a  friend' worth  keeping. 

As  envy  pines  at  good  possessed. 
So  jealousy  looks  forth  distressed 

On  good  that  seems  approaching; 
And,  if  success  his  steps  attend. 
Discerns  a  rival  in  a  friend. 

And  hates  him  for  encroaching. 

Hence  authors  of  illustrious  name, 
ITnless  belied  by  common  fame. 

Are  sadly  prone  to  quarrel, 
To  deem  the  wit  a  friend  displays 
A  tax  upon  their  own  just  praise, 

And  pluck  each  other's  laurel. 

A  man  renovmed  for  repartee 
Will  seldom  scruple  to  make  free 

With  friendship's  finest  feeling. 
Will  thrust  a  dagger  at  your  breast, 
And  say  he  wounded  you  in  jest, 

By  way  of  balm  for  healing. 

Whoever  keeps  an  open  ear 
For  tattlers,  will  be  sure  to  hear 

The  trumpet  of  contention ; 
Aspersion  is  the  babbler's  trade. 
To  listen  is  to  lend  him  aid, 

And  rush  into  dissension. 

A  friendship,  .that  in  frequent  fits 
Of  controversial  rage  emits 

The  sparks  of  disputation, 
Like  hand  in  hand  insurance  plates, 
Most  unavoidably  creates 

The  thought  of  conflagration. 

Some  fiekle  creatures  boast  a  soul 
True  as  a  needle  to  the  pole, 

Their  humour  yet  $o  various — 
They  manifest  their  whole  life  through 
The  needle's  deviations  too, 

Their  love  is  so  precarious. 


The  great  and  small  but  rarely  meet 
On  terms  of  amity  complete ; 

Plebeians  must  surrender 
And  yield  so  much  to  noble  folk, 
It  is  combining  fire  with  smoke, 

Obscurity  with  splendour. 

Some  arc  so  placid  and  serene 
(As  Irish  bogs  are  always  green) 

They  sleep  secure  from  waking. 
And  are  indeed  a  bog,  that  bears 
Your  unparticipated  cares 

Unmoved  and  without  quaking. 

Courtier  and  patriot  can  not  mix 
Their  heterogeneous  politics 

Without  an  effervescence. 
Like  that  of  salts  with  lemon  juice. 
Which  does  not  yet  like  that  produce 

A  friendly  coalescence. 

ReUgion  should  extinguish  strife. 
And  make  a  calm  of  human  life ; 

But  friends  that  chance  to  differ 
On  points,  which  God  has  left  at  large, 
How  freely  will  they  meet  and  charge ! 

No  combatants  are  stiffer. 

To  prove  at  last  my  main  intent 
Needs  no  expense  of  argument, 

No  cutting  and  contriving — 
Seeking  a  real  friend  we  seem 
T'  adopt  the  chemist's  golden  dream. 

With  still  less  hope  of  thriving. 

Sometimes  the  fault  is  all  our  own. 
Some  blemish  in  due  time  made  known 

By  trespass  or  omission ; 
Sometimes  occasion  brings  to  light 
Our  friend's  defect  long  hid  from  sight^ 

And  even  from  suspicion. 

Then  judge  yourself  and  prove  your  man 
As  circumspectly  as  you  can. 

And,  having  made  election. 
Beware  no  negUgence  of  yours, 
Such  as  a  friend  but  ill  endures, 

Enfeeble  his  affection. 

That  secrets  are  a  sacred  trust, 

That  friends  should  be  sincere  and  just. 

That  constancy  befits  them, 
Are  observations  on  the  case. 
That  savour  much  of  common-place. 

And  all  the  world  admits  them. 

But  'tis  not  timber,  lead,  and  stone, 
An  architect  requires  alone, 

To  finish  a  fine  building — 
The  palace  were  but  half  complete, 
If  he  could  possibly  forget 

The  carving  and  the  gilding. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


137 


The  man  that  hails  you  Tom  or  Jack, 
And  proves  by  thumps  upon  your  back 

How  he  esteems  your  merit, 
Is  such  a  friend,  that  one  had  need 
Be  very  much  his  friend  indeed, 

To  pardon  or  to  bear  it 

A  similarity  of  mind. 

Or  something  not  to  be  defined, 

First  fixes  our  attention ; 
So  manners  decent  and  polite, 
The  same  we  practised  at  first  sight, 

Must  save  it  from  declension. 

Some  act  upon  this  prudent  plan, 
"  Say  little  and  hear  all  you  can :" 

Safe  policy,  but  hateful — 
iJo  barren  sands  imbibe  the  shower, 
i>\it  render  neither  fruit  nor  flower, 

Unpleas^ni  and  ungrateful. 

The  man  I  trust,  if  shy  to  me, 
Shall  find  me  as  reserved  as  he ; 

No  subterfuge  or  pleading 
Shall  vdn  my  confidence  again ; 
I  will  by  no  met^no  entertain 

A  spy  on  mj  ptoc&^Ciag. 

These  samples — for  alas !  at  last 
These  are  but  samples,  and  a  taste 

Of  evils  yet  unmentioned — 
May  prove  the  tasK  a  tasK  indeed, 
In  which  'tis  much  if  he  suc-coed 

However  wtU-inientioiibd. 

Pursue  the  search,  and  yoa  wiU  find 
Good  sense  and  knowled,q;e  of  mankind 

To  be  at  least  expedient. 
And,  after  summing  all  the  rest, 
Religion  ruling  in  the  breast 

A  principal  ingredient. 

The  noblest  friendship  ever  shovm 
The  Saviour's  history  makes  known, 

Though  some  have  turned  and  turned  it ; 
And  whether  being  crazed  or  blmd. 
Or  seeking  with  a  biassed  mind. 

Have  not,  it  seems,  discerned  it. 

O  Friendship,  if  my  soul  forego 
Thy  dear  delights  while  here  below ; 

To  mortify  and  grieve  me, 
May  I  myself  at  last  appear 
Unworthy,  base,  and  insincere. 

Or  may  niy  friend  deceive  me ! 


ON  A  MISCHIEVOUS  BULL, 

WHICH  THE  OWNER    OP  HIM   SOLD  AT    THE  AU- 
THOR'S INSTANCE. 

Go — Thou  art  all  unfit  to  share 
The  pleasures  of  this  place 


With  such  as  its  old  tenants  are. 
Creatures  of  gentler  race. 

The  squirrel  here  his  hoard  provides, 

Aware  of  wintry  storms, 
And  woodpeckers  explore  the  sides 

Of  rugged  oaks  for  worms. 

The  sheep  here  smoothes  the  knotted  thorji 

With  frictions  of  her  fleece; 
And  here  I  wander  eve  and  morn, 

Like  her,  a  friend  to  peace. 

Ah! — I  could  pity  the  exiled 

From  this  secure  retreat — 
I  would  not  lose  it  to  be  styled 

The  happiest  of  the  great. 

But  thou  canst  taste  no  calm  delight; 

Thy  pleasure  is  to  show 
Thy  magnanunity  in  fight, 

Thy  prowess — therefore  go — 

I  care  not  whether  east  or  north. 

So  I  no  more  may  find  thee; 
The  angry  muse  thus  sings  thee  forth. 

And  claps  the  gate  behind  thee. 

ANNUS  MEMORABILIS,  1789. 
Written  in  Commemoration  of  his  Majesty's  happy  Rr-covery 

I  RANSACKED,  for  a  them*  of  song, 

Much  ancient  chronicle  and  long; 

I  read  of  bright  embattled  fields, 

Of  trophied  helmets,  spears,  and  shields. 

Of  chiefs  whose  single  arm  could  boast 

Prowess  to  dissipate  a  host; 

Through  tomes  of  fable  and  of  dream 

I  sought  an  eligible  theme. 

But  none  I  found,  or  found  them  shared 

Already  by  some  happier  bard. 

To  modern  times,  with  Truth  to  guide 

My  busy  search,  I  next  applied; 

Here  cities  won  and  fleets  dispersed, 

Urged  loud  a  claim  to  be  rehearsed. 

Deeds  of  unperishing  renown. 

Our  fathers'  triumphs  and  our  own. 

Thus,  as  the  bee,  from  bank  to  bower, 
Assiduous  sips  at  every  flower. 
But  rests  on  none,  till  that  be  found. 
Where  most  nectareous  sweets  abound. 
So  I  from  theme  to  theme  displayed 
In  many  a  page  historic  strayed. 
Siege  after  siege,  fight  after  fight. 
Contemplating  with  small  delight. 
(For  feats  of  sanguinary  hue 
Not  always  glitter  in  my  view;) 
Till  settling  on  the  current  year, 
I  found  the  far- sought  treasure  near; 


138 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


A  theme  for  poetry  divine, 

A  theme  t'  ennoble  even  mine, 

In  memorable  eighty-nine. 

The  spring  of  eighty-nine  shall  be 

An  era  cherished  long  by  me. 

Which  joyful  I  will  oft  record, 

And  thankful  at  my  frugal  board; 

For  then  the  clouds  of  eighty-eight, 

That  threatened  England's  trembling  state 

With  loss^of  what  she  least  could  spare. 

Her  sovereign's  tutelary  care, 

One  breath  of  Heaven,  that  cried— Restore! 

Chased,  never  to  assemble  more: 

And  for  the  richest  crown  on  earth, 

If  valued  by  its  wearer's  worth. 

The  symbol  of  a  righteous  reign 

Sat  fast  on  George's  brows  again. 
Then  peace  and  joy  again  possessed 

Our  aueen's  long-agitated  breast; 

Such  joy  and  peace  as  can  be  known 

By  sufferers  like  herself  alone. 

Who  losing,  or  supposing  lost, 

The  good  on  earth  they  valued  most. 

For  that  dear  sorrow's  sake  forego 

All  hope  of  happiness  below. 
Then  suddenly  regain  the  prize. 
And  flash  thanksgivings  to  the  skies! 

O  Glueen  of  Albion,  queen  of  isles!  ^ 
Since  all  thy  tears  were  changed  to  smiles, 
The  eyes,  that  never  saw  thee,  shine 
With  joy  not  unallied  to  thine, 
Transports  not  ch^geable  with  art 
Illume  the  land's  remotest  part, 
And  strangers  to  the  air  of  courts, 
Both  in  their  toils  and  at  their  sports. 
The  happiness  of  answered  prayers. 
That  gilds  thy  features,  show  in  theirs. 

If  they  who  on  thy  state  attend. 
Awe-struck  before  thy  presence  bend, 
'Tis  but  the  natural  effect 
Of  grandeur  that  ensures  respect; 
But  she  is  something  more  than  Q,ueen, 
Who  is  beloved  where  never  seen. 


Thanks  that  we  hear,— but  O  impart 

To  each  desires  sincere. 
That  we  may  listen  with  our  heart, 

And  learn  as  well  as  hear. 

For  if  vain  thoughts  the  minds  engage 

Of  older  far  than  we. 
What  hope,  that,  at  our  heedless  age, 

Our  minds  should  e'er  be  free  1 

Much  hope,  if  thou  our  spirits  take 

Under  thy  gracious  sway. 
Who  canst  the  wisest  wiser  make. 

And  babes  as  wise  as  they. 

Wisdom  and  bliss  thy  word  bestows, 

A  sun  that  ne'er  decUnes, 
And  be  thy  mercies  showered  on  those 

Who  placed  us  where  it  shines. 


STANZAS 


HYMN, 

FOR  THE  USE  OF  THE  SUNDAY  SCHOOL  AT  OLNEY. 

Hear,  Lord,  the  song  of  praise  and  prayer, 

In  Heaven  thy  dwelling  place. 
From  infants  made  the  public  care, 

And  taught  to  seek  thy  face. 

Thanks  for  thy  word,  and  for  thy  day, 

And  grant  us,  we  implore. 
Never  to  waste  in  sinful  play 

Thy  holy  sabbaths  more. 


Subjoined  to  the  Yearly  Bill  of  Mortality  of  the  Parish  of  Al! 
Saints,  Northampton,*  Anno  Domini,  1787. 

Pallida  Mors  oaquo  pulsat  pede  pauperum  taberna» 
llegumque  turres.  Hor 
Pale  Death  with  equal  foot  strikes  wide  the  door 
Of  royal  halls,  and  hov'els  of  the  poor. 

While  thirteen  moons  saw  smoothly  run 

The  Nen's  barge-laden  wave. 
All  these,  life's  rambhng  journey  done, 

Have  found  their  home,  the  grave. 

Was  man  (frail  always)  made  more  frail 

Than  in  foregoing  years  1 
Did  famine  or  did  plague  prevail. 

That  so  much  death  appears  7 

No ;  these  were  vigorous  as  their  sires. 

Nor  plague  nor  famine  came; 
This  annual  tribute  Death  requires, 

And  never  waives  his  claim. 

Like  crowded  forest-trees  we  stand. 

And  some  are  marked  to  fall; 
The  axe  will  smite  at  God's  command. 

And  soon  shall  smite  us  all. 

Green  as  the  bay-tree,  ever  green. 

With  its  new  foliage  on. 
The  gay,  the  thoughtless,  have  I  seen, 
I  passed— and  they  were  gone. 

Read,  ye  that  run,  the  awful  truth, 
With  which  I  charge  my  page; 
A  worm  is  in  the  bud  of  youth, 
And  at  the  root  of  age. 


■  Composed  for  John  Cox,  parish  clerk  of  Northampton. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


139 


No  present  health  can  health  ensure 

For  yet  an  liour  to  come; 
No  medicine,  though  it  oft  can  cure, 

Can  always  balk  the  tomb. 

And  O !  that  humble  as  my  lot, 

And  scorned  as  in  my  strain, 
Thepp  truths,  though  known,  too  much  forgot, 

I  may  not  teach  in  vain. 

So  prays  your  clerk  with  all  his  heart, 

And  ere  he  quits  the  pen. 
Begs  you  for  once  to  take  his  part, 

And  answer  all — Amen ! 


ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION. 

FOR  THE  YEAR  178S. 

Quod  adest,  memento 
Componcre  cequus.    Ccztera  fluminis 
Ritu  feruntur.  Hor. 

Improve  the  present  hour,  for  all  beside 
Is  a  mere  feather  on  a  torrent's  tide. 

Could  I,  from  heaven  inspired,  as  sure  presage 
To  whom  the  rising  year  shall  prove  his  last, 
As  I  can  number  in  my  punctual  page. 
And  item  down  the  victims  of  the  past; 

How  each  would  trembling  wait  the  mournful 

sheet. 

On  which  the  press  might  stamp  him  next  to  die; 
And,  reading  here  his  sentence,  how  replete 
With  anxious  meaning,  heavenward  turn  his 
eye! 

Time  then  would  seem  more  precious  than  the 

joys 

In  which  he  sports  away  the  treasure  now; 
And  prayer  more  seasonable  than  the  noise 
Of  drunkards,  or  the  music-drawing  bow. 

Then  doubtless  many  a  trifler  on  the  brink 
Of  this  world's  hazardous  and  headlong  shore. 
Forced  to  a  pause,  would  feel  it  good  to  think. 
Told  that  his  setting  sun  must  rise  no  more. 

Ah  self-deceived !  Could  I  prophetic  say 
Who  next  is  fated,  and  who  next  to  fall, 
The  rest  might  then  seem  privileged  to  play; 
But,  naming  none,  the  Voice  now  speaks  to  all. 

Observe  the  dappled  foresters,  how  light 
They  bound  and  airy  o'er  the  sunny  glade — 
One  falls — the  rest,  wide-scattered  with  affright, 
Vanish  at  once  into  the  darkest  shade. 

Had  we  their  wisdom,  should  we,  often  warned. 
Still  need  repeated  warnings,  and  at  last, 
A  thousand  awful  admonitions  scorned, 
Die  self-accused  of  hfe  run  all  to  waste  7 
N  2 


Sad  waste !  for  which  no  after-thrift  atones, 
The  grave  admits  no  cure  for  guilt  or  sin ; 
Dew-drops  may  deck  the  turf,  that  hides  the  bones, 
But  tears  of  godly  grief,  ne'er  flow  withm. 

Learn  then,  ye  living!  by  the  mouths  be  taught 
Of  all  these  sepulchres,  'nstructers  true. 
That,  soon  or  late,  death  also  is  your  lot. 
And  the  next  opening  grave  may  yawn  for  you, 

ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION. 

FOR  THE  YEAR  1789. 

— Placidaque  ihi  demum  morte  quievit. — ^Virg.  , 
There  calm  at  length  he  breathed  his  soul  away. 

"  O  MOST  delightful  hour  by  man 

Experienced  here  below, 
The  hour  that  terminates  his  span, 

His  folly,  and  his  wo ! 

"  Worlds  should  not  bribe  me  back  to  tread 

Again  life's  dreary  waste, 
To  see  again  my  days  o'erspread 

With  all  the  gloomy  past. 

"  My  home  henceforth  is  in  the  skies, 

Earth,  seas,  and  sun  adieu! 
All  heaven  unfolded  to  mine  eyes, 

I  have  no  sight  for  you." 

So  spake  Aspasio,  firm  possessed 

Of  faith's  supporting  ^od, 
Then  breathed  his  soul  into  its  rest, 

The  bosom  of  his  God. 

He  was  a  man  among  the  few 

Sincere  on  virtue's  side; 
And  all  his  strength  from  Scripture  drew 

To  hourly  use  applied. 

That  rule  he  prized,  by  that  he  feared, 

He  hated,  hoped,  and  loved; 
Nor  ever  frowned,  or  sad  appeared. 

Bur  when  his  heart  had  roved. 

For  he  was  frail  as  thou  or  I, 

And  evil  felt  within: 
But,  when  he  felt  it,  heaved  a  sigh, 

And  loathed  the  thought  of  sin. 

Such  lived  Aspasio ;  and  at  last 

Called  up  from  earth  to  heaven, 
The  gulf  of  death  triumphant  passed. 

By  gales  of  blessing  driven. 

His  joys  be  mine,  each  reader  cries. 

When  my  last  hour  arrives: 
They  shall  be  yours,  my  verse  replies, 

Such  only  be  your  lives. 


140 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION. 

FOR  THE  YEAR  1790. 

Ne  commonentem  recta  sperne. — Buchanan. 
Despise  not  nay  good  counsel. 

He  who  sits  from  day  to  day, 
Where  the  prisoned  lark  is  hung, 

Heedless  of  his  loudest  lay, 

Hardly  knows  that  he  has  sung. 

Where  the  watchman  in  his  round 
Nightly  lifts  his  voice  on  high, 

None,  accustomed  to  the  sound. 
Wakes  the  sooner  for  his  cry. 

So  your  verse-man  I,  and  clerk, 

Yearly  in  my  song  proclaim 
Death  at  hand— yourselves  his  mark — 

And  the  foe's  une;irring  aim. 

Duly  at  my  time  I  come, 

PubUshing  to  all  aloud — 
Soon  the  grave  must  be  your  home, 

And  your  only  suit,  a  shroud. 

But  the  monitory  strain. 

Oft  repeated  in  your  ears. 
Seems  to  sound  too  much  in  vain, 

Wins  no  notice,  wakes  no  fears. 

Can  a  truth,  by  all  confessed 
Of  such  magnitude  and  weight 

Grow,  by  being  oft  impressed, 
Trivial  as  a  parrots  prate'? 

Pleasure's  call  attention  wins. 

Hear  it  often  as  we  may ; 
New  as  ever  seem  our  sins, 

Though  committed  every  day. 

Death  and  Judgment,  Heaven  and  HeU— 

These  alone,  so  often  heard. 
No  more  move  us  than  the  bell, 

When  some  stranger  is  interred. 

O  then,  ere  the  turf  or  tomb 

Cover  us  from  every  eye, 
Spirit  of  instruction  come. 

Make  us  learn,  that  we  must  die. 


ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION. 

FOR  THE  YEAR  1793. 

Felix,  qui  potuit  rerum  ccgnoscere  causas, 
Atque  metus  omnes  et  inexorabilefatum 
Subjecit  pedibus,  sirepitumque  Acherontts  avari! 

Virg. 

Happy  the  mortal,  who  has  traced  effects 
To  their  first  cause,  cast,  fear  beneath  his  feet, 
And  Death  and  roaring  Hell's  voracious  fires! 

Thankless  for  favours  from  on  higli^ 
Man  thinks  he  fades  too  soon ; 


Though  'tis  his  privilege  to  die, 
Would  he  improve  the  boon. 

But  he,  not  wise  enough  to  scan 

His  blest  concerns  aright. 
Would  gladly  stretch  life's  little  span 

To  ages,  if  he  might. 

To  ages  in  a  world  of  pain. 

To  ages,  where  he  goes 
Galled  by  affliction's  heavy  chain, 

And  hopeless  of  repose. 

Strange  fondness  of  the  human  heart, 

Enamoured  of  its  harm ! 
Strange  world,  that  costs  it  so  much  smart, 

And  still  has  power  to  charm. 

Whence  has  the  world  her  magic  power  1 

Why  deem  we  death  a  foe '? 
Recoil  from  weary  life's  best  hour. 

And  covet  longer  wo  1 

The  cause  is  Conscience — Conscience  oft 

Her  tale  of  guilt  renews : 
Her  voice  is  terrible  though  soft, 

And  dread  of  death  ensues. 

Then  anxious  to  be  longer  spared, 
Man  mourns  his  fleeting  breath : 

All  evils  then  seem  light,  compared 
With  the  approach  of  Death, 

'Tis  judgment  shakes  him  ;  there's  the  fear, 
That  prompts  the  wish  to  stay ; 

He  has  incurred  a  long  arrear. 
And  must  despair  to  pay. 

Pay! — follow  Christ,  and  all  is  paid: 
His  death  your  peace  ensures ; 

Think  on  the  grave  where  he  was  laid, 
And  calm  descend  to  yours. 


ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION. 

FOR  THE  YEAR  1793. 

Dc  sacris  autem  kcnc  sit  una  senteniia,  ut  conserventur, 

Cic.  de  Leg. 

But  let  us  all  concur  in  this  one  sentimeirtjithat  thiiigs  sa- 
cred he  inviolate. 

He  lives,  who  lives  to  God  alone, 

And  all  are  dead  beside; 
For  other  source  than  God  is  none 

Whence  life  can  be  supphed. 

To  live  to  God  is  to  requite 

His  love  as  best  we  may ; 
To  make  his  precepts  our  delight, 

His  promises  our  stay. 

But  life,  within  a  narrow  ring 
Of  giddy  joys  comprised, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Is  falsely  named,  and  no  such  thing, 
But  rather  death  disguised. 

Can  Ufe  in  them  deserve  the  name, 

Who  only  Uve  to  prove 
For  what  poor  toys  they  can  disclaim 

An  endless  Ufe  above  1 

"Who,  much  diseased,  yet  nothing  feel, 
Much  menaced,  nothing  dread ; 

Have  vi^ounds,  which  only  God  can  heal, 
Yet  never  ask  his  aid  ^ 

Who  deem  his  house  a  useless  place, 
Faith,  want  of  common  sense ; 

And  ardour  in  the  Christian  race, 
A  hypocrite's  pretence  1 

Who  trample  order ;  and  the  day, 
Which  God  asserts  his  own. 

Dishonour  with  unhallowed  play, 
And  worship  chance  alone  1 

If  scorn  of  God's  commands,  impressed 

On  word  and  deed,  imply 
The  better  part  of  man  unblessed 

With  hfe  that  can  not  die : 

Such  want  it,  and  that  want,  uncured 

Till  man  resigns  his  breath. 
Speaks  him  a  criminal,  assured 

Of  everlasting  death. 

Sad  period  to  a  pleasant  course ! 

Yet  so  will  God  repay 
Sabbaths  profaned  without  remorse, 

And  mercy  cast  away. 


INSCRIPTION 

FOR  THE  TOMB  OF  MR.  HAMILTON. 

Pause  here,  and  think;  a  monitory  rhj^me 
Demands  one  moment  of  thy  fleeting  time. 

Consult  life's  silent  clock,  thy  bounding  vein- 
Seems  it  to  say—"  Health  here  has  long  toreignT 
Hast  thou  the  vigour  of  thy  youth?  an  eye 
That  beams  delighf?  a  heart  untaught  to  sigh? 
Yet  fear.    Youth  ofttimes  healthful  and  at  ease. 
Anticipates  a  day  it  never  sees ; 
And  many  a  tomb,  like  Hamilton's,  aloud 
Exclaims,  "Prepare  thee  for  an  early  shroud." 


EPITAPH  ON  A  HARE. 

Here  lies,  whom  hound  did  ne'er  pursue 
Nor  swifter  greyhound  follow,  ' 

Whose  feet  ne'er  tainted  morning  dew 
Nor  ear  heard  huntsman's  hallo'. 


Old  Tiney,  surliest  of  his  kind, 
Who  nursed  with  tender  care, 

And  to  domestic  bounds  confined. 
Was  still  a  wild  Jack-hare 

Though  duly  from  my  hand  he  took 

His  pittance  every  night. 
He  did  it  with  a  jealous  look, 

And,  when  he  could,  would  bite. 

His  diet  was  of  wheaten  bread. 
And  milk  and  oats,  and  straw  j 

Thistles,  or  lettuces  instead, 
With  sand  to  scour  his  maw. 

On  twigs  of  hawthorn  he  regaled. 

Or  pippin's  russet  peel, 
And,  when  his  juicy  salads  failed, 

Sliced  carrot  pleased  him  well. 

A,  Turkey  carpet  was  his  lawn. 
Whereon  he  loved  to  bound, 

To  skip  and  gambol  lil^e  a  fawn. 
And  swing  his  rump  around. 

His  frisking  was  at  evening  hours. 

For  then  he  lost  his  fear, 
But  most  before  approaching  showers. 

Or  when  a  storm  drew  near. 

Eight  years  and  five  round  rolling  moons 

He  thus  saw  steal  away. 
Dozing  out  all  his  idle  noons, 

And  every  night  at  play. 

I  kept  him  for  his  humour's  sake. 

For  he  would  oft  beguile 
My  heart  of  thoughts  that  made  it  ache, 

And  force  me  to  a  smile. 

But  now  beneath  his  walnut  shade 

He  finds  his  long  last  home, 
And  waits,  in  snug  concealment  laid, 

Till  gentler  Puss  shall  come. 

He,  still  more  aged,  feels  the  shocks^ 
From  which  no  care  can  save. 

And,  partner  once  of  Tiney's  box, 
Must  soon  partake  his  grave. 


EPITAPHIUM  ALTERUM. 

Hie  etiam  jacet, 
Glui  totum  novennium  vixit. 
Puss. 
Siste  paulisper, 
Glui  praeteriturus  es, 
Et  tecum  sic  reputa — 
Hunc  neque  canis  venaticus, 
Nec  plumbum  missile, 
Nec  laqueus, 


142 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Ncc  imbrcs  nimii, 
Confecere: 
Tamen  mortuus  est — 
Et  moriar  ego. 


STANZAS 

ON  THE  FIRST  PUBLICATION  OF  SIR  CHARLES 
GRANDISON,  IN  1753. 

To  rescue  from  the  tyrant's  sword 

Th'  oppressed;— unseen  and  unimplored, 

To  cheer  the  face  of  wo ; 
From  lawless  insult  to  defend 
An  orphan's  right— a  fallen  friend, 

And  a  forgiven  foe ; 

These,  these  distinguish  from  the  crowd. 
And  these  alone,  the  great  and  good. 

The  guardians  of  mankind ; 
Whose  bosoms  with  these  virtues  heave 
O,  with  what  matchless  speed,  they  leave 

The  multitude  behind ! 

Then  ask  ye,  from  what  cause  on  earth 
Virtues  like  these  derive  their  birth. 

Derived  from  heaven  alone, 
Full  on  that  favoured  breast  they  shme, 
Where  faith  and  resignation  join 

To  call  the  blessing  down. 

Such  is  that  heart :— but  while  the  Muse 
Thy  theme,  O  Rkjhardson,  pursues, 

Her  feeble  spirits  faint : 
She  can  not  reach,  and  would  not  wrong, 
That  subject  for  an  angel's  song, 

The  hero,  and  the  saint ! 


ADDRESS  TO  MISS 

on  reading  the  PRAYER  FOR  INDIFFERENCE 

And  dwells  there  in  a  female  heart, 

By  bounteous  heaven  designed 
The  choicest  raptures  to  impart. 

To  feel  the  most  refined — 

Dwells  there  a  wish  in  such  a  breast 

Its  nature  to  forego, 
To  smother  in  ignoble  rest 

At  once  both  bliss  and  wo  1 

Far  be  the  thought,  and  far  the  strain, 

Which  breathes  the  low  desire. 
How  sweet  soe'er  the  verse  complain. 

Though  Phoebus  string  the  lyre. 

Come  then,  fair  maid,  (in  nature  wise) 
Who,  knowing  them,  can  tell 


From  generous  sympathy  what  joys 
The  glowing  bosom  swell. 

In  justice  to  the  various  powers 

Of  pleasing,  which  you  share, 
Join  me,  amid  your  silent  hours. 

To  form  the  better  prayer. 

With  lenient  balm,  may  ObWon  hence 

To  fairy-land  be  driven ; 
With  every  herb  that  blunts  the  sense 

Mankind  received  from  heaven.  * 

"  Oh !  if  my  Sovereign  A  uthor  please, 

Far  be  it  from  my  fate. 
To  live,  unblest  in  torpid  ease 

And  slumber  on  in  state. 

"  Each  tender  tie  of  life  defied 
Whence  social  pleasures  spring. 

Unmoved  with  all  the  world  beside, 
A  solitary  thing — " 

Some  alpine  mountain,  wrapt  in  snow, 
Thus  braves  the  whirling  blast. 

Eternal  winter  doomed  to  know. 
No  genial  spring  to  taste. 

In  vain  warm  suns  their  influence  shed 

The  zephyrs  sport  in  vain. 
He  rears,  unchanged,  his  barren  head, 

Whilst  beauty  decks  the  plain. 

What  though  in  scaly  armour  drest, 

Indifference  may  repel 
The  shafts  of  wo— in  such  a  breast 

No  joy  can  ever  dwell. 

'Tis  woven  in  the  world's  great  plan, 

And  fixed  by  heaven's  decree. 
That  all  the  true  delights  of  man 

Should  spring  from  Sympathy. 

'Tis  nature  bids,  and  whilst  the  laws 

Of  nature  we  retain. 
Our  self-approving  bosom  draws 

A  pleasure  from  its  pain. 

Thus  grief  itself  has  comforts  dear, 

The  sordid  never  know : 
iVnd  ecstacy  attends  the  tear. 

When  virtue  bids  it  flow. 

For,  when  it  streams  from  that  pure  source, 

No  bribes  the  heart  can  win. 
To  check,  or  alter  from  its  course 

The  luxury  within. 

Peace  to  the  phlegm  of  sullen  elves, 

Who,  if  from  labour  eased. 
Extend  no  care  beyond  themselves, 
:       Unpleasing  and  unpleased. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


143 


Let  no  low  thought  suggest  the  prayer, 
Oh !  grant,  kind  heaven,  to  me, 

Long  as  I  draw  ethereal  air, 
Sweet  Sensibility, 

Where'er  the  heavenly  nymph  is  seen, 

With  lustre-beaming  eye, 
A  train,  attendant  on  their  queen , 

(Her  rosy  chorus)  fly. 

The  jocund  Loves  in  Hymen's  band, 

With  torches  ever  bright. 
And  generous  Friendship  hand  in  hand, 

With  Pity's  watery  sight. 

The  gentler  virtues  too  are  joined, 

In  youth  immortal  warm. 
The  soft  relations,  which,  combined, 

Give  life  her  every  charm. 

The  arts  come  smiling  in  the  close, 

And  lend  celestial  fire, 
The  marble  breathes,  the  canvass  glows. 

The  muses  sweep  the  lyre, 

"  Still  may  my  melting  bosom  cleave 

To  sufferings  not  my  own. 
And  still  the  sigh  responsive  heave, 

Where'er  is  heard  a  groan. 

"  So  Pity  shall  take  Virtue's  part. 

Her  natural  ally. 
And  fashioning  my  softened  heart, 

Prepare  it  for  the  sky." 

This  artless  vow  may  heaven  receive, 

And  you,  fond  maid,  approve; 
So  may  your  guiding  angel  give 

Whate'er  you  wish  or  love : 

So  may  the  rosy  fingered  hours 

Lead  on  the  various  year, 
And  every  joy,  wliich  now  is  yours. 

Extend  a  larger  sphere ; 

And  svms  to  come,  as  round  they  wheel, 

Your  golden  moments  bless, 
With  all  a  tender  heart  can  feel, 

Or  lively  fancy  guess. 

A  TALE, 

POUNDED  ON  A  FACT  WHICH  HAPPENED  IN  JANUARY, 

1779. 

Where  Plumber  pours  his  rich  commercial  stream. 
There  dwelt  a  wretch,  who  breathed  but  to  blas- 
pheme. 

In  subterraneous  caves  his  life  he  led, 

Black  as  the  mine  in  which  he  wrought  for  bread. 

When  on  a  day,  emerging  from  the  deep, 

A  sabbath-day,  (such  sabbaths  thousands  keep  ly 

The  wages  of  his  weekly  toil  he  bore 

To  buy  a  cock — whose  blood  might  win  him  more  j 


As  if  the  noblest  of  the  feathered  kind 

Were  but  for  battle  and  for  death  designed; 

As  if  the  consecrated  hours  were  meant 

For  sport,  to  minds  on  cruelty  intent; 

It  chanced  (such  chances  Providence  obey) 

He  met  a  fellow-labourer  on  the  way, 

Whose  heart  the  same  desires  had  once  inflamed; 

But  now  the  savage  temper  was  reclaimed. 

Persuasion  on  his  lips  had  taken  place; 

For  all  plead  well  who  plead  the  cause  of  grace: 

His  iron-heart  vdth  Scripture  he  assailed, 

Wooed  him  to  hear  a  sermon,  and  prevailed.  , 

His  faithful  bow  the  mighty  preacher  drew. 

Swift,  as  the  lightning-glance,  the  arrow  flew. 

He  wept;  he  trembled;  cast  his  eyes  around. 

To  find  a  worse  than  he ;  but  none  he  found. 

He  felt  his  sins,  and  wondered  he  should  feel. 

Grace  made  the  wound,  and  grace  alone  could  heal. 

Now  farewell  oaths,  and  blasphemies,  and  hes! 
He  quits  the  sinner's  for  the  martyr's  prize. 
That  holy  day  which  washed  with  many  a  tear, 
Gilded  with  hope,  yet  shaded  too  by  fear. 
The  next,  his  svs'arthy  brethren  of  the  mine 
Learned,  by  his  altered  speech— the  change  divine 
Laughed  when  they  should  have  wept,  and  swore 
the  day 

Was  nigh,  when  he  would  swear  as  fast  as  they. 
"No,  (said  the  penitent,)  such  words  shall  share 
This  breath  no  more ;  devoted  now  to  prayer. 
O!  if  thou  see'st  (thine  eye  the  future  sees) 
That  I  shall  yet  again  blaspheme,  like  these; 
Now  strike  me  to  the  ground,  on  which  I  kneel, 
Ere  yet  this  heart  relapses  into  steel ; 
Now  take  me  to  that  Heaven  I  once  defied. 
Thy  presence,  thy  embrace !"— He  spoke  and  died. 


TO  THE  REV.  MR.  NEWTON, 

ON  HIS  RETURN  FROM  RAMSGATE. 

That  ocean  you  have  late  surveyed, 

Those  rocks  I  too  have  seen, 
But  I,  afflicted  and  dismayed. 

You  tranquil  and  serene. 

You  from  the  flood-controlling  steep 
Saw  stretched  before  your  view. 

With  conscious  joy,  the  threatening  deep, 
No  longer  such  to  you. 

To  me,  the  waves  that  ceaseless  broke 

Upon  the  dangerous  coast. 
Hoarsely  and  ominously  spoke 

Of  all  my  treasure  lost. 

Your  sea  of  troubles  you  have  past, 
And  found  the  peaceful  shore; 

I,  tempest-tossed,  and  wrecked  at  last. 
Come  home  to  port  no  more. 


1 


Ai 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


A  POETICAL  EPISTLE  TO  LADY 
AUSTEN. 

Dear  Anna — between  friend  and  friend, 
Prose  answers  every  common  end ; 
Serves,  in  a  plain  and  homely  way. 
T'  express  th'  occurrence  of  the  day; 
Our  health,  the  weather,  and  the  news; 
i     What  walks  we  take,  what  books  we  choose; 
And  all  the  floating  thoughts  we  find 
Upon  the  surface  of  the  mind. 

• 

But  when  a  poet  takes  the  pen, 
Far  more  alive  than  other  men, 
He  feels  a  gentle  tingUng  come 
Down  to  his  finger  and  his  thumb, 
Derived  from  nature's  noblest  part. 
The  centre  of  a  glowing  heart : 
And  this  is  what  the  world,  who  knows 
No  flights  above  the  pitch  of  prose, 
His  more  sublime  vagaries  slighting. 
Denominates  an  itch  for  writing. 
No  wonder  I,  who  scribble  rhyme 
To  catch  the  triflers  of  the  time, 
And  tell  them  truths  divine  and  clear, 
Which,  couched  in  prose,  they  will  not  hear; 
Who  labour  hard  t'  allure  and  draw 
The  loiterers  I  never  saw, 
Should  feel  that  itching,  and  that  tingling, 
With  all  my  purpose  intermingling, 
To  your  intrinsic  merit  true. 
When  called  t'  address  myself  to  you. 

Mysterious  are  his  ways,  whose  power 
Brings  forth  that  unexpected  hour, 
When  minds,  that  never  met  before. 
Shall  meet,  unite,  and  part  no  more: 
It  is  th'  allotment  of  the  skies. 
The  hand  of  the  Supremely  Wise, 
That  guides  and  governs  our  affections, 
And  plans  and  orders  our  connexions: 
Directs  us  in  our  distant  road. 
And  marks  the  bounds  of  our  abode. 
Thus  we  were  settled  when  you  found  us, 
Peasants  and  children  all  around  us, 
♦     Not  dreaming  of  so  dear  a  friend, 
Deep  in  the  abyss  of  Silver-End.* 
Thus  Martha,  e'en  against  her  will. 
Perched  on  the  top  of  yonder  hill ; 
And  you,  though  you  must  needs  prefer 
The  fairer  scenes  of  sweet  Sancerre,t 
Are  come  fi:om  distant  Loire,  to  choose 
A  cottage  on  the  banks  of  Ouse. 
This  page  of  Providence  quite  new, 
And  now  just  opening  to  our  view, 


*  An  obscure  part  of  Olney,  adjoining  to  the  residence  of 
Cowper,  whicli  faced  the  market-place. 
\  Lady  Austen's  residence  in  France. 


Employs  our  present  thoughts  and  pains 
To  guess,  and  spell,  what  it  contains; 
But  day  by  day,  and  year  by  year, 
Will  make  the  dark  enigma  clear; 
And  furnish  us,  perhaps,  at  last, 
Like  other  scenes  already  past, 
With  proof,  that  we,  and  our  aflfairs, 
Are  part  of  a  Jehovah's  cares: 
For  God  unfolds,  by  slow  degrees, 
The  purport  of  his  deep  decrees; 
Sheds  every  hour  a  clearer  light 
In  aid  of  our  defective  sight ; 
And  spreads,  at  length,  before  the  soul, 
A  beautiful  and  perfect  whole, 
Which  busy  man's  inventive  brain 
Toils  to  anticipate  in  vain. 

Say,  Anna,  had  you  never  known 
The  beauties  of  a  rose  full  blown. 
Could  you,  though  luminous  your  eye. 
By  looking  on  the  bud,  descry, 
Or  guess,  with  a  prophetic  power, 
The  future  splendour  of  the  flower'? 
Just  so,  th'  Omnipotent,  who  turns 
The  system  of  a  world's  concerns. 
From  mere  minutiae  can  educe 
Events  of  most  important  use; 
And  bid  a  dawning  sky  display 
The  blaze  of  a  meridian  day. 
The  works  of  man  tend,  one  and  all, 
As  needs  they  must,  from  great  so  small; 
And  vanity  absorbs  at  length 
The  monuments  of  human  strength. 
But  who  can  tell  how  vast  the  plan 
Which  this  day's  incident  began'? 
Too  small,  perhaps,  the  slight  occasion, 
For  our  dim-sighted  observation; 
It  passed  unnoticed,  as  the  bird 
That  cleaves  the  yielding  air  unheard. 
And  yet  may  prove,  when  understood, 
A  harbinger  of  endless  good. 

Not  that  I  deem,  or  mean  to  call 
Friendship  a  blessing  cheap  or  small: 
But  merely  to  remark,  that  ours. 
Like  some  of  nature's  sweetest  flowers. 
Rose  from  a  seed  of  tiny  size, 
That  seemed  to  promise  no  such  prize; 
A  transient  visit  intervening. 
And  made  almost  without  a  meaning, 
(Hardly  the  eflfect  of  inchnation, 
Much  less  of  pleasing  expectation,) 
Produced  a  friendship,  then  begun, 
That  has  cemented  us  in  one; 
And  placed  it  in  our  power  to  prove, 
By  long  fidelity  and  love, 
That  Solomon  has  wisely  spoken, 
"  A  threefold  cord  is  not  soon  broken." 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


U5 


SONG.* 
Air— The  Lass  of  Patie's  Mill. 

When  all  within  is  peace, 

How  Nature  seems  to  smile! 
Delights  that  never  cease, 

The  live-long  day  beguile. 
From  morn  to  dewy  eve, 

With  open  hand  she  showers 
Fresh  blessings  to  deceive. 

And  sooth  the  silent  hours. 

It  is  content  of  heart 

Gives  nature  power  to  please; 
The  mind  that  feels  no  smart, 

EnHvens  all  it  sees: 
Can  make  a  wintry  sky 

Seem  bright  as  smiling  May, 
And  evening's  closing  eye 

As  peep  of  early  day. 

The  vast  majestic  globe, 

So  beauteously  arrayed 
In  Nature's  various  robe 

With  w^ondrous  skill  displayed, 
Is  to  a  mourner's  heart 

A  dreary  wild  at  best ; 
It  flutters  to  depart, 

And  longs  to  be  at  xest. 


VERSES 


6BLECTED  FROM  AN  OCCASIONAL  POEM,  ENTITLED 
VALEDICTION. 

Oh  Friendship !  Cordial  of  the  human  breast 
So  little  felt,  so  fervently  professed ! 
Thy  blossoms  deck  our  unsuspecting  years; 
The  promise  of  delicious  fruit  appears  : 
We  hug  the  hopes  of  constancy  and  truth, 
Such  is  the  folly  of  our  dreaming  youth  ; 
But  soon,  alas !  detect  the  rash  mistake ' 
That  sanguine  inexperience  loves  to  make ; 
And  view  with  tears  th' expected  harvest  lost, 
Decayed  by  time,  or  withered  by  a  frost, 
Whoever  undertakes  a  friend's  great  part 
Should  be  renewed  in  nature,  pure  in  heart, 
Prepared  for  martyrdom,  and  strong  to  prove 
A  thousand  ways  the  force  of  genuine  love. 
He  may  be  called  to  give  up  health  and  gain, 
T'  exchange  content  for  trouble,  ease  for  pain, 
To  echo  sigh  for  sigh,  and  groan  for  groan. 
And  wet  his  cheeks  with  sorrows  not  his  own. 
The  heart  of  man,  for  such  a  task  too  frail, 
When  most  relied  on,  is  most  sure  to  fail  • ' 


And,  summoned  to  partake  its  fellow's  wo 
Starts  from  its  office,  Hke  a  broken  bow.  ' 

Votaries  of  business,  and  of  pleasure  prove 
Faithless  aUke  in  friendship  and  in  love. 
Retired  from  all  the  circles  of  the  gay, 
And  all  the  crowds,  that  bustle  life  away, 
To  scenes,  where  competition,  envy,  strife 
Beget  no  thunder-clouds  to  trouble  life, 
Let  me,  the  charge  of  some  good  angel,  find 
One,  who  has  known,  and  has  escaped  mankind: 
Fohte,  yet  virtuous,  who  has  brought  away 
The  manners,  not  the  morals,  of  the  day : 
With  him,  perhaps  with  her,  (for  men  have  known 
No  firmer  friendships  than  the  fair  have  shown.) 
Let  me  enjoy,  in  some  unthought-of  spot. 
All  former  friends  forgiven,  and  forgot, 
Down  to  the  close  of  life's  fast  fading  scene, 
Union  of  hearts,  without  a  flaw  between. 
'Tis  grace,  'tis  bounty,  and  it  calls  for  praise. 
If  God  give  health,  that  sunshine  of  our  days ! 
And  if  he  add,  a  blessing  shared  by  few. 
Content  of  heart,  more  praises  still  are  due— 
But  if  he  grant  a  friend,  that  boon  possessed, 
Indeed  is  treasure,  and  crowns  a,ll  the  rest ; 
And  giving  one,  whose  heart  is  in  the  skies, 
Born  from  above,  and  made  divinely  wise. 
He  gives,  what  bankrupt  nature  never  can, 
Whose  noblest  coin  is  light  and  brittle  man, 
Gold,  purer  far  than  Ophir  ever  knew, 
A  soul,  an  image  of  himself,  and  therefore  true. 


EPITAPH  ON  JOHNSON. 

Here  Johnson  Kes— a  sage  by  all  allowed, 
Whom  to  have  bred,  may  well  make  England  proud ; 
Whose  prose  was  eloquence,  by  wisdom  taught, 
The  graceful  vehicle  of  virtuous  thought ; 
Whose  verse  may  claim— grave,  masculine,  and 
strong, 

Superior  praise  to  the  mere  poet's  song ; 

Who  many  a  noble  gift  from  Heaven  possessed, 

And  faith  at  last,  alone  worth  all  the  rest. 

O  man,  immortal  by  a  double  prize. 

By  fame  on  earth— by  glory  in  the  skies ! 


'  Written  at  the  request  of  Lady  Austea 


TO  MISS  C  ,  ON  HER  BIRTH-DAY 

How  many  between  east  and  west, 

Disgrace  their  parent  earth. 
Whose  deeds  constrain  us  to  detest  * 

The  day  that  gave  them  birth ! 

Not  so  when  Stella's  natal  morn 

Revolving  months  restore, 
We  can  rejoice  that  she  was  born. 

And  wish  her  born  once  more.  ' 


146 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


GRATITUDE. 

ADDRESSED  TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

This  cap,  that  so  stately  appears, 

With  ribbon-bound  tassel  on  high, 
Which  seems  by  the  crest  that  it  rears 

Ambitious  of  brushing  the  sky : 
This  cap  to  my  cousin  I  owe. 

She  gave  it,  and  gave  me  beside, 
Wreathed  into  an  elegant  how, 

The  ribbon  with  which  it  is  tied. 

This  wheel-footed  studying  chair, 

Contrived  both  for  toil  and  repose. 
Wide  elbowed  and  wadded  with  hair, 

In  which  I  both  scribble  and  dose. 
Bright  studded  to  dazzle  the  eyes, 

And  rival  in  lustre  of  that 
In  which,  or  astronomy  lies, 

Fair  Cassiopeia  sat : 

These  carpets,  so  soft  to  the  foot, 

Caledonia's  traffic  and  pride, 
O  spare  them  ye  knights  of  the  boot, 

Escaped  from  a  cross-country  ride. 
This  table  and  mirror  within. 

Secure  from  collision  and  dust. 
At  which  I  oft  shave  cheek  and  chin, 

And  periwig  nicely  adjust : 

This  moveable  structure  of  shelves, 

For  its  beauty  admired  and  its  use. 
And  charged  with  octavos  and  twelves, 

The  gayest  I  had  to  produce ; 
Where,  flaming  in  scarlet  and  gold, 

My  poems  enchanted  I  view, 
And  hope,  in  due  time,  to  behold 

My  Iliad  and  Odyssey  too; 

This  china,  that  decks  the  alcove. 

Which  here  people  call  a  buffet, 
But  what  the  gods  call  it  above, 

Has  ne'er  been  revealed  to  us  yet ; 
These  curtains,  that  keep  the  room  warm 

Or  cool,  as  the  season  demands. 
These  stoves  that  for  pattern  and  form. 

Seem  the  labour  of  Mulciber's  hands : 

All  these  are  not  half  that  I  owe 

To  one  from  her  earliest  youth 
To  me  ever  ready  to  show 

Benignity,  friendship,  and  truth : 
For  time  the  destroyer  declared 

And  foe  of  our  perishing  kind. 
If  even  her  face  he  has  spared, 

Much  less  could  he  alter  her  mind. 

Thus  compassed  about  with  the  goods 
And  chattels  of  leisure  and  ease, 

I  indulge  my  poetical  moods 
In  many  such  fancies  as  these ; 


And  fancies  I  fear  they  will  seem — 
Poet's  goods  are  not  often  so  fine ; 

The  poets  will  swear  that  I  dream, 
When  I  sing  of  the  splendour  of  mine. 


THE  FLATTING-MILL. 

AN  ILLUSTRATION. 

When  a  bar  of  pure  silver,  or  ingot  of  gold, 
Is  sent  to  be  flatted  or  wrought  into  length, 

It  is  passed  between  cylinders  often  and  rolled 
In  an  engine  of  utmost  mechanical  strength. 

Thus  tortured  and  squeezed,  at  last  it  appears 
Like  a  loose  heap  of  ribbon,  a  glittering  show, 
Like  music  it  tinkles  and  rings  in  your  ears. 
And,  warmed  by  the  pressure,  is  all  in  a  glow. 

This  process  achieved,  it  is  doomed  to  sustain 
The  thump-after-thump  of  a  goldbeater's  mallet. 

And  at  last  is  of  service  in  sickness  or  pain 
To  cover  a  pill  for  a  delicate  palate. 

Alas  for  the  poet !  who  dares  undertake 
To  urge  reformation  of  national  ill — 

His  head  and  his  heart  are  both  likely  to  ache 
With  the  double  employment  of  mallet  and  mill. 

If  he  wish  to  instruct,  he  must  learn  to  delight, 
Smooth,  ductile,  and  even,  his  fancy  must  flow, 

Must  tinkle  and  glitter  like  gold  to  the  sight, 
And  catch  in  its  progress  a  sensible  glow. 

After  all,  he  must  beat  it  as  thin  and  as  fine 
As  the  leaf  that  unfolds  what  an  invalid  swal- 
lows, 

For  truth  is  unwelcome,  however  divine, 
And  unless  you  adorn  it  a  nausea  follows. 


TO  MRS.  THROCKMORTON, 

ON  HER  BEAUTIFUL  TRANSCRIPT  OP  HORACe's  ODE, 
AD  LIBRUM  SUUM. 

Maria,  could  Horace  have  guessed 

What  honour  awaited  his  ode, 
To  his  own  little  volume  addressed. 

The  honour  which  you  have  bestowed, 
Who  have  traced  it  in  characters  here 

So  elegant,  even  and  neat. 
He  had  laughed  at  the  critical  sneer. 

Which  he  seems  to  have  trembled  to  meet. 

And  sneer  if  you  please  he  had  said, 

A  nymph  shall  hereafter  arise. 
Who  shall  give  me,  when  you  are  all  dead, 

The  glory  your  malice  denies. 
Shall  dignity  give  to  my  lay, 

Although  but  a  mere  bagatelle ; 
And  even  a  poet  shall  say, 

Nothing  ever  was  written  so  well. 


MiSCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


147 


STANZAS 

0»  the  late  indecent  liberties  taken  with  the  remains  of  the 
great  Milton— Anno  1790. 

*'  Me  too,  perchance,  in  future  days, 
The  sculptured  stone  shall  show, 

With  Paphian  myrtle  or  with  bays 
Parnassian  on  my  brow. 

"  But  I,  or  ere  that  season  come, 

Escaped  from  every  care. 
Shall  reach  my  refuge  in  the  tomb, 

And  sleep  securely  there."* 

^o  sang,  in  Roman  tone  and  style, 

The  youthful  bard,  ere  long 
Ordained  to  grace  his  native  isle 

With  her  sublimest  song. 

Who  then  but  must  conceive  disdain, 

Hearing  the  deed  unblest 
Of  wretches  who  have  dared  profane 

His  dread  sepulchral  rest  1 

111  fare  the  hands  that  heaved  the  stones 

Where  Milton's  ashes  lay. 
That  trembled  not  to  grasp  his  bones 

And  steal  his  dust  away ! 

O  ill-requited  bard!  neglect 

Thy  living  worth  repaid, 
And  blind  idolatrous  respect 

As  much  affronts  thee  dead. 


TO  MRS.  KING. 

On  her  kind  Present  to  the  Author,  a  Patch-work  Counter- 
pane  of  her  own  making. 

The  Bard,  if  e'er  he  feel  at  all, 
Must  sure  be  quickened  by  a  call 

Both  on  his  heart  and  head. 
To  pay  with  tuneful  thanks  the  care 
And  kindness  of  a  lady  fair 

Who  deigns  to  deck  his  bed. 

A  bed  like  thk.,  in  ancient  time. 
On  Ida's  barren  top  sublime. 

(As  Homer's  Epic  shows) 
Composed  of  sweetest  vernal  flowers, 
Without  the  aid  of  sun  and  showers, 

For  Jove  and  Juno  rose. 

Less  beautiful,  however  gay, 
Is  that  which  in  the  scorching  day 
Receives  the  weary  swain 


Forsitan  et  nostros  ducat  de  marmore  vultus 
Necteus  aut  Paphia  myrti  aut  Parnatside  lauri 
Fronde  comas — At  ego  secura  pace  quiesquam. 

Milton  in  Mansa.  ' 


Who,  laying  his  long  scythe  aside. 
Sleeps  on  some  bank  with  daisies  pied, 
Till  roused  to  toil  again. 

What  labours  of  the  loom  I  see! 
Looms  numberless  have  groaned  for  me ! 

Should  every  maiden  come 
To  scramble  for  the  patch  that  bears 
The  impress  of  the  robe  she  wears, 

The  bell  would  toll  for  some. 

And  oh,  what  havoc  would  ensue ! 
This  bright  display  of  every  hue 

All  in  a  moment  fled! 
As  if  a  storm  should  strip  the  bowers 
Of  all  their  tendrils,  leaves,  and  flowers — , 

Each  pocketing  a  shred. 

Thanks,  then,  to  every  gentle  fair 
Who  will  not  come  to  peck  me  bare, 

As  bird  of  borrowed  feather. 
And  thanks,  to  One,  above  them  all, 
The  gentle  Fair  of  Pertenhall, 

Who  put  the  whole  together. 

THE  JUDGMENT  OF  THE  POETS* 

Two  nymphs,  both  nearly  of  an  age, 

Of  numerous  charms  possessed, 
A  warm  dispute  once  chanced  to  wage, 

Whose  temper  was  the  best. 

The  worth  of  each  had  been  complete. 

Had  both  ahke  been  mild: 
But  one,  although  her  smile  was  sweet, 

Frowned  oftener  than  she  smiled. 
And  in  her  humour,  when  she  frowned, 

Would  raise  her  voice  and  roar, 
And  shake  with  fury  to  the  ground 

The  garland  that  she  wore. 

The  other  was  of  gentler  cast. 

From  all  such  frenzy  clear, 
Her  frowns  were  seldom  known  to  last. 

And  never  proved  severe. 

To  poets  of  renown  in  song 

The  nymphs  referred  the  cause, 
Who,  strange  to  tell,  all  judged  it  wrong. 

And  gave  misplaced  applause. 

They  gentle  called,  and  kind  and  soft, 

The  flippant  and  the  scold, 
And  though  she  changed  her  mood  so  oft, 

That  failing  left  untold. 

No  judges,  sure,  were  e'er  so  mad, 

Or  so  resolved  to  err — 
In  short,  the  charms  her  sister  had 

They  lavished  all  on  her. 


148 


COWPER'S  WORKS, 


Then  thus  the  god  whom  fondly  they 
'  Their  great  inspirer  call, 
Was  heard,  one  genial  summer's  day, 
To  reprimand  them  all : 

Since  thus  ye  have  combined,"  he  said, 
"  My  favourite  nymph  to  slight. 
Adorning  May,  that  peevish  maid. 
With  June's  undoubted  right, 

"  The  minx  shall,  for  your  folly's  sake. 

Still  prove  herself  a  shrew. 
Shall  make  your  scribbling  fingers  ache, 

And  pinch  your  noses  blue." 


EPITAPH 


ON  MRS.  M.;HIGGINS,  op  WESTON. 

L  AURELS  may  flourish  round  the  conqueror's  tomb, 
But  happiest  they,  who  win  the  world  to  come: 
Believers  have  a  silent  field  to  fight, 
And  their  exploits  are  veiled  from  human  sight. 
They  in  some  nook,  where  little  known  they 
dwell, 

Kneel,  pray  in  faith,  and  rout  the  hosts  of  hell; 
Eternal  trimnphs  crown  their  toils  divine, 
And  all  those  triumphs,  Mary,  now  are  thine. 


THE  RETIRED  CAT. 

A  Poet's  Cat,  sedate  and  grave 
As  poet  well  could  wish  to  have, 
Was  much  addicted  to  inquire 
For  nooks  to  which  she  might  retire, 
And  where,  secure  as  mouse  in  chink. 
She  might  repose,  or  sit  and  think. 
I  know  not  where  she  caught  the  trick  • 
Nature  perhaps  herself  had  cast  her 
In  such  a  mould  pHiLOsopHiauE,' 
Or  else  she  learned  it  of  her  master. 
Sometimes  ascending,  debonair. 
An  apple-tree,  or  lofty  pear. 
Lodged  with  convenience  in  the  fork. 
She  watched  the  gardener  at  his  work; 
Sometimes  her  ease  and  solace  sought 
In  an  old  empty  watering-pot. 
There  wanting  nothing,  save  a  fan, 
To  seem  some  nymph  in  her  sedan. 
Appareled  in  exactest  sort. 
And  ready  to  be  borne  to  court. 

But  love  of  change  it  seems  has  place 
Not  only  in  our  wiser  race ; 
Cats  also  feel,  as  well  as  we,  ^ 
That  passion's  force,  and  so  did  she. 
Her  climbing,  she  began  to  find, 
Exposed  her  too  much  to  the  wind. 


And  the  old  utensil  of  tin 
Was  cold  and  comfortless  within : 
She  therefore  wished,  instead  of  those, 
Some  place  of  more  serene  repose. 
Where  neither  cold  might  come,  nor  air 
Too  rudely  wanton  with  her  hair. 
And  sought  it  in  the  likeliest  mode 
Within  her  master's  snug  abode. 
♦  > 
A  drawer  it  chanced,  at  bottom  lined 
With  linen  of  the  softest  kind. 
With  such  as  merchants  introduce 
From  India,  for  the  ladies'  use; 
A  drawer  impending  o'er  the  rest. 
Half  open  in  the  topmost  chest. 
Of  depth  enough,  and  none  to  spare, 
Invited  her  to  slumber  there ; 
Puss  with  deUght,  beyond  expression. 
Surveyed  the  scene  and  took  possession. 
Recumbent  at  her  ease,  ere  long. 
And  lulled  by  her  own  humdrum  song. 
She  left  the  cares  of  life  behind. 
And  slept  as  she  would  sleep  her  last, 
When  in  came,  housewifely  inclined, 
The  chambermaid,  and  shut  it  fast, 
By  no  malignity  impelled. 
But  all  unconscious  whom  it  held. 

Awakened  by  the  shock,  (cried  puss) 
"  Was  ever  cat  attended  thus  ! 
The  open  drawer  was  left,  I  see, 
Merely  to  prove  a  nest  for  me, 
For  soon  as  I  was  well  composed. 
Then  came  the  maid,  and  it  was  closed. 
How  smooth  these  'kerchiefs,  and  how  sweet! 
Oh  what  a  delicate  retreat ! 
I  will  resign  myself  to  rest 
Till  Sol  declining  in  the  west. 
Shall  call  to  supper,  when,  no  doubt, 
Susan  will  come,  and  let  me  out." 

The  evening  came,  the  sun  descended. 
And  puss  remained  still  unattended. 
The  night  rolled  tardily  away, 
(With  her  indeed  'twas  never  day) 
The  sprightly  morn  her  course  renewed, 
The  evening  gray  again  ensued, 
And  puss  came  into  mind  no  more, 
Than  if  entombed  the  day  before ; 
With  hunger  pinched,  and  pinched  for  room, 
She  now  presaged  approaching  doom. 
Nor  slept  a  single  wink,  nor  purred. 
Conscious  of  jeopardy  incurred. 

That  night,  by  chance,  the  poet,  watching, 
Heard  an  inexplicable  scratching ; 
His  noble  heart  went  pit-a-pat, 
And  to  himself  he  said—"  what's  that  1" 
He  drew  the  curtain  at  his  side. 
And  forth  he  peeped,  but  nothing  spied. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


149 


Yet,  by  his  ear  directed,  guessed 

Something  imprisoned  in  the  chest 

And,  doubtful  what,  with  prudent  care 

Resolved  it  should  continue  there. 

At  length  a  voice  which  well  he  knew, 

A  long  and  melancholy  mew, 

Saluting  his  poetic  ears, 

Consoled  him  and  dispelled  his  fears ; 

He  left-  his  bed,  he  trod  the  floor, 

He  'gan  in  haste  the  drawers  explore, 

1'he  lowest  first,  and  without  stop 

The  rest  in  order  to  the  top. 

For  'tis  a  truth  well  known  to  most, 

That  whatsoever  thing  is  lost, 

We  seek  it,  ere  it  come  to  light. 

In  every  cranny  but  the  right. 

Forth  skipped  the  cat,  not  now  replete 

As  erst  with  airy  self-conceit, 

Nor  in  hef  own  fond  comprehension, 

A  theme  for  all  the  world's  attention, 

But  modest,  sober,  cured  of  all 

Her  notions  hyperbolical, 

And  wishing  for  a  place  of  rest. 

Any  thing  rather  than  a  chest. 

Then  stepped  the  poet  into  bed 

With  this  reflection  in  his  head. 

MORAL. 

Beware  of  too  sublime  a  sense 
Of  your  own  worth  and  consequence. 
The  man  who  dreams  himself  so  great. 
And  his  importance  of  such  weight, 
That  all  around  in  all  that's  done 
Must  move  and  act  for  him  alone. 
Will  learn  in  school  of  tribulation 
The  folly  of  his  expectation. 


TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE, 

WHICH  THE  AUTHOR  HEARD  SING  ON  NEW-YEAr's 
DAY. 

Whence  is  it,  that  amazed  I  hear 

From  yonder  withered  spray. 
This  foremost  morn  of  all  the  year, 

The  melody  of  Mayl 

And  why,  since  thousands  would  be  proud 

Of  such  a  favour  shown. 
Am  I  selected  from  the  crowd 

To  witness  it  alone  1 

Sing'st  thou,  sweet  Philomel,  to  me. 

For  that  I  also  long 
Have  practised  in  the  groves  like  thee, 

Though  not  like  thee  in  songi 

Or  sing'st  thou  rather  under  force 

Of  some  divine  command, 
Commissioned  to  presage  a  course 

Of  ha-ppier  days  at  handl 


Thrice  welcome  then !  for  many  a  long 

And  joyless  year  have  I, 
As  thou  to-day,  put  forth  my  song 

Beneatn  a  wintry  fky. 

But  thee  no  wintry  skies  can  harm. 

Who  only  need'st  to  sing, 
To  make  e'en  January  charm. 

And  every  season  Spring. 


SONNET. 

TO  WILLIAM  WILBERFORCE,  Esa. 

Thy  country,  Wilberforce,  with  just  disdain, 
Hears  thee  by  cruel  men  and  impious  called 
Frantic,  for  thy  zeal  to  loose  the  enthralled 

From  exile,  public  sale,  and  slavery's  chain. 
Friend  of  the  poor,  the  wronged,  the  fetter- 
galled. 

Fear  not  lest  labour  such  as  thine  be  vain. 

Thou  hast  achieved  a  part;  hast  gained  the  ear 
Of  Britain's  senate  to  thy  glorious  cause; 
Hope  smiles,  joy  springs,  and  though  cold  caution 
pause 

And  weave  delay,  the  better  hour  is  near 
That  shall  remunerate  thy  toils  severe 
By  peace  for  Afric,  fenced  with  British  laws. 

Enjoy  what  thou  hast  won,  esteem  and  love 
From  all  the  just  on  earth,  and  all  the  blest  above. 


EPIGRAM. 

PRINTED  IN  THE  NORTHAMPTON  MERCURY. 

To  purify  their  wine  some  people  bleed 
A  lamb  into  the  barrel,  and  succeed ; 
No  nostrum,  planters  say,  is  half  so  good 
j  To  make  fine  sugar,  as  a  negro's  blood. 
Now  lambs  and  negroes  both  are  harmless  things, 
And  thence  perhaps  the  wondrous  virtue  springs. 
'Tis  in  the  blood  of  innocence  alone — 
Good  cause  why  planters  never  try  their  own. 


TO  DR.  AUSTIN, 

OF  CECIL-STREET,  LONDON. 

Austin!  accept  a  grateful  verse  from  me, 
The  poet's  treasure,  no  inglorious  fee. 
Loved  by  the  Muses,  thy  ingenuous  mind 
Pleasing  requital  in  my  verse  may  find; 
Verse  oft  has  dashed  the  scythe  of  Time  aside; 
Immortalizing  names  which  else  had  died. 
And  O !  could  I  command  the  glittering  wealth 
With  which  sick  kings  are  glad  to  purchase 
health; 


130 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Yet,  if  extensive  fame  and  sure  to  live, 
"Were  in  the  power  of  verse  like  nunc  to  give, 
I  would  not  recompense  his  art  with  less, 
Wlio,  giving  Mary  health,  heals  my  distress. 

Friend  of  my  friend  !*  I  love  thee,  tho'  unknown, 
And  boldly  call  thee,  being  his,  my  own. 


SONNET. 


ADDRESSED  TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESQ.. 

Hayley — thy  tenderness  fraternal  shown. 

In  our  first  interview,  delightful  guest! 

To  Mary  and  me  for  her  dear  sake  distressed. 
Such  as  it  is  has  made  my  heart  thy  own, 
Though  heedless  now  of  new  engagements  grown : 

For  threescore  winters  make  a  wintry  breast, 

And  I  had  purposed  ne'er  to  go  in  quest 
Of  Friendship  more,  except  with  God  alone; 

But  thou  hast  won  me :  nor  is  God  my  foe, 
Who,  ere  this  last  afflictive  scene  began, 

Sent  thee  to  mitigate  the  dreadful  blow. 

My  brother,  by  whose  sympathy  I  know 
Thy  true  deserts  infallibly  to  scan, 
Not  more  t'  admire  the  bard  than  love  the  man. 


CATHARINA. 

On  her  Marriage  to  George  Couilnay,  Esq. 

Believe  it  or  not  as  you  choose, 

The  doctrine  is  certainly  true. 
That  the  future  is  known  to  the  muse, 

And  poets  are  oracles  too. 
I  did  but  express  a  desire 

To  see  Catharina  at  home, 
At  the  side  of  my  friend  George's  fire, 

And  lo — she  is  actually  come. 

Such  prophecy  some  may  despise, 

But  the  wish  of  a  poet  and  friend 
Perhaps  is  approved  in  the  skies, 

And  therefore  attains  to  its  end. 
'Twas  a  wish  that  flew  ardently  forth 

From  a  bosom  effectually  warmed 
With  the  talents,  the  graces,  and  worth 

Of  the  person  for  whom  it  was  formed. 

Mariat  would  leave  us,  I  knew, 

To  the  grief  and  regret  of  us  all, 
But  less  to  our  grief,  could  we  view 

Catharina  the  queen  of  the  hall. 
And  therefore  I  wished  as  I  did, 

And  therefore  this  union  of  hands 
Not  a  whisper  was  heard  to  forbid, 

But  all  cry — amen — tt  the  bans. 


'  Hayley. 


Lady  Throckmorton. 


Since  therefore  I  seem  to  incur 
No  danger  of  wishing  in  vain, 

When  making  good  wishes  for  her, 
I  will  e'en  to  my  wishes  again — 

With  one  I  have  made  her  a  wife, 
And  now  I  will  try  with  another. 

Which  I  can  not  suppress  for  my  life- 
How  soon  I  can  make  her  a  mother. 


SONNET. 

TO  GEORGE  ROMNEY,  ESa. 

On  his  picture  of  me  in  crayons,  drawn  at  Eartham  in  the 
61st  year  of  my  age,  and  in  the  months  of  August  and  Sep- 
tember, 1792. 

RoMNEY  expert,  infallibly  to  trace 

On  chart  or  canvass,  not  the  form  alone 
And  semblance,  but,  however  faintly  shown, 

The  mind's  impression  too  on  every  face — 

With  strokes  that  time  ought  never  to  erase, 
Thou  hast  so  penciled  mine,  that  though  I  own 
The  subject  worthless,  I  have  never  known 

The  artist  shining  with  superior  grace. 

But  this  I  mark — that  symptoms  none  of  wo 
In  thy  incomparable  work  appear. 

Well — I  am  satisfied  it  should  be  so. 

Since,  on  maturer  thought,  the  cause  is  dear; 

For  in  my  looks  what  sorrow  couldst  thou  see 

When  I  was  Hayley 's  guest,  and  sat  to  thee'? 


ON  RECEIVING  HAYLEY'S  PICTURE. 

In  language  warm  as  could  be  breathed  or  penned, 
Thy  picture  speaks  th'  original,  my  friend. 
Not  by  those  looks  that  indicate  thy  mind — ■ 
They  only  speak  thee  friend  of  all  mankind ; 
Expression  here  more  soothing  still  I  see. 
That  friend  of  all  a  partial  friend  to  me. 


ON  A  PLANT  OF  VIRGIN'S  BOWER. 

DESIGNED  TO  COVER  A  GARDEN-SEAT. 

Thrive,  gentle  plant!  and  weave  a  bower 

For  Mary  and  for  me. 
And  deck  with  many  a  splendid  flower 

Thy  foliage  large  and  free. 

Thou  cara'st  from  Eartham,  and  wilt  shade 

(If  truly  I  divine) 
Some  future  day  th'  illustrious  head 

Of  Him  who  made  thee  mine. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Should  Daphne  show  a  jealous  frown, 

And  envy  seize  the  bay, 
Affirming  none  so  fit  to  crown 

Such  honoured  brows  as  they. 

Thy  cause  with  zeal  we  shall  defend, 
And  with  convincing  power, 

For  why  should  not  the  virgin's  friend 
Be  crowned  vyith  virgin's  bower  1 


TO  MY  COUSIN,  ANNE  BODHAM, 

ON   RECEIVING    FROM   HER  A    NET-WORK  PURSE, 
MADE  BY  HERSELF. 

My  gentle  Anne,  whom  heretofore, 
"When  I  was  young,  and  thou  no  more 

Than  plaything  for  a  nurse, 
I  danced  and  fondled  on  my  knee, 
A  kitten  both  in  size  and  glee, 

I  thank  thee  for  my  purse. 

Gold  pays  the  worth  of  all  things  here; 
But  not  of  love ; — that  gem's  too  dear 

For  richest  rogues  to  win  it; 
I,  therefore,  as  a  proof  of  love, 
Esteem  thy  present  far  above 

The  best  things  kept  within  it. 


TO  MRS.  UNWIN. 

Mary  !  I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings, 

Such  aid  from  heaven  as  some  have  feigned  they 
drew. 

An  eloquence  scarce  given  to  mortals,  new 
And  undebased  by  praise  of  meaner  things. 
That  ere  through  age  or  wo  I  shed  my  wings, 
I  may  record  thy  worth  with  honour  due, 
In  verse  as  musical  as  thou  art  true, 
And  that  immortalizes  whom  it  sings. 

But  thou  hast  little  need.    There  is  a  book 
By  seraphs  writ  with  beams  of  heavenly  light, 

On  which  the  eyes  of  God  not  rarely  look, 
A  chronicle  of  actions  just  and  bright; 

There  all  thy  deeds,  my  faithful  Mary,  shine, 
And,  since  thou  own'st  that  praise,  I  spare  thee 
mine. 

TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

Dear  architect  of  fine  chateaux  in  air. 
Worthier  to  stand  for  ever,  if  they  could. 
Than  any  built  of  stone,  or  yet  of  wood, 

For  back  of  royal  elephant  to  bear ! 

O  for  permission  from  the  skies  to  share. 
Much  to  my  own,  tliough  little  to  thy  good. 
With  thee  (not  subject  to  the  jealous  mood  1) 

A  partnership  of  literary  warcl 

11  o  2 


151 

But  I  am  bankrupt  now;  and  doomed  henceforth 
To  drudge,  in  descant  dry,  on  others'  lays; 

Bards,  I  acknowledge,  of  unequalled  worth  1 
But  what  is  commentator's  happiest  praise ! 

That  he  has  furnished  hghts  for  ether  eyes, 
Which  they,  who  need  them,  use,  and  then  despise. 


ON  A  SPANIEL,  CALLED  BEAU, 

KILLING  A  YOUNG  BIRD. 

A  SPANIEL,  Beau,  that  fares  like  you, 

Well-fed,  and  at  his  ease. 
Should  wiser  be  than  to  pursue 

Ea^ih  trifle  that  he  sees. 

But  you  have  killed  a  tiny  bird, 

Which  flew  not  till  to-day. 
Against  my  orders,  whom  you  heard 

Forbidding  you  the  prey. 

Nor  did  you  kill  that  you  might  eat. 

And  ease  a  doggish  pain. 
For  him,  though  chased  with  furious  heat, 

You  left  where  he  was  slain. 

Nor  was  he  of  the  thievish  sort, 

Or  one  whom  blood  allures, 
But  innocent\was  all  his  sport 

Whom  you  have  torn  for  yours. 

My  dog !  what  remedy  remains, 

Since,  teach  you  all  I  can, 
I  see  you,  after  all  my  pains, 

So  much  resemble  man? 


BEAU'S  REPLY. 

Sir,  when  I  flew  to  seize  the  bird 

In  spite  of  your  command, 
A  louder  voice  than  yours  I  heard, 

And  harder  to  withstand. 

You  cried — forbear — but  in  my  breast 
A  mightier  cried — proceed — 

'Twas  Nature,  sir,  whose  strong  behest 
Impelled  me  to  the  deed. 

Yet  much  'as  nature  I  respect, 

I  ventured  once  to  break, 
(As  you  perhaps  may  recollect) 

Her  precept  for  your  sake ; 

And  when  your  linnet  on  a  day, 

Passing  his  prison  door. 
Had  fluttered  all  his  strength  away, 

And  panting  pressed  the  floor, 


152 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Well  knowing  him  a  sacred  thing, 
Not  destined  to  my  tooth, 

I  only  kissed  his  ruffled  wing, 
And  licked  the  feathers  smooth. 

Let  my  obedience  then  excuse 

My  disobedience  now, 
Nor  some  reproof  yourselves  refuse 

From  your  aggrieved  bow-wow; 

If  killing  brids  be  such  a  crime, 
(Which  I  can  hardly  see,) 

What  think  you,  sir,  of  killing  Time 
With  verse  addressed  to  me  % 


TO  MARY. 

The  twentieth  year  is  well  nigh  past, 
Since  our  first  sky  was  overcast. 
Ah  would  that  this  might  be  the  last! 

My  Mary! 

Thy  spirits  have  a  fainter  flow, 

I  see  them  daily  weaker  grow  

'T was  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low 
My  Mary! 

Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store, 
For  my  sake  restless  heretofore, 
Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more, 

My  Mary! 

For  though  thou  gladly  wouldst  falfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still, 
Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will, 

My  Mary! 

But  well  thou  playd'st  the  housewife's' part, 
And  all  thy  threads  with  magic  art. 
Have  wound  themselves  about  this  heart, 
My  Mary ! 

Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 
Like  language  uttered  in  a  dream ; 
Yet  me  they  charm,  whate'er  the  theme, 
My  Mary! 

Thy  silver  locks  once  auburn  bright. 
Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  light. 

My  Mary! 

For  could  I  view  nor  them  nor  thee, 
What  sight  worth  seeing  could  I  see? 
The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me, 

My  Mary! 

Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline. 
Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign  ; 
Yet  gently  prest,  press  gently  mine, 

My  Mary! 


Such  feebleness  of  limbs  thou  prov'st. 
That  now  at  every  step  thou  mov'st, 
Upheld  by  two,  yet  still  thou  lov'st, 

My  Mary! 

And  still  to  love,  though  prest  with  ill, 
In  wintry  age  to  feel  no  chill, 
With  me  is  to  be  lovely  still. 

My  Mary! 

But  ah !  by  constant  heed  I  know. 
How  oft  the  sadness  that  I  show. 
Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  wo. 

My  Mary! 

And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 
With  much  resemblance  of  the  past, 
Thy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last, 

My  Mary! 


ON  THE  ICE  ISLANDS, 

SEEN  FLOATING  IN  THE  GERMAN  OCEAN. 

What  portents,  from  that  distant  region,  ride, 
Unseen  till  now  in  ours,  the  astonished  tide  % 
In  ages  past,  old  Proteus,  with  his  droves 
Of  seacalves,  sought  the  mountains  and  the  groves  . 
But  now,  descending  whence  of  late  they  stood. 
Themselves  the  mountains  seem  to  rove  the  flood. 
Dire  times  were  they,  full-charged  with  human 
woes; 

And  these,  scarce  less  calamitous  than  those. 
What  view  we  now  ]  More  wondrous  still '?  Be- 
hold! 

Like  burnished  brass  they  shine,  or  beaten  gold; 
And  all  around  the  pearl  s  pure  splendour  show, 
And  all  around  the  ruby's  fiery  glow. 
Come  they  from  India,  where  the  burning  earth, 
All  bounteous,  gives  her  richest  treasures  birth; 
And  where  the  costly  gems,  that  beam  around 
The  brows  of  mightiest  potentates,  are  found 
No.    Never  such  a  countless  dazzling  store 
Had  left,  unseen,  the  Ganges'  peopled  shore. 
Rapacious  hands,  and  ever-watchful  eyes, 
ShoukI  sooner  far  have  marked  and  seized  the 
prize. 

Whence  sprang  they  then?  Ejected  have  they  come 
From  Ves'vius',  or  from  Etna's  burning  womb  1 
Thus  shine  they  self-illumed,  or  but  display 
The  borrowed  splendours  of  a  cloudless  day  1 
With  borrowed  beams  they  shine.    The  gales, 
that  breathe 

Now  landward,  and  the  current's  force  beneath, 
Have  borne  them  nearer  :  and  the  nearer  sight. 
Advantaged  more,  contemplates  them  aright. 
Their  lofty  summits  crested  high,  they  show. 
With  mingled  sleet,  and  long-incumbent  snow. 
The  rest  is  ice.    Far  hence,  where  most,  severe, 
Bleak  winter  well-nigh  saddens  all  the  year, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


153 


Their  infant  growth  l«ga,ii.    He  bade  arise 
Their  uncouth  forms,  portentous  in  our  eyes. 
Oft  as  dissolved  by  transient  suns,  the  snow 
Left  the  tall  cliff,  to  join  the  flood  below ; 
He  caught,  and  curdled  with  a  freezing  blast 
The  current,  ere  it  reached  the  boundless  waste. 
By  slow  degrees  uprose  the  wondrous  pile, 
And  long  successive  ages  rolled  the  while  ; 
Till,  ceaseless  in  its  growth,  it  claimed  to  stand, 
Tall  as  its  rival  mountains  on  the  land. 
Thus  stoo<l,  and  unremoveable  by  skill, 
Or  force  of  man,  had  stood  the  structure  still ; 
But  that,  though  firmly  fixed,  supplahted  yet 
By  pressure  of  its  own  enormous  weight. 
It  left  tbe  shelving  beach — and,  with  a  sound 
That  shook  the  bellowing  waves  and  rocks  around 
Self-launched,  and  swiftly,  to  the  briny  wave, 
As  if  instinct  with  strong  desire  to  lave, 
Down  went  the  ponderous  mass.    So  bards  of  old, 
How  Delos  swam  th'  ^Egean  deep,  have  told. 
But  not  of  ice  was  Delos.    Delos  bore 
Herb,  fruit,  and  flower.  She,  crowned  with  laurel, 
wore, 

Even  under  wintry  skies,  a  summer  smile ; 
And  Delos  was  Apollo's  favourite  isle. 
But,  horrid  wanderers  of  the  deep,  to  you, 
He  deems  cimmerian  darkness  only  due. 
Your  hated  birth  he  deigned  not  to  survey, 
But,  scornful,  turned  his  glorious  eyes  away. 
Hence !  seek  your  home,  nor  longer  rashly  dare 
The  darts  of  Phoebus,  and  a  softer  air ; 
Lest  ye  regret,  too  late,  your  native  coast, 
In  no  congenial  gulf  for  ever  lost ! 


THE  CASTAWAY. 
Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky ; 

T  h'  Atlantic  billows  roared. 
When  such  a  destined  wretch  as  I, 

Washed  headlong  from  on  board, 
Of  friends,  of  hopes,  of  all  bereft, 
His  floating  home  for  ever  left. 

No  braver  chief  could  Albion  boast, 
Than  he,  with  whom  we  went. 

Nor  ever  ship  left  Albion's  coast, 
With  warmer  wishes  sent. 

He  loved  them  both,  but  both  in  vain, 

Nor  him  beheld,  nor  her  again. 

Not  long  beneath  the  whelming  brine. 

Expert  to  swim  he  lay ; 
Nor  soon  he  felt  his  strength  decline, 

Or  courage  die  away ; 
But  waged  with  death  a  lasting  strife, 
Supported  by  despair  of  life. 

He  shouted;  nor  his  friends  had  failed 
To  check  the  vessel's  course, 

But  so  the  furious  blast  prevailed, 
That,  pitiless,  perforce. 


They  left  their  out^;ast  mate  behind, 
And  scudded  still  before  the  wind. 

Some  succour  yet  they  could  afford; 

And,  such  as  storms  allow, 
The  cask,  the  coop,  the  floated  cord. 

Delayed  not  to  bestow ; 
But  he  (they  knew)  nor  ship  nor  shore, 
Whate'er  they  gave,  should  visit  more. 

Nor,  cruel  as  it  seemed,  could  he, 
Their  haste  himself  condemn. 

Aware  that  flight,  in  such  a  sea, 
Alone  could  rescue  them ; 

Yet  bitter  felt  it  still  to  die 

Deserted,  and  his  friends  so  nigh. 

He  long  survives,  who  lives  an  hour 

In  ocean  self-upheld : 
And  so  long  he,  with  unspent  power 

His  destiny  repelled : 
And  ever  as  the  minutes  flew, 
Entreated  help,  or  cried — "Adieu!" 

At  length,  his  transient  respite  past, 

His  comrades,  who  before 
Had  heard  his  voice  in  every  blast, 

Could  catch  the  sound  no  more. 
For  then,  by  toil  subdued,  he  drank 
The  stifling  wave,  and  then  he  sank. 

No  poet  wept  him :  but  the  page 

Of  narrative  sincere, 
That  tells  his  name,  his  worth,  his  age, 

Is  wet  with  Anson's  tear. 
And  tears  by  bards  or  heroes  shed 
Alike  immortalize  the  dead. 

I  therefore  purpose  not,  or  dream, 

Descanting  on  his  fate. 
To  give  the  melancholy  theme 

A  more  enduring  date. 
But  misery  still  delights  to  trace 
Its  'semblance  in  another's  case. 

No  voice  divine  the  storm  allayed 

No  light  propitious  shone ; 
When,  snatched  from  all  effectual  aid, 

We  perished  each  alone : 
But  I  beneath  a  rougher  sea, 
And  whelmed  in  deeper  gulfs  than  he. 


SEranslatfons  from  Ufncent  3Sournc 

I.  THE  GLOW-WORM. 

Beneath  the  hedge,  or  near  the  stream, 

A  worm  is  known  to  stray ; 
That  shows  by  night  a  lucid  beam. 

Which  disappears  by  day. 


154 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Disputes  have  been,  and  still  prevail, 
From  whence  his  rays  proceed  ; 

Some  give  that  honour  to  his  tail, 
And  others  to  his  head. 

But  this  is  sure — the  hand  of  night, 

That  kindles  up  the  skies, 
Gives  him  a  modicum  of  light 

Proportioned  to  his  size. 

Perhaps  indulgent  Nature  meant, 

By  such  a  lamp  bestowed, 
To  bid  the  traveller,  as  he  went. 

Be  careful  where  he  trod : 

Nor  crush  a  worm,  whose  useful  light 
Might  serve,  however  small, 

To  show  a  stumbling-stone  by  night. 
And  save  him  from  a  fall. 

Whate'er  she  meant,  this  truth  divine 

Is  legible  and  plain, 
'Tis  power  almighty  bids  him  shine, 

Nor  bids  him  shine  in  vain. 

Ye  proud  and  wealthy,  let  this  theme 
Teach  humbler  thoughts  to  you, 

Since  such  a  reptile  has  its  gem, 
And  boasts  its  splendour  too. 


11,  THE  JACKDAW. 

There  is  a  bird,  who  by  his  coat, 
And  by  the  hoarseness  of  his  note, 

Might  be  supposed  a  crow; 
A  great  frequenter  of  the  church, 
Where  bishop-like  he  finds  a  perch, 

And  dormitory  too. 

Above  the  steeple  shines  a  plate, 
That  turns  and  turns,  to  indicate 

From  what  point  blcfws  the  weather. 
Look  up — ^your  brains  begin  to  swim, 
'Tis  in  the  clouds — that  pleases  him, 

He  chooses  it  the  rather. 

Fond  of  the  speculative  height, 
Thither  he  wings  his  airy  flight. 

And  thence  securely  sees 
The  bustle  and  the  rareeshow 
That  occupy  mankind  below 

Secure  and  at  his  ease. 

You  think,  no  doubt,  he  sits  and  muses 
On  future  broken  bones  and  bruises. 

If  he  should  chance  to  fall. 
No;  not  a  single  thought  like  that 
Employs  his  philosophic  pate, 

Or  troubles  it  at  all. 


He  sees  that  this  great  roundabout. 
The  world,  with  all  its  motley  rout, 

Church,  army,  physic,  law. 
Its  customs,  and  its  business, 
Is  no  concern  at  all  of  his. 

And  says — what  says  he? — Caw. 

Thrice  happy  bird !  I  too  have  seen 
Much  of  the  vanities  men ; 

And,  sick  of  having  seen  'em, 
Would  cheerfully  these  limbs  resign 
For  such  a  pair  of  wings  as  thine, 

And  such  a  head  between  'em. 


III.  THE  CRICKET. 

Little  inmate,  full  of  mirth. 
Chirping  on  my  kitchen  hearth, 
Wheresoe'er  be  thine  abode, 
Always  harbinger  of  good,  , 
Pay  me  for  thy  warm  retreat 
With  a  song  more  soft  and  sweet; 
In  return  thou  shalt  receive 
Such  a  strain  as  I  can  give. 

Thus  thy  praise  shall  be  expressed. 
Inoffensive,  welcome  guest! 
While  the  rat  is  on  the  scout, 
And  the  mouse  with  curious  snout, 
With  what  vermin  else  infest 
Every  dish,  and  spoil  the  best . 
Frisking  thus  before  the  fire, 
Thou  hast  all  thine  heart's  desire. 

Though  in  voice  and  shape  they  be 
Formed  as  if  akin  to  thee, 
Thou  surpassest,  happier  far. 
Happiest  grasshoppers  that  are; 
Theirs  is  but  a  summer's  song. 
Thine  endures  the  winter  long, 
Unimpaired,  and  shrill,  and  cleai, 
Melody  throughout  the  year. 

Neither  night,  nor  dawn  of  day, 
Puts  a  period  to  thy  play: 
Sing  then — and  extend  thy  span 
Far  beyond  the  date  of  man. 
Wretched  man  whose  years  are  Bpent 
In  repining  discontent, 
Lives  not,  aged  though  he  be. 
Half  a  span,  compared  with  thee. 


IV.  THE  PARROT. 

In  painted  plumes  superbly  dressed, 
A  native  of  the  gorgeous  east. 

By  many  a  billow  tossed, 
Poll  gains  at  length  the  British  shore, 
Part  of  the  captain's  precious  store, 

A  present  to  his  toast. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


155 


Belinda  s  maids  are  soon  preferred, 
To  teach  him  now  and  then  a  word, 

As  Poll  can  master  it; 
But  'tis  her  own  important  charge, 
To  qualify  him  more  at  large, 

And  make  him  quite  a  wit. 

Sweet  Poll !  his  doating  mistress  cries. 
Sweet  Poll!  the  mimic  bird  repUes; 

And  calls  aloud  for  sack. 
She  next  instructs  him  in  the  kiss; 
'Tis  now  a  little  one,  like  Miss, 

And  now  a  hearty  smack. 

At  first  he  aims  at  what  he  hears; 
And  listening  close  with  both  his  ears. 

Just  catches  at  the  sound; 
But  soon  articulates  aloud, 
Much  to  th'  amusement  of  the  crowd, 

And  stuns  the  neighbours  round. 

A  querulous  old  woman's  voice 
His  humorous  talent  next  employs; 

He  scolds,  and  gives  the  lie. 
And  now  he  sings,  and  now  is  sick, 
Here,  Sally,  Susan,  come,  come  quick. 

Poor  Poil  is  like  to  die ! 

Belinda  and  her  bird !  'tis  rare 

To  meet  with  such  a  well-matched  pair. 

The  language  and  the  tone. 
Each  character  in  every  part 
Sustained  with  so  much  grace  and  art. 

And  both  in  unison. 

When  children  first  begin  to  spell, 
And  stammer  out  a  syllable, 

We  think  them  tedious  creatures; 
But  difficulties  soon  abate, 
When  birds  are  to  be  taught  to  prate, 

And  women  are  the  teachers. 


V.  THE  THRACIAN. 

Thracian  parents,  at  his  birth, 
Mourn  their  babe  with  many  a  tear. 

But  with  undissembled  mirth 
Place  him  breathless  on  his  bier. 

Greece  and  Rome,  with  equal  scorn, 

'  O  the  savages!'  exclaim, 
*  Whether  they  rejoice  or  mourn. 

Well  entitled  to  the  name !' 

But  the  cause  of  this  concern. 

And  this  pleasure  would  they  trace^. 

Even  they  might  somewhat  learn 
From  the  savages  of  Thrace. 


VL  RECIPROCAL  KINDNESS. 

^     THE  PRIMARY  LAW  OF  NATURE. 

Androcles  from  his  injured  lord,  in  dread 
Of  instant  death,  to  Libya's  desert  fled. 
Tired  with  his  toilsome  flight,  and  parched  with 
heat, 

He  spied,  at  length,  a  cavern's  cool  retreat, 
But  scarce  had  given  to  rest  his  weary  frame 
When  hugest  of  his  kind,  a  lion  came: 
He  roared  approaching :  but  the  savage  din 
To  plaintive  murmurs  changed,  arrived  within, 
And  with  expressive  looks  his  lifted  paw 
Presenting,  aid  implored  from  whom  he  saw. 
The  fugitive,  through  terror  at  a  stand, 
Dared  not  awhile  afl^brd  his  trembling  hand, 
But  bolder  grown,  at  length  inherent  found 
A  pointed  thorn,  and  drew  it  from  the  wound. 
The  cure  was  wrought;  he  wiped  the  sanious 
blood. 

And  firm  and  free  from  pain  the  lion  stood, 
Again  he  seeks  the  wilds,  and  day  by  day. 
Regales  his  inmate  with  the  parted  prey. 
Nor  he  disdains  the  dole,  though  unprepared, 
Spread  on  the  ground,  and  with  a  lion  shared. 
But  thus  to  live— still  lost — sequestered  still — 
Scarce  seemed  his  lord's  revenge  a  heavier  ill. 
Home  J.  native  home!  O  might  he  but  repair ! 
He  must— he  will,  though  death  attends  him 
there. 

He  goes,  and  doomed  to  perish,  on  the  sands 
Of  the  full  theatre  unpitied  stands : 
When  lo !  the  self-same  lion  from  his  cage 
Flies  to  devour  him,  famished  into  rage. 
He  flies,  but  viewing  in  his  purposed  prey 
The  man,  his  healer,  pauses  on  his  way, 
And  softened  by  remembrance  into  sweet 
And  kind  composure,  crouches  at  his  feet. 

Mute  with  astonishment  th'  assembly  gaze : 
But  why,  ye  Romans  1  Whence  your  mute  amaze  1 
All  this  is  natural :  nature  bade  him  rend 
An  enemy ;  she  bids  him  spare  a  friend. 


VII.  A  MANUAL. 

More  ancient  than  the  Art  of  Printing,  and  not  to  be  found  ia 
any  Catalogue. 

There  is  a  book,  which  we  may  call 

(Its  excellence  is  such) 
Alone  a  library,  though  small ; 

The  ladies  thumb  it  much. 

Words  none,  things  numerous  it  contains : 
And,  things  with  words  compared. 

Who  needs  be  told,  that  has  his  brains, 
Which  merits  most  regard  1 


156 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Oft  times  its  leaves  of  scarlet  hue 

A  golden  edging  boast ; 
And  opened,  it  displays  to  view 

Twelve  pages  at  the  most. 

Nor  name,  nor  title,  stamped  behind, 

Adorns  his  outer  part ; 
But  all  within  'tis  richly  lined, 

A  magazine  of  art. 

The  whitest  hands  that  secret  hoard 

Oft  visit :  and  the  fair 
Preserve  it  in  their  bosoms  stored. 

As  with  a  miser's  care. 

Thence  implements  of  every  size, 

And  formed  for  various  use, 
(They  need  but  to  consult  their  eyes) 

They  readily  produce. 

The  largest  and  the  longest  kind 

Possess  the  foremost  page, 
A  sort  most  needed  by  the  blind, 

Or  nearly  such  from  age. 

The  full-charged  leaf,  which  next  ensues, 

Presents,  in  bright  array, 
The  smaller  sort,  which  matrons  use, 

Not  quite  so  blind  as  they. 

The  third,  the  fourth,  the  fifth  supply 

What  their  occasions  ask, 
Who  with  a  more  discerning  eye 

Perform  a  nicer  task. 

But  still  with  regular  decrease 

From  size  to  size  they  fall. 
In  every  leaf  grow  less  and  less ; 

The  last  are  least  of  all. 

O  !  what  a  fund  of  genius,  pent 

In  narrow  space,  is  here ! 
This  volume's  method  and  i  ntent 

How  luminous  and  clear  1 

It  leaves  no  reader  at  a  loss 

Or  posed,  whoever  reads : 
No  commentator's  tedious  gloss, 

Nor  even  index  needs. 

Search  Bodley's  many  thousands  o'er, 
Nor  book  is  treasured  there, 

Nor  yet  in  Granta's  numerous  store, 
That  may  with  this  compare. 

No !  Rival  none  in  either  host 

Of  this  was  ever  seen. 
Or,  that  contents  could  justly  boast, 

So  briUiant  and  so  keen. 


VIII.  AN  ENIGMA. 

A  Needle  small  as  small  can  be, 
In  bulk  and  use  surpasses  me. 

Nor  is  my  purchase  dear ; 
For  little,  and  almost  for  naught. 
As  many  of  my  kind  are  bought 

As  days  are  in  the  year. 

Yet  though  but  little  use  we  boast. 
And  are  procured  at  little  cost. 

The  labour  is  not  light. 
Nor  few  artificers  it  asks. 
All  skilful  in  their  several  tasks. 

To  fashion  us  aright. 

One  fuses  metal  o'er  the  fire, 
A  second  draws  it  into  wire, 

The  shears  another  plies, 
Who  cUps  in  lengths  the  brazen  thread, 
For  him,  who,  chafing  every  thread, 

Gives  all  an  equal  size. 

A  fifth  prepares,  exact  and  round. 

The  knob  with  which  it  must  be  crowned ; 

His  follower  makes  it  fast : 
And  with  his  mallet  and  his  file 
To  shape  the  point  employs  awhile 

The  seventh  and  the  last. 

Now,  therefore,  CEdipus!  declare 
What  creature,  wonderful  and  rare, 

A  process  that  obtains 
Its  purpose  with  so  much  ado. 
At  last  produces !;;— tell  me  true, 

And  take  me  for  your  pains  ! 

IX.  SPARROWS  SELP-DOMESTl- 
CATED. 

IN  TRINITY  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE. 

None  ever  shared  the  social  feast. 
Or  as  an  inmate  or  a  guest. 
Beneath  the  celebrated  dome, 
Where  once  Sir  Isaac  had  his  home. 
Who  saw  not  (and  with  some  delight 
Perhaps  he  viewed  the  novel  sight) 
How  numerous,  at  the  tables  there, 
The  sparrows  beg  their  daily  fare. 
For  there,  in  every  nook  and  cell. 
Where  such  a  family  may  dwell. 
Sure  as  the  vernal  season  comes 
Their  nests  they  weave  in  hope  of  crumbs. 
Which  kindly  given,  may  serve,  with  food 
Convenient,  their  unfeathered  brood ; 
And  oft  as  with  its  summons  clear. 
The  warning  bell  salutes  the  ear, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


15? 


Sagacious  listeners  to  the  sound, 
They  flock  from  all  the  fields  around, 
To  reach  the  hospitable  hall, 
None  more  attentive  to  the  call, 
Arrived,  the  pensionary  band, 
Hopping  and  chirping,  close  at  hand. 
Solicit  what  they  soon  receive. 
The  sprinkled,  plenteous  donative. 
Thus  is  a  multitude,  though  large, 
Supported  at  a  trivial  charge ; 
A  single  doit  would  overpay 
Th'  expenditure  of  every  day. 
And  who  can  grudge  so  small  a  grace 
To  suppliants,  natives  of  the  place. 

X.  FAMILIARITY  DANGEROUS. 

As  in  her  ancient  mistress'  lap 

The  youthful  tabby  lay, 
They  gave  each  other  many  a  tap. 

Alike  disposed  to  play. 

But  strife  ensues.    Puss  waxes  warm, 

And  with  protruded  claws 
Ploughs  all  the  length  of  Lydia's  arm, 

Mere  wantonness  the  cause. 

At  once,  resentful  of  the  deed. 
She  shakes  her  to  the  ground. 

With  many  a  threat  that  she  shall  bleed 
With  still  a  deeper  wound. 

But,  Lydia,  bid  thy  fury  rest : 

It  was  a  venial  stroke ; 
For  she  that  will  with  kittens  jest, 

Should  bear  a  kitten's  joke. 


XI.  INVITATION  TO  THE  RED- 
BREAST. 

Sweet  bird,  whom  the  winter  constrains— 

And  seldom  another  it  can — 
To  seek  a  retreat,  while  he  reigns, 

In  the  well  sheltered  dwellings  of  man. 
Who  never  can  seem  to  intrude, 

Tho'  in  all  places  equally  free. 
Come,  oft  as  the  season  is  rude. 

Thou  art  sure  to  be  welcome  to  me. 

At  sight  of  the  first  feeble  ray. 

That  pierces  the  clouds  of  the  east, 
To  inveigle  thee  every  day 

My  windows  shall  show  thee  a  feast 
For,  taught  by  experience,  I  know 

Thee  mindful  of  benefit  long ; 
And  that,  thankful  for  all  1  bestow. 

Thou  wilt  pay  me  with  many  a  song. 


Then,  soon  as  the  swell  of  the  buds 

Bespeaks  the  renewal  of  spring. 
Fly  hence,  if  thou  wilt,  to  the  woods, 

Or  where  it  shall  please  thee  to  smg: 
And  shouldst  thou,  compelled  by  a  frost, 

Come  again  to  my  window  or  door, 
Doubt  not  an  affectionate  host. 

Only  pay  as  thou  pay'dst  me  before. 

Thus  music  must  needs  be  confest. 

To  flow  from  a  fountain  above ; 
Else  how  should  it  work  in  the  breast 

Unchangeable  friendship  and  love  ! 
And  who  on  the  globe  can  be  found, 

Save  your  generation  and  ours, 
That  can  be  delighted  by  sound. 

Or  boasts  any  musical  powers  1 

XII.  STRADA'S  NIGHTINGALE. 

The  Shepherd  touched  his  reed;  sweet  Philomel 
Essayed,  and  ofl  assayed  to  catch  the  strain, 

And  treasuring,  as  on  her  ear  they  fell, 
The  numbers,  echoed  note  for  note  again. 

The  peevish  youth,  who  ne'er  had  found  before 
A  rival  of  his  skill,  indignant  heard. 

And  soon,  (for  various  was  his  tuneful  store) 
In  loftier  tones  defied  the  simple  bird. 

She  dared  the  task,  and  rising,  as  he  rose, 
With  all  the  force,  that  passion  gives,  inspired, 

Returned  the  sounds  awhile,  but  in  the  close. 
Exhausted  fell,  and  at  his  feet  expired. 

Thus  strength,  not  skill,  prevailed.    O  fatal  strife, 
By  thee,  poor  songstress,  playfully  begun; 

And,  O  sad  victory,  which  cost  thy  life, 
And  he  may  wish  that  he  had  never  won! 

XIII.  ODE 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  LADY, 
Who  lived  one  hundred  years,  and  died  on  her  birthday,  17^. 
Ancient  dame  how  wide  and  vast. 

To  a  race  like  ours  appears, 
Rounded  to  an  orb  at  last. 
All  thy  multitude  of  years ! 

We,  the  herd  of  human  kind. 

Frailer  and  of  feebler  powers; 
We,  to  narrow  bounds  confined, 

Soon  exhaust  the  sum  of  ours. 

Death's  delicious  banquet — we 

Perish  even  from  the  womb. 
Swifter  than  a  shadow  flee. 

Nourished  but  to  feed  the  tomb. 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Seeds  of  merciless  disease 

Lurk  in  all  that  we  enjoy; 
Some,  that  waste  us  by  degrees, 

Some,  that  suddenly  destroy. 

And  if  life  o'erleap  the  bourn 
Common  to  the  sons  of  men; 

What  remains,  but  that  we  mourn, 
Dream,  and  doat,  and  drivel  theni 

Fast  as  moons  can  wax  and  wane. 
Sorrow  comes;  and  while  we  groan, 

Pant  with  anguish  and  complain. 
Half  our  years  are  fled  and  gone. 

If  a  few,  (to  few  'tis  given) 

Lingering  on  this  earthly  stage. 

Creep,  and  halt  with  steps  uneven, 
To  the  period  of  an  age. 

# 

Wherefore  live  they  but  to  see 
Cunning,  arrogance,  and  force, 

Sights  lamented  much  by  thee, 
Holding  their  accustomed  course! 

Oft  was  seen,  in  ages  past, 
All  that  we  with  wonder  view; 

Often  shall  be  to  the  last ; 
Earth  produces  nothing  new. 

Thee  we  gratulate;  content, 

Should  propitious  Heaven  design 

Life  for  us,  has  calmly  spent, 

Though  but  half  the  length  of  thine. 


XIV.  THE  CAUSE  WON. 

Two  neighbours  furiously  dispute: 
A  field— the  subject  of  the  suit. 
Trivial  the  spot,  yet  such  the  rage 
With  which  the  combatants  engage, 
'Twere  hard  to  tell,  who  covets  most 
The  prize — at  whatsoever  cost. 
The  pleadings  swell.    Words  still  suffice; 
No  single  word  but  has  its  price: 
No  term  but  yields  some  fair  pretence 
For  novel  and  increased  expense. 

Defendant  thus  becomes  a  name. 
Which  he  that  bore  it,  may  disclaim; 
Since  both,  in  one  description  blended, 
Are  plaintiffs — when  the  suit  is  ended. 


XV.  THE  SILKWORM. 

The  beams  of  April,  ere  it  goes, 
A  worm  scarce  visible,  disclose ; 
All  winter  long  content  to  dwell 
The  tenant  of  his  native  shell. 


The  same  prolific  season  gives 

The  sustenance  by  which  he  lives, 

The  mulberry  leaf,  a  simple  store, 

That  serves  him— till  he  needs  no  more; 

For,  his  dimensions  once  complete. 

Thenceforth  none  ever  sees  him  eat ; 

Though,  till  his  growing  time  be  past, 

Scarce  ever  is  he  seen  to  fast. 

That  hour  arrived,  his  work  begins. 

He  spins  and  weaves,  and  weaves  and  spins , 

Till  circle  upon  circle  wound 

Careless  around  him  and  around. 

Conceals  him  with  a  veil,  though  slight, 

Impervious  to  the  keenest  sight. 

Thus  self-enclosed,  as  in  a  cask. 

At  length  he  finishes  his  task : 

And,  though  a  worm,  when  he  was  lost, 

Or  caterpillar  at  the  most, 

When  next  we  see  him  wings  he  wears. 

And  in  papilio-pomp  appears ; 

Becomes  oviparous,  supplies 

With  future  worms  and  future  flies  , 

The  next  ensuing  year ;  and  dies ! 

Well  were  it  for  the  world,  if  all. 

Who  creep  about  this  earthly  ball. 

Though  shorter-lived  than  most  he  be, 

Were  useful  in  their  kind  as  he. 


XVI.  THE  INNOCENT  THIEF. 

Not  a  flower  can  be  found  in  the  fields, 
Or  the  spot  that  we  till  for  our  pleasure, 

From  the  largest  to  least,  but  it  yields 
To  the  bee,  never- Wearied,  a  treasure. 

Scarce  any  she  quits  unexplored, 
With  a  diligence  truly  exact ; 

Yet,  steal  what  she  may  for  her  hoard. 
Leaves  evidence  none  of  the  fact. 

Her  lucrative  task  she  pursues, 
And  pilfers  with  so  much  address. 

That  none  of  their  odour  they  lose. 
Nor  charm  by  their  beauty  the  less. 

Not  thus  inoffensively  preys 

The  canker-worm,  indwelling  foe ! 

His  voracity  not  thus  allays 

The  sparrow,  the  finch,  or  the  crow. 

The  worm,  more  expensively  fed. 
The  pride  of  the  garden  devours ; 

And  birds  pick  the  seed  from  the  bed. 
Still  less  to  be  spared  than  the  flowers. 

But  she  with  such  delicate  skill 
Her  pillage  so  fits  for  her  use. 

That  the  chymist  in  vain  with  his  still 
Would  labour  the  like  to  produce. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


159 


Then  grudge  not  her  temperate  meals, 
Nor  a  benefit  blame  as  a  theft ; 

Since,  stole  she  not  all  that  she  steals, 
Neither  honey  nor  wax  would  be  left. 


XVII.  DENNER'S  OLD  WOMAN. 

In  this  mimic  form  of  a  matron  in  years, 
How  plainly  the  pencil  of  Denner  appears ! 
The  matron  herself,  in  whose  old  age  we  see 
Not  a  trace  of  decline,  what  a  wonder  is  she ! 
No  dimness  of  eye,  and  no  cheek  hanging  low. 
No  wrinkle,  or  deep-furrowed  frown  on  the  brow ! 
Her  forehead  indeed  is  here  circled  around 
With  locks  like  the  ribbon,  with  which  they  are 
bound ; 

While  glossy  and  smooth,  and  as  soft  as  the  skin 

Of  a  delicate  peach,  is  the  down  of  her  chin ; 

But  nothing  unpleasant,  or  sad,  or  severe, 

Or  that  indicates  life  in  its  winter — is  here. 

Yet  all  is  expressed,  with  fidelity  due. 

Nor  a  pimple,  or  freckle,  concealed  from  the  view. 

Many  fond  of  new  sights,  or  who  cherish  a  taste 
For  the  labours  of  art,  to  the  spectacle  haste  : 
The  youths  all  agree,  that  could  old  age  inspire 
The  passion  of  love,  hers  would  kindle  the  fire. 
And  the  matrons,  with  pleasure,  confess  that  they 
see 

Ridiculous  nothing  or  hideous  in  thee. 

The  nymphs  for  themselves  scarcely  hope  a  decline, 

O  wonderful  woman !  as  placid  as  thine. 

Strange  magic  of  art !  which  the  youth  can  engage 
To  peruse,  half-enamoured,  the  features  of  age ; 
And  force  from  the  virgin  a  sigh  of  despair, 
That  she  when  as  old,  shall  be  equally  fair ! 
How  great  is  the  glory,  that  Denner  has  gained, 
Since  Apelles  not  more  for  his  Venus  obtained ! 


XVIII.  THE  TEARS  OF  A  PAINTER. 

Apelles,  hearing  that  his  boy 
Had  just  expired — his  only  joy ! 
Although  the  sight  with  anguish  tore  him, 
Bade  place  his  dear  remains  before  him. 
He  seized  his  brush,  his  colours  spread  ; 
And--"  Oh !  my  child,  accept,"— he  said, 
"('Tis  all  that  I  can  now  bestow,) 
This  tribute  of  a  father's  wo  I 
Then,  faithful  to  the  twofold  part, 
Both  of  his  feelings  and  his  art, 
He  closed  his  eyes,  with  tender  care^ 
And  formed  at  once  a  fellow  pair. 
His  brow,  with  amber  locks  beset, 
'  And  hps  he  drew,  not  hvid  yet ; 
And  shaded  all,  that  he  liad  done, 
To  a  just  image  of  his  son. 

P 


Thus  far  is  well    But  view  again, 
The  cause  of  thy  paternal  pain ! 
Thy  melancholy  task  fulfil ! 
It  needs  the  last,  last  touches  still. 
Again  his  pencil's  power  he  tries, 
For  on  his  lips  a  smile  he  spies : 
And  still  his  cheek,  unfaded,  shows 
The  deepest  damask  of  the  rose. 
Then,  heedless  to  the  finished  whole, 
With  fondest  eagerness  he  stole, 
TiU  scarce  himself  distinctly  knew 
The  cherub  copied  from  the  true. 

Now,  painter,  cease  !  thy  task  is  done, 
Long  lives  this  image  of  thy  son ; 
Nor  short-lived  shall  the  glory  prove. 
Or  of  thy  labour,  or  thy  love. 


XIX.  THE  MAZE. 
From  right  to  left,  and  to  and  fro 
Caught  in  a  labyrinth,  you  go. 
And  turn,  and  turn,  and  turn  again. 
To  solve  the  mystery,  but  in  vain ; 
Stand  still  and  breathe,  and  take  from  me 
A  clew  that  soon  shall  set  you  free ! 
Not  Ariadne,  if  you  meet  her. 
Herself  could  serve  you  with  a  better. 
You  enter'd  easily — find  where — 
And  make,  with  ease,  your  exit  there ! 


XX.  NO  SORROW  PECULIAR  TO  THE 
SUFFERER. 
The  lover,  in  melodious  verses 
His  singular  distress  rehearses. 
Still  closing  with  a  rueful  cry, 
"  Was  ever  such  a  wretch  as  I !" 
Yes !  thousands  have  endured  before 
All  thy  distress ;  some,  haply,  more. 
Unnumbered  Corydons  complain, 
And  Strephons,  of  the  like  disdain ; 
And  if  thy  Chloe  be  of  steel. 
Too  deaf  to  hear,  too  hard  to  feel ; 
Not  her  alone  that  censure  fits, 
Nor  thou  alone  hast  lost  thy  wits. 


XXI.  THE  SNAIL. 

To  grass,  or  leaf,  or  fruit,  or  wall. 
The  snail  sticks  close,  nor  fears  to  fall, 
As  if  he  grew  there,  house  and  all 

Together. 

Within  that  house  secure  he  hides, 
When  danger  imminent  betides 
Of  storm,  or  other  harm  besides 

Of  weather. 


160 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Give  but  his  horns  tho  slightest  touch, 
His  sclf-collccting  power  is  such, 
He  shrinks  into  his  house  with  much 

Displeasure. 

Wherever  he  dwells,  he  dwells  alone, 
Except  himself  has  chattels  none, 
Well  satisfied  to  be  his  own 

Whole  treasure. 

Thus,  hermit-like,  his  life  he  leads, 
Nor  partner  of  his  banquet  needs. 
And  if  he  meets  one,  only  feeds 

The  faster. 

Who  seeks  him  must  be  worse  than  blind, 
(He  and  his  house  are  so  combined) 
If,  finding  it,  he  fails  to  find 

Its  master. 


THE  CONTRITE  HEART. 

The  Lord  will  happiness  divine 

On  contrite  hearts  bestow ; 
Then  tell  me,  gracious  God,  is  mine 

A  contrite  heart  or  no  1 

I  hear,  but  seem  to  hear  in  vain, 

Insensible  as  steel ; 
If  aught  is  felt,  'tis  only  pain 

To  find  I  can  not  feel. 

I  sometimes  think  myself  inclined 

To  love  thee,  if  I  could ; 
But  often  feel  another  mind. 

Averse  to  all  that's  good. 

My  best  desires  are  faint  and  few, 
I  fain  would  strive  for  more ; 

But  when  I  cry,  "  My  strength  renew," 
Seem  weaker  than  before, 

I  see  thy  saints  with  comfort  filled, 
When  in  thy  house  of  prayer ; 

But  still  in  bondage  I  am  held, 
And  find  no  comfort  there. 

Oh,  make  this  heart  rejoice  or  ache ; 

Decide  this  doubt  for  me ; 
And  if  it  be  not  broken,  break, 

And  heal  it  if  it  be. 


THE  SHINING  LIGHT. 

My  former  hopes  are  dead ; 

My  terror  now  begins ; 
I  feel,  alas !  that  I  am  dead 

In  trespasses  and  sins, 


Ah,  whither  shall  I  fly'? 

I  hear  the  thunder  roar ; 
The  law  proclaims  destruction  nigh, 

And  vengeance  at  the  door. 

When  I  review  my  ways, 
I  dread  impending  doom ; 

But  sure  a  friendly  whisper  says, 
"  Flee  from  the  wrath  to  come." 

1  see,  or  think  I  see, 

A  glimmering  from  afar ; 

A  beam  of  day  that  shines  for  me, 
To  save  me  from  despair. 

Forerunner  of  the  sun, 
It  marks  the  pilgrim's  way ; 

I'll  gaze  upon  it  while  I  run. 
And  watch  the  rising  day. 


THIRSTING  FOR  GOD. 

I  THIRST,  but  not  as  once  I  did. 
The  vain  delights  of  earth  to  share  ; 

Thy  words,  Immanuel,  all  forbid 

That  I  should  seek  my  pleasure  there. 

It  was  the  sight  of  thy  dear  cross 

First  weaned  my  soul  from  earthly  things, 

And  taught  me  to  esteem  as  dross 

The  mirth  of  fools  and  pomp  of  kings. 

I  want  that  grace  that  springs  from  thee, 
That  quickens  all  things  where  it  flows, 

And  makes  a  wretched  thorn  like  me, 
Bloom  as  the  myrtle  or  the  rose. 

Dear  fountain  of  delight  unknown, 
No  longer  sink  below  the  brim : 

But  overflow  and  pour  me  down 
A  living  and  Kfe-giving  stream. 

For  sure,  of  all  the  plants  that  share 
The  notice  of  thy  Father's  eye. 

None  proves  less  grateful  to  his  care. 
Or  yields  him  meaner  fruit  than  I. 


A  TALE.* 

In  Scotland's  realm  where  trees  are  few. 

Nor  even  shrubs  abound; 
But  where,  however  bleak  the  view. 

Some  better  things  are  found, 

*  This  tale  is  founded  on  an  an  article  of  intelligence  which 
the  author  found  in  the  Buckinghamshire  Herald  for  Saturday, 
June  1,  1793,  in  the  following  words  :— 

Glasgmo,  May  23. 

In  a  block,  or  pulley,  near  the  head  of  the  mast  of  a  gabert 
now  lying  at  the  Broomielaw,  there  is  a  chaflinclvs  nesland 
four  eggs.  The  nest  was  built  while  the  vessel  lay  at  Greenock, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


161 


For  husband  there  and  wife  may  boast 

Their  union  undefiled, 
And  false  ones  are  as  rare  almost 

As  hedge-rows  in  the  wild. 

In  Scotland's  realm,  forlorn  and  bare, 
The  history  chanced  of  late — 

The  history  of  a  wedded  pair, 
A  chaffinch  and  his  mate. 

The  spring  drew  near,  each  felt  a  breast 

With  genial  instinct  filled; 
They  paired,  and  would  have  buUt  a  nest, 

But  found  not  where  to  build. 

The  heath  uncovered,  and  the  moors, 

Except  with  snow  and  sleet. 
Sea-beaten  rocks,  and  naked  shores 

Could  yield  them  no  retreat 

Long  time  a  breeding-place  they  sought. 
Till  both  grew  vexed  and  tired ; 

Atr  length  a  ship  arriving,  brought 
The  good  so  long  desired, 

A  ship ! — could  such  a  restless  thing 

Afford  them  place  of  rest  1 
Or  was  the  merchant  charged  to  bring 

The  homeless  birds  a  nesti 

Hush — Silent  hearers  profit  most — 

This  racer  of  the  sea 
Proved  kinder  to  them  than  the  coast 

It  served  them  with  a  tree. 

But  such  a  tree!  'twas  shaven  deal. 

The  tree  they  call  a  mast, 
And  had  a  hollow  with  a  wheei 

Through  which  the  tackle  passed. 

Within  that  cavity  aloft. 

Their  roofless  home  they  fixed, 

Formed  with  materials  neat  and  soft. 
Bents,  wool,  and  feathers  mixt. 

Four  ivory  eggs  soon  pave  its  floor. 
With  russet  specks  bedight — 

The  vessel  weighs,  forsakes  the  shore. 
And  lessens  to  the  sight. 

The  mother-bir^  is  gone  to  sea, 
As  she  had  changed  her  kind; 

But  goes  the  male?  Far  wiser,  he 
Is  doubtless  left  behind? 


and  was  followed  hither  by  both  birds.  Though  the  block  is 
occasionally  lowered  for  the  inspection  of  the  curious,  the 
birds  have  not  forsaken  the  nest.  The  cock,  however,  visits 
the  nest  but  seldom,  while  the  hen  never  leaves  it  but  when 
she  descends  to  the  hull  fcr  food. 


No — soon  as  fi:om  ashore  he  saw 
The  winged  mansion  move. 

He  flew  to  reach  it,  by  a  law 
Of  never-failing  love. 

Then  perching  at  his  consort's  side, 
Was  briskly  borne  along, 

The  billows  and  the  blast  defied. 
And  cheered  her  with  a  song; 

The  seaman  with  sincere  delight 
His  feathered  shipmates  eyes. 

Scarce  less  exulting  in  the  sight 
Then  when  he  tows  a  prize. 

For  seamen  much  believe  in  signs, 
And  for  a  chance  so  new, 

Each  some  approaching  good  divines. 
And  may  his  hopes  be  true ! 

Hail,  honoured  land !  a  desert  where 

Not  even  birds  can  hide, 
Yet  parent  of  this  loving  pair 

Whom  nothing  could  divide. 

And  ye  who,  rather  than  resign 

Your  matrimonial  plan. 
Were  not  afraid  to  plough  the  brine 

In  company  with  man. 

For  whose  lean  country  much  disdain 

We  English  often  show, 
Yet  from  a  richer  nothing  gain 

But  wantonness  and  wo. 

Be  it  your  fortune,  year  by  year. 
The  same  resource  to  prove. 

And  may  ye,  sometimes  landing  here, 
Instruct  us  how  to  love! 


SONG  ON  PEACE. 

Air— "My  fond  shepherds  of  late,"  «&c 

No  longer  I  follow  a  sound ; 
No  longer  a  dream  I  pursue ; 

0  Happiness !  not  to  be  found, 
Unattainable  treasure,  adieu ! 

1  have  sought  thee  in  splendour  and  dress, 
In  the  regions  of  pleasure  and  taste ; 

I  have  sought  thee,  and  seem'd  to  possess, 
But  have  proved  thee  a  vision  at  last. 

An  humble  ambition  and  hope 

The  voice  of  true  Wisdom  inspires; 

'Tis  sufficient,  if  Peace  be  the  scope 
And  the  summit  of  all  our  desires. 


162 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Peace  may  be  the  lot  of  the  mind 
That  seeks  it  in  meekness  and  love; 

But  rapture  and  bUss  are  confined 
To  the  glorified  spirits  above. 


SONNET  TO  JOHN  JOHNSON, 

ON  HIS  PRESENTING  ME  WITH  AN  ANTIftUE  BUST 
OF  HOMER,  1793. 

Kinsman  beloved,  and  as  a  son,  by  me  ! 
When  I  behold  this  fruit  of  thy  regard, 
The  sculptured  form  of  my  old  favourite  bard, 

I  reverence  feel  for  him,  and  love  for  thee. 

Joy  too  and  grief.    Much  joy  that  there  should  be 
Wise  men  and  learn'd,  who  grudge  not  to  re- 
ward 

With  some  applause  my  bold  attempt  and  hard, 
Which  others  scorn :  Critics  by  courtesy. 
The  grief  is  this,  that  sunk  in  Homer's  mine, 

I  lose  my  precious  years  now  soon  to  fail, 
Handhng  his  gold,  which  howsoe'er  it  shine, 

Proves  dross ,  when  balanced  in  the  Christian  scale. 
Be  wiser  thou— like  our  forefather  Donne, 
Seek  heavenly  wealth,  and  work  for  God  alone. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  STONE 

ERECTED  AT  THE  SOWING  OF  A  GROVH        MIS  AT 
CHILLINGTON,  THE  SEAT  OF  T.  GIFFORD,  ESa. 

1790. 

Other  stones  the  era  tell, 
When  some  feeble  mortal  fell ; 
I  stand  here  to  date  the  birth 
Of  these  hardy  sons  of  earth. 

Which  shall  longest  brave  the  sky, 
Storm  and  frost— these  oaks  or  11 
Pass  an  age  or  two  away, 
I  must  moulder  and  decay ; 
But  the  years  that  crumble  me 
Shall  invigorate  the  tree, 
Spread  its  branch,  dilate  its  size, 
Lift  its  summit  to  the  skies. 

Cherish  honour,  virtue,  truth. 
So  shalt  thou  prolong  thy  youth. 
Wanting  these,  however  fast 
Man  be  fix'd,  and  form'd  to  last. 
He  is  lifeless  even  now, 
Stone  at  heart,  and  can  not  grow. 


LOVE  ABUSED. 

What  is  there  in  the  vale  of  life 
Half  so  delightful  as  a  wife. 
When  friendship,  love,  and  peace  combine 
To  stamp  the  marriage-bond  divine  1 


The  stream  of  pure  and  genuine  love 
Derives  its  current  from  above ; 
And  earth  a  second  Eden  shows 
Where'er  the  healing  water  flows : 
But  ah !  if  from  the  dykes  and  drains 
Of  sensual  nature's  feverish  veins, 
Lust,  like  a  lawless  headstrong  flood. 
Impregnated  with  ooze  and  mud. 
Descending  fast  on  every  side. 
Once  mingles  with  the  sacred  tide. 
Farewell  the  soul-enlivening  scene ! 
The  banks  that  wore  a  smiling  green, 
With  rank  defilement  overspread, 
Bewail  their  flowery  beauties  dead. 
The  stream  polluted,  dark,  and  dull, 
Diffused  into  a  Stygian  pool, 
Through  life's  last  melancholy  years 
Is  fed  with  ever-flowing  tears : 
Complaints  supply  the  zephyr's  part, 
And  sighs  that  heave  a  breaking  heart. 

LINES 

COMPOSED  f6r  a  memorial  OF  ASHLEY  COWPER, 
ESa.  immediately  after  his  death,  by  HIS 
NEPHEW  WILLIAM,  OF  WESTON.     JUNE,  1788. 

Farewell  !  endued  with  all  that  could  engage 
All  hearts  to  love  thee,  both  in  youth  and  age ! 
In  prime  of  life,  for  sprightliness  enroU'd 
Among  the  gay,  yet  virtuous  as  the  old ; 

In  life's  last  stage,  (O  blessings  rarely  found  1) 
Pleasant  as  youth  with  all  its  blossoms  crown'd ; 
Through  every  period  of  this  changeful  state 
Unchanged  thyself— wise,  good,  aflfectionate ! 

Marble  may  flatter ;  and  lest  this  should  seem 
O'ercharged  with  praises  on  so  dear  a  theme, 
Although  thy  worth  be  more  than  half  suppress'd, 
Love  shall  be  satisfied,  and  veil  the  rest. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  LATE 
JOHN  THORNTON,  ESa.  1790. 

Poets  attempt  the  noblest  task  they  can, 
Praising  the  Author  of  all  good  in  man; 
And,  next,  commemorating  worthies  lost, 
The  dead  in  whom  that  good  abounded  most. 

Thee,  therefore,  of  commercial  fame,  but  more 
Famed  for  thy  probity  from  shore  to  shore. 
Thee,  Thornton !  worthy  in  some  page  to  shine, 
As  honest  and  more  eloquent  than  mine, 
I  mourn ;  or,  since  thrice  happy  thou  must  bo. 
The  world,  no  longer  thy  abode,  not  thee. 
Thee  to  deplore,  were  grief  misspent  indeed } 
It  were  to  weep  that  goodness  has  its  meed, 
That  there  is  bliss  prepared  in  yonder  sky, 
And  glory  for  the  virtuous  when  they  die. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


163 


What  pleasure  can  the  miser's  fondled  hoard, 
Or  spendthrift's  prodigal  excess  afford, 
Sweet  as  the  privilege  of  healing  wo 
By  virtue  suffer'd  combatting  below  1 
That  privilege  was  thine ;  Heaven  gave  thee  means 
To  illumine  with  delight  the  saddest  scenes, 
Till  thy  appearance  chased  the  gloom,  forlorn 
As  midnight,  and  despairing  of  a  morn. 
Thou  hadst  an  industry  in  doing  good, 
Restless  as  his  who  toils  and  sweats  for  food ; 
Avarice,  in  thee,  was  the  desire  of  wealth 
By  rust  unperishable  or  by  stealth  ; 
And  if  the  genuine  worth  of  gold  depend 
On  application  to  its  noblest  end, 
Thine  had  a  value  in  the  scales  of  Heaven, 
Surpassing  all  that  mine  or  mint  had  given. 
And,  though  God  made  thee  of  a  nature  prone 
To  distribution  boundless  of  thy  own, 
And  still  by  motives  of  religious  force 
Impell'd  thee  more  to  that  heroic  course ; 
Yet  was  thy  liberality  discreet, 
Nice  in  its  choice,  and  of  a  temper'd  heat. 
And,  though  in  act  unwearied,  secret  still, 
As  in  some  solitude  the  summer  rill 
Refreshes,  where  it  winds,  the  faded  green, 
And  cheers  the  drooping  flowers,  unheard,  unseen 

Such  was  thy  charity ;  no  sudden  start, 
After  long  sleep,  of  passion  in  the  heart, 
But  steadfast  principle,  and,  in  its  kind, 
Of  close  relation  to  th'  Eternal  mind. 
Traced  easily  to  its  true  source  above. 
To  Him,  whose  works  bespeak  his  nature,  love. 

Thy  bounties  all  were  Christian,  and  I  make 
This  record  of  thee  for  the  Gospel's  sake ; 
That  the  incredulous  themselves  may  see 
Its  use  and  power  exemplified  in  thee. 


TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND, 

ON  HIS  ARRIVING  AT  CAMBRIDGE  WET,  WHEN  NO 
RAIN  HAD  FALLEN  THERE, — 1793. 

Tf  Gideon's  fleece,  which  drench'd  with  dew  he 
found, 

While  moisture  none  refresh'd  the  herbs  around. 
Might  fitly  represent  the  Church,  endow'd 
With  heavenly  gifts,  to  Heathens  not  allow'd ; 
In  pledge,  perhaps,  of  favours  from  on  high,  ' 
Thy  locks  were  wet  when  others'  locks  were  dry 
Heaven  grant  us  half  the  omen — may  we  see 
Not  drought  on  others,  but  much  dew  on  thee ! 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OP  DR.  LLOYD. 

Our  good  old  friend  is  gone,  gone  to  his  rest, 
Whose  social  converse  was  itself  a  feast. 
O  ye  of  riper  age,  who  recollect 
How  once  ye  loved,  and  eyed  him  with  respect, 
Both  in  the  firmness  of  his  better  day, 
While  yet  he  ruled  you  with  a  father's  sway, 
And  when  impair'd  by  time  and  glad  to  rest, 
Yet  still  with  looks,  in  mild  complaisance  drest, 
He  took  his  annual  seat,  and  mingled  here 
His  sprightly  vein  with  yours — now  drop  a  tear. 
In  morals  blameless  as  in  manners  meek, 
He  knew  no  wish  that  he  might  blush  to  speak ; 
But,  happy  in  whatever  state  below, 
And  richer  than  the  rich  in  being  so, 
Obtain'd  the  hearts  of  all,  and  such  a  meed 
At  length  from  One,*  as  made  him  rich  indeed. 
Hence  then,  ye  titles,  hence,  not  wanted  here, 
Go,  garnish  merit  in  a  brighter  sphere, 
The  brows  of  those  whose  more  exalted  lot 
He  could  congratulate,  but  envied  not. 

Light  he  the  turf,  good  Senior!  on  thy  breast, 
And  tranquil  as  thy  mind  was,  be  thy  rest ! 
Though,  living,  thou  hadst  more  desert  than  fame, 
And  not  a  stone  now  chronicles  thy  name. 


ON  FOP, 

A  DOG  BELONGING  TO  LADY  THROCKMORTON. 
AUGUST,  1792. 

Though  once  a  puppy,  and  though  Fop  by  name, 
Here  moulders  One  whose  bones  some  honour 
claim. 

No  sycophant,  although  of  spaniel  race, 

And  though  no  hound,  a  martyr  to  the  chase— 

Ye  squirrels,  rabbits,  leverets,  rejoice. 

Your  haunts  no  longer  echo  to  his  voice; 

This  record  of  his  fate  exulting  view, 

He  died  worn  out  with  vain  pursuit  of  you. 

'Yes,'  the  indignant  shade  of  Fop  replies  

'And  worn  with  vain  pursuit  man  also  dies.' 

*  He  was  usher  and  under-master  of  Westminster  near 
fifty  years,  and  retired  frcm  his  occupation  when  he  was  near 
seventy,  with  a  handsome  pension  from  the  Idng. 


p  2 


THE 

LETTERS 

OF 

TO  HIS  FRIENDS. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Temple,  Aug.  9,  1763. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN, 

Having  promised  to  write  to  you,  I  make  haste 
to  be  as  good  as  my  word.  I  have  a  pleasure  in 
writing  to  you  at  any  time,  but  especially  at  the 
present,  when  my  days  are  spent  in  reading  the 
Journals,  and  my  nights  in  dreaming  of  them;* 
an  employment  not  very  agreeable  to  a  head  that 
has  long  been  habituated  to  the  luxury  of  choosing 
its  subject,  and  has  been  as  little  employed  upon 
business  as  if  it  had  grown  upon  the  shoulders  of 
a  much  wealthier  gentleman.  But  the  numskull 
pays  for  it  now,  and  will  not  presently  forget  the 
discipline  it  has  undergone  lately.  If  I  succeed 
in  this  doubtful  piece  of  promotion,  I  shall  have  at 
least  this  satisfaction  to  reflect  upon,  that  the 
volumes  I  write  will  be  treasured  up  with  the  ut- 
most care  for  ages,  and  will  last  as  long  as  the 
English  constitution:  a  duration  which  ought  to 
satisfy  the  vanity  of  any  author  who  has  a  spark 
of  love  for  his  country.  O !  my  good  cousin !  if  I 
was  to  open  my  heart  to  you,  I  could  show  you 
strange  sights;  nothing,  I  flatter  myself,  that  would 
shock  you,  but  a  great  deal  that  would  make  you 
wonder.  I  am  of  a  very  singular  temper,  and  very 
unUke  all  the  men  that  I  have  ever  conversed  with. 
Certainly  I  am  not  an  absolute  fool;  but  I  have 
more  weaknesses  than  the  greatest  of  all  the  fools 
I  can  recollect  at  present.  In  short,  if  I  was  as 
lit  for  the  next  world  as  I  am  unfit  for  this,  and 
God  forbid  I  should  speak  it  in  vanity,  I  would 
not  change  conditions  with  any  saint  in  Christen- 
dom. 

My  destination  is  settled  at  last,  and  I  have  ob- 
tained a  furlough,    Margate  is  the  word,  and 


•The  writer  had  been  recently  appointed  Clerk  of  the  Jour- 
nals in  the  House  of  Lords. 


what  do  you  think  will  ensue,  cousin?  I  know 
what  you  expect,  but  ever  since  I  was  born  I  have 
been  good  at  disappointing  the  most  natural  ex- 
pectations. Many  years  ago,  cousin,  there  was  a 
possibility  I  might  prove  a  very  difl[erent  thing 
from  what  I  am  at  present.  My  character  is  now 
fixed,  and  riveted  fast  upon  me;  and,  between 
friends,  is  not  a  very  splendid  one,  or  likely  to  be 
guilty  of  much  fascination. 

Adieu,  my  dear  cousin !  So  much  as  I  love  you, 
I  wonder  how  the  deuce  it  has  happened  I  was 
never  in  love  with  you.  Thank  heaven  that  I 
never  was,  for  at  this  time  I  have  had  a  pleasure 
in  writing  to  you  which  in  that  case  I  should  have 
forfeitfed.  Let  me  hear  from  you,  or  I  shall  reap 
but  half  the  reward  that  is  due  to  my  noble  indif- 
ference. 

Yours  ever,  and  evermore,       W.  C. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  Esq. 

DEAR  JOE,  Huntingdon,  June  24,  1765. 

The  only  recompense  I  can  make  you  for  your 
kind  attention  to  my  affairs  during  my  illness,  is 
to  tell  you,  that  by  the  mercy  of  God  I  am  restored 
to  perfect  health  both  of  mind  and  body.  This  I 
beheve  will  give  you  pleasure,  and -I  would  gladly 
do  any  thing  from  which  you  could  receive  it. 

I  left  St.  Alban's  on  the  seventeenth,  and  ar- 
rived that  day  at  Cambridge,  spent  some  time  there 
with  my  brother,  and  came  hither  on  the  twenty- 
second.  I  have  a  lodging  that  puts  me  continually 
in  mind  of  our  summer  excursions;  we  have  had 
many  worse,  and  except  the  size. of  it  (which  how- 
ever is  sufficient  for  a  single  man)  but  few  better. 
I  am  not  quite  alone,  having  brought  a  servant 
wilth  me  from  St.  Alban's,  who  is  the  very  mirror 
of  fidelity  and  aflfection  for  his  master.  And 
L  whereas  the  Tufkbh  Spy  says,  he  kept  no  ser- 


Let.  3,  4. 


LETTERS. 


165 


vant,  because  he  would  not  have  an  enemy,  in  his 
house,  I  hired  mine,  because  I  would  have  a  friend. 
Men  do  not  usually  bestow  these  encomiums  on 
their  lackeys,  nor  do  they  usually  deserve  them ; 
but  I  have  had  experience  of  mine,  both  in  sick- 
4iess  and  in  health,  and  never  saw  his  fellow. 

The  river  Ouse,  I  forget  how  they  spell  it,  is 
the  most  agreeable  circumstance  in  this  part  of  the 
world;  at  this  town  it  is  I  believe  as  wide  as  the 
Thames  at  Windsor;  nor  does  the  silver  Thames 
better  deserve  that  epithet,  nor  has  it  more  flowers 
upon  its  banks,  these  being  attributes  which  in 
strict  truth  belong  to  neither.  Fluellin  would  say, 
they  are  as  like  as  my  fingers  to  my  fingers,  and 
there  is  salmon  in  both.  It  is  a  noble  stream  to 
bathe  in,  and  I  shall  make  that  use  of  it  three 
times  a  week,  having  introduced  myself  to  it  for 
the  first  time  this  morning. 

1  beg  you  will  remember  me  to  all  my  friends, 
which  is  a  task  will  cost  you  no  great  pains  to 
execute — particularly  remember  me  to  those  of 
your  own  house,  and  believe  me 

Your  very  affectionate,        W,  C. 


more  than  sufficient  to  compensate  for  the  loss  of 
every  otner  blessing. 

You  may  now  inform  all  those  whom  you  think 
really  interested  in  my  welfare,  that  they  have  no 
need  to  be  apprehensive  on  the  score  of  my  hap- 
piness at  present.  And  you  yourself  will  believe 
that  my  happiness  is  no  dream,  because  I  have 
told  you  the  foundation  on  which  it  is  built.  What 
I  have  written  would  appear  like  enthusiasm  to 
many,  for  we  are  apt  to  give  that  name  to  every 
warm  affection  of  the  mind  in  others  which  we 
have  not  experienced  in  ourselves;  but  to  you, 
who  have  so  much  to  be  thankful  for,  and  a  tem- 
per inchned  to  gratitude,  it  will  not  appear  so. 

I  beg  you  will  give  my  love  to  Sir  Thomas, 
and  believe  that  I  am  obliged  to  you  both  for  in- 
quiring after  me  at  St.  Alban's. 

Yours  ever,  W,  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Huntingdon,  July  1,  1765 

MY  DEAR  LADY  HESKETH, 

Since  the  visit  you  were  so  kind  as  to  pay  me 
in  the  Temple  (the  only  time  I  ever  saw  you  vsdth- 
out  pleasure,)  what  have  I  not  suffered!  And 
since  it  has  pleased  God  to  restore  me  to  the  use 
of  my  reason,  what  have  I  not  enjoyed!  You 
know,  by  experience,  how  pleasant  it  is  to  feel  the 
first  approaches  of  health  after  a  fever;  but.  Oh 
the  fever  of  the  brain !  To  feel  the  quenching  of 
that  fire  is  indeed  a  blessing  which  I  think  it  im- 
possible to  receive  without  the  most  consummate 
gratitude.  Terrible  as  this  chastisement  is,  I  ac- 
knowledge in  it  the  hand  of  an  infinite  justice ; 
nor  is  it  at  all  more  difficult  for  me  to  perceive  in 
it  the  hand  of  an  infinite  mercy  likewise:  when 
I  consider  the  effect  it  has  had  upon  me,  I  am  ex- 
ceedingly thankful  for  it,  and,  without  hypocrisy, 
esteem  it  the  greatest  blessing,  next  to  life  itself,  I 
ever  received  from  the  divine  bounty,  I  pray  God 
that  I  may  ever  retain  this  sense  of  it,  and  then  I 
am  sure  I  shall  continue  to  be,  as  I  am  at  present, 
really  happy. 

I  write  thus  to  you  that  you  may  not  think  me 
a  forlorn  and  wretched  creature ;  which  you  might 
be  apt  to  do  considering  my  very  distant  removal 
from  every  friend  I  have  in  the  world — a  circum- 
stance which,  before  this  event  befel  me,  would  un- 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Huntingdon,  July  4,  1765. 
Being  just  emerged  from  the  Ouse,  I  sit  down 
to  thank  you,  my  dear  cousin,  for  your  friendly 
and  comfortable  letter.  What  could  you  think  of 
my  unaccountable  behaviour  to  you  in  that  visit  I 
mentioned  in  my  last  1  I  remember  I  neither  spoke 
to  you,  nor  looked  at  you.  The  solution  of  the 
mystery  indeed  followed  soon  after,  but  at  the 
time  it  must  have  been  inexplicable.  The  uproar 
within  was  even  then  begun,  and  my  silence  was 
only  the  sulkiness  of  a  thunderstorm  before  it 
opens.  I  am  glad,  however,  that  the  only  instance 
in  which  I  knew  not  how  to  value  your  company 
was,  when  I  was  not  in  my  senses.  It  was  the 
first  of  the  kind,  and  I  trust  in  God  it  will  be  the 
last. 

Plow  naturally  does  affliction  make  us  Chns- 
tians !  and  how  impossible  is  it  when  all  human 
help  is  vain  and  the  whole  earth  too  poor  and  tri- 
fling to  furnish  us  with  one  moment's  peace,  how 
impossible  is  it  then  to  avoid  looking  at  the  gospel! 
It  gives  me  some  concern,  though  at  the  same  time  it 
increases  my  gratitude,  to  reflect  that  a  convert  made 
in  Bedlam  is  more  likely  to  be  a  stumbling  block 
to  others,  than  to  advance  their  faith.  But  if  it 
has  that  effect  upon  any,  it  is  owing  to  their  rea- 
soning amiss,  and  drawing  their  conclusions  from 
false  premises.  He  who  can  ascribe  an  amend- 
ment of  life  and  manners,  and  a  reformation  of  the 
heart  itself,  to  madness,  is  guilty  of  an  absurdity 
that  in  any  other  case  would  fasten  the  imputation 
of  madness  upon  himself ;  for  by  so  doing  he  as- 
cribes a  reasonable  effect  to  an  unreasonable  cause, 


doubtedly  have  made  me  so;  but  my  affliction  has  and  a  positive  effect  to  a  negative.  But  when 
taught  me  a  road  to  happiness  which  without  it  I  Christianity  only  is  to  be  sacrificed,  he  that  stabs 
should  never  have  found;  and  I  know,  and  have  deepest  is  always  the  wisest  man.  Yi\v'  n^y  dear 
experience  of  it  every  day,  that  the  mercy  of  God, '  cousin,  yourself  will  be  apt  to  think  ™  .aiTy  the 
to  him  who  believes  liimself  the  object  of  it,  is  matter  too  far,  and  that  in  the  present  warmth  oi 


1G6 


COWPER'! 


'S  WORKS. 


Let.  5. 


my  heart  I  make  too  ample  a  concession  in  saying 
that  I  am  only  noio  a  convert.  You  tliink  I  al- 
ways believed,  and  I  thought  so  too ;  l)ut  you  were 
deceived,  and  so  was  I.  I  called  myself  indeed  a 
Christian,  but  He  who  knows  my  heart  knows 
that  I  never  did  a  right  thing,  nor  abstained  from 
a  wrong  one,  because  T  was  so.  But  if  I  did  ei- 
ther, it  was  under  the  influence  of  some  other  mo- 
tive. And  it  is  such  seeming  Christians,  such 
pretending  believers,  that  do  most  mischief  to  the 
cause,  and  furnish  the  strongest  arguments  to  sup- 
port the  infidelity  of  their  enemies :  unless  profes- 
sion and  conduct  go  together,  the  man's  life  is  a 
lie,  and  the  validity  of  what  he  professes  itself  is 
called  in  question.  The  difference  between  a 
Christian  and  an  Unbeliever  would  be  so  stril<:ing, 
if  the  treacherous  allies  of  the  church  would  go 
over  at  once  to  the  other  side,  that  I  am  satisfied 
religion  would  be  no  loser  by  the  bargain. 

I  reckon  it  one  instance  of  the  providence  that 
has  attended  me  throughout  this  whole  event,  that 
instead  of  being  delivered  into  the  hands  of  one  of 
the  London  physicians,  who  were  so  much  nearer 
that  I  wonder  I  was  not,  I  was  carried  to  Doctor 
Cotton.  I  was  not  only  treated  by  him  with  the 
greatest  tenderness  while  I  was  ill,  and  attended 
with  the  utmost  diligence,  but  when  my  reason 
was  restored  to  me,  and  I  had  so  much  need  of  a 
religious  friend  to  converse  with,  to  whom  I  could 
open  my  mind  upon  the  subject  without  reserve,  I 
could  hardly  have  found  a  fitter  person  for  the 
purpose.  My  eagerness  and  anxiety  to  settle  my 
opinions  upon  that  long  neglected  point  made  it 
necessary  that,  while  my  mind  was  yet  weak,  and 
my  spirits  uncertain,  I  should  have  some  assist- 
ance. The  doctor  was  as  ready  to  administer 
relief  to  me  in  this  article  likewise,  and  as  well 
qualified  to  do  it,  as  in  that  which  was  more  rnime- 
diately  his  province.  How  many  physicians  would 
have  thought  this  an  irregular  appetite,  and  a 
symptom  of  remaining  madness !  But  if  it  were 
so,  my  friend  was  as  mad  as  myself,  and  it  is  well 
for  me  that  he  was  so. 

My  dear  cousin,  you  know  not  half  the  deliver- 
ances I  have  received ;  my  brother  is  the  only  one 
in  the  family  who  does.  My  recovery  is  indeed  a 
signal  one,  but  a  greater  if  possible  went  before  it. 
My  future  life  must  express  my  thankfulness,  for 
by  words  I  can  not  do  it, 

I  pray  God  to  bless  you  and  my  friend  sir  Tho- 
mas. Yours  ever,  W.  C. 

TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Huntingdon,  July  5,  17bo. 

MY  DEAR  LADY  HESKETH, 

My  pen  runs  so  fast  you  will  begin  to  wish  you 
had  not  put  it  in  motion,  but  you  must  consider 


we  have  not  met  even  by  letter  almost  these  two 
years,  which  will  account  in  some  measure  for 
my  pestering  you  in  this  manner ;  besides,  my  last 
was  no  answer  to  yours,  and  therefore  I  consider 
myself  as  still  in  your  debt.  To  say  truth,  I  have 
this  long  time  promised  myself  a  correspondence* 
with  you  as  one  of  my  principal  pleasures. 

I  should  have  written  to  you  from  St.  Alban's 
long  since,  but  was  willing  to  perform  quarantine 
first,  both  for  my  own  sake  and  because  I  thought 
my  letters  would  be  more  satisfactory  to  you  from 
any  other  quarter.  You  will  perceive  I  allowed 
myself  a  very  sufficient  time  for  the  purpose,  for  I 
date  my  recovery  from  the  twenty-fifth  of  last  July, 
having  been  ill  seven  months,  and  well  twelvo 
months.  It  was  on  that  day  my  brother  came  to 
see  me.  I  was  far  from  well  when  he  came  in ; 
yet  though  he  only  staid  one  day  with  me,  his 
company  served  to  put  to  flight  a  thousand  deliri- 
ums and  delusions  which  I  sill  laboured  under, 
and  the  next  morning  I  found  myself  a  new  crea- 
ture.   But  to  the  present  purpose. 

As  far  as  I  am  acquainted  with  this  place,  I  like 
it  extremely.  Mr.  Hodgson,  the  minister  of  the 
parish,  made  me  a  visit  the  day  before  yesterday. 
He  is  very  sensible,  a  good  preacher,  and  consci- 
entious in  the  discharge  of  his  duty.  He  is  very 
well  known  to  Doctor  Newton,  Bishop  of  Bristol, 
the  author  of  the  treatise  on  the  Prophecies,  one 
of  our  best  bishops,  and  who  has  written  the 
most  demonstrative  proof  of  the  truth  of  Chris- 
tianity, in  my  mind,  that  ever  was  published. 

There  is  a  village  called  Hertford,  about  a  mile 
and  a  half  from  hence.  The  church  there  is  very 
prettily  situated  upon  a  rising  ground,  so  close  to 
the  river  that  it  washes  the  wall  of  the  churchyard., 
I  found  an  epitaph  there,  the  other  mormng,  the 
two  first  lines  of  which  being  better  than  any  thing 
else  I  saw  there  I  made  shift  to  remember.  It 
is  by  a  widow  on  her  husband. 

"Thou  wast  too  good  to  live  on  earth  with  me, 
And  I  not  good  enough  to  die  with  thee." 

The  distance  of  this  place  from  Cambridge  is 
the  worst  circumstance  belonging  to  it.  My  bro- 
ther and  I  are  fifteen  miles  asunder,  which,  con- 
sidering that  I  came  hither  for  the  sake  of  being 
near  him,  is  rather  too  much.  I  wish  that  young 
man  was  better  known  in  the  family.  He  has  as 
many  good  qualities  as  his  nearest  kindred  could 
wish  to  find  in  him. 

As  Mr.  CLuin  very  roundly  expressed  himself 
upon  some  such  occasion,  '  here  is  very  plentiful 
accommodation,  and  great  happiness  of  provision.' 
So  that  if  I  starve,  it  must  be  through  forgetfiil- 
ness,  rather  than  scarcity. 

Fare  thee  well,  my  good  and  dear  cousin. 

Ever  yours,  W,  C. 


Let.  6,  7. 


LETTERS. 


167 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN,  July  12,  1776. 

You  are  very  good  to  me,  and  if  you  will  only 
continue  to  write  at  such  intervals  as  you  find  con- 
venient, I  shall  receive  all  that  pleasure  which  I 
proposed  to  myself  from  our  correspondence.  I 
desire  no  more  than  that  you  would  never  drop 
me  for  any  great  length  of  time  together,  for  I  shall 
then  think  you  only  write  because  something  hap- 
pened to  put  you  in  mind  of  me,  or  for  some  other 
reason  equally  mortifying.  I  am  not  however  so 
unreasonable  as  to  expect  you  should  perform  this 
act  of  friendship  so  frequently  as  myself,  for  you 
live  in  a  world  swarming  with  engagements,  and 
my  hours  are  almost  all  my  own.  You  must  every 
day  be  employed  in  doing  what  is  expected  from 
you  by  a  thousand  others,  and  I  have  nothing  to 
do  but  what  is  most  agreeable  to  myself 

Our  mentioning  Newton's  treatise  on  the  Pro- 
phecies brings  to  my  mind  an  anecdote  of  Dr. 
Young,  who,  you  know,  died  lately  at  Welwyn. 
Dr.  Cotton,  who  was  intimate  with  him,  paid  him 
a  visit  about  a  fortnight  before  he  was  seized  with 
his  last  illness.  The  old  man  was  then  in  perfect 
health ;  the  antiquity  of  his  person,  the  gravity  of 
utterance,  and  the  earnestness  with  which  he  dis- 
coursed about  religion,  gave  him,  in  the  doctor's 
eye,  the  appearance  of  a  prophet.  They  had  been 
delivering  their  sentiments  upon  this  book  of  New- 
ton, when  Young  closed  the  conference  thus : — 
'My  friend,  there  are  two  considerations  upon 
which  my  faith  in  Christ  is  built  upon  a  rock :  the 
fall  of  man,  the  redemption  of  man,  and  the  resur- 
rection of  man,  the  three  cardinal  articles  of  our 
religion,  are  such  as  human  ingenuity  could  never 
have  invented,  therefore  they  must  be  divine. — 
The  other  argument  is  this— If  the  Prophecies 
have  been  fulfilled  (of  which  there  is  abundant 
demonstration)  the  scripture  must  be  the  word  of 
God ;  and  if  the  scripture  is  the  word  of  God, 
Christianity  must  be  true.' 

This  treatise  on  the  prophecies  serves  a  double 
purpose  ;  it  not  only  proves  the  truth  of  religion, 
in  a  manner  that  never  has  been  nor  ever  can  be 
controverted,  but  it  proves  likewise,  that  the  Ro- 
man catholic  is  the  apostate  and  antichristian 
church,  so  frequently  foretold  both  in  the  old  and 
new  testaments.    Indeed,  so  fatally  connected  is  i 


and  you  are  so  fond  of  that  which  is  so,  that  I  am 
sure  you  will  like  it. 

My  dear  cousin,  how  happy  am  I  in  having  a 
friend  to  whom  I  can  open  my  heart  upon  these 
subjects !  I  have  many  intimates  in  the  world, 
and  have  had  many  more  than  I  shall  have  here- 
after, to  whom  a  long  letter  on  these  most  impor- 
tant articles  would  appear  tiresome,  at  least,  if  not 
impertinent.  But  I  am  not  afraid  of  meeting  with 
that  reception  from  you,  who  have  never  yet  made 
it  your  interest  that  there  should  be  no  truth  in  the 
word  of  God.  May  this  everlasting  truth  be  your 
comfort  while  you  live,  and  attend  you  with  peace 
and  joy  in  your  last  moments !  I  love  you  too 
well  not  to  make  this  a  part  of  my  prayers,  and 
when  I  remember  my  friends  on  these  occasions 
there  is  no  likelihood  that  you  can  be  forgotten.  ' 

Yours  ever,  W.  C. 

P.  S.  Cambridge. — I  add  this  postscript  at  my 
brother's  rooms.  He  desires  to  be  aflfectionately 
remembered  to  you,  and  if  you  are  in  town  about 
a  fortnight  hence,  when  he  proposes  to  be  there 
himself,  will  take  a  breakfast  with  you. 


TO  LADY  PIESKETH. 

Huntingdon,  August  1,  1765. 


the  refutation  of  popery  with  the  truth  of  christi-  !  actions  and 


MY  DEAR  COUSIN, 

If  I  was  to  measure  your  obligation  to  write  by 
my  own  desire  to  hear  from  you,  I  should  call  you 
an  idle  correspondent  if  a  post  went  by  without 
bringing  me  a  letter,  but  I  am  not  so  unreasona- 
ble; on  the  contrary,  I  think  myself  very  happy  in 
hearing  from  you  upon  your  own  terms,  as  you  find 
most  convenient.  Your  short  history  of  my  family 
is  a  very  acceptable  part  of  your  letter;  if  they 
really  interest  themselves  in  my  welfare,  it  is  a 
mark  of  their  great  charity  for  one  who  has  been 
a  disappointment  and  a  vexation  to  them  ever 
since  he  has  been  of  consequence  to  be  either.  My 
friend,  the  major's  behaviour  to  me,  after  all  he 
suffered  by  my  abandoning  his  interest  and  my 
own  in  so  miserable  a  manner,  is  a  noble  instance 
of  generosity,  and  true  greatness  of  mind;  and  in- 
deed I  know  no  man  in  whom  those  qualities  are 
more  conspicuous ;  one  need  only  furnish  him  with 
an  opportunity  to  display  them,  and  they  are  al- 
ways ready  to  show  themselves  in  his  words  and 


anity,  when  the  latter  is  evinced  by  the  completion  i 


even  m  his  countenance  at  a  moment's 


warning.    I  have  great  reason  to  be  thankful — I 


of  the  prophecies,  that  m  proportion  as  light  is  have  lost  none  of  my  acquaintance  but  those  whom 
thrown  upon  the  one,  the  deformities  and  errors  I  determined  not  to  keep.  I  am  sorry  this  class  is 
of  the  other  are  more  plainly  exhibited.  But  I  'so  numerous.  What  would  I  not  give,  that  every 
leave  you  to  the  book  itself;  there  are  parts  of  it  friend  I  have  in  the  world  were  not  almost  but 
which  may  possibly  afford  you  less  entertainment '  altogether  christians  !  My  dear  cousin,  I  am  half 
than  the  rest,  because  you  have  never  been  a afraid  to  talk  in  this  style,  lest  I  should  seem  to 
school-boy;  but  in  the  main  it  is  so  interesting,  indulge  a  censorious  humour,  instead  of  hoping,  as 
12 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let,  8, 


I  ought,  the  best  for  all  men.  But  what  can  bo 
said  atravnst  ocular  proof  1  and  what  is^hope  when 
it  is  built  upon  presumption  1  To  use  the  most 
holy  name  in  the  universe  for  no  purpose,  or  a  bad 
one,  contrary  to  his  own  express  commandment: 
to  pass  the  day,  and  the  succeeding  days,  weeks, 
and  months,  and  years,  without  one  act  of  private 
devotion,  one  confession  of  our  sins,  or  one  thanks- 
giving for  the  numberless  blessings  wc  enjoy;  to 
hear  the  word  of  God  in  public  with  a  distracted 
attention,  or  with  none  at  all ;  to  absent  ourselves 
voluntarily  from  the  blessed  communion,  and  to 
live  in  the  total  neglect  of  it,  though  our  Saviour 
has  charged  it  upon  us  with  an  express  injunction, 
are  the  common  and  ordinary  liberties  which  the 
generality  of  professors  allow  themselves:  and 
what  is  this  but  to  live  without  God  in  the  world  ! 
Many  causes  may  be  assigned  for  this  antichris- 
tian  spirit,  so  prevalent  among  Christians ;  but  one 
of  the  principal  I  take  to  be  their  utter  forgetful- 
ness  that  they  have  the  word  of  God  in  their  pos- 
session. 

My  friend  sir  William  Russell  was  distantly 
related  to  a  very  accomplished  man,  who,  though 
he  never  believed  the  gospel,  admired  the  scrip- 
tures as  the  sublimest  compositions  in  the  world, 
and  read  them  often.  I  have  been  intimate  myself 
with  a  man  of  fine  taste,  who  has  confessed  to  me 
that,  though  he  could  not  subscribe  to  the  truth 
of  Christianity  itself,  yet  he  never  could  read  St. 
Luke's  account  of  our  Saviour's  appearance  to  the 
two  disciples  going  to  Emmaus,  without  being 
wonderfully  affected  by  it ;  and  he  thought  that 
if  the  stamp  of  divinity  was  any  where  to  be  found 
in  scripture,  it  was  strongly  marked  and  visibly 
impressed  upon  that  passage.  If  these  men,  whose 
hearts  were  chilled  with  the  darkness  of  infidelity, 
could  find  such  charms  in  the  mere  style  of  the 
scripture,  what  must  they  find  there,  whose  eye 
penetrates  deeper  than  the  letter,  and  who  firmly 
believe  themselves  interested  in  all  the  invaluable 
privileges  of  the  gospel  1  '  He  that  believeth  on 
me  is  passed  from  death  unto  hfe,'  though  it  be  as 
plain  a  sentence  as  words  can  form,  has  more 
beauties  in  it  for  such  a  person  than  all  the  labours 
antiquity  can  boast  of  If  my  poor  man  pf  taste, 
whom  I  have  just  mentioned,  had  searched  a  little 
further,  he  might  have  found  other  parts  of  the 
sacred  history  as  strongly  marked  with  the  cha- 
racters of  divinity  as  that  he  mentioned.  The 
parable  of  the  prodigal  son,  the  most  beautiful  fic- 
tion that  ever  was  invented;  our  Saviour's  speech 
to  his  disciples,  with  which  he  closes  his  earthly 
ministration,  full  of  the  sublimest  dignity  and  ten- 
derest  afiection,  surpass  every  thing  that  I  ever 
read,  and,  like  the  spirit  by  which  they  were  dic- 
tated, fly  directly  to  the  heart.  If  the  scripture 
did  not  disdain  all  affectation  of  ornament,  one 
should  call  these,  and  such  as  these,  the  ornamen- 


tal parts  of  it ;  but  the  matter  of  it  is  that  upon 
which  it  principally  stakes  its  cr^jdit  with  us,  and 
the  style,  however  excellent  and  peculiar  to  itself, 
is  only  one  of  those  many  external  evidences  by 
which  it  recommends  itself  to  our  belief 

I  shall  be  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  the  book 
you  mention ;  you  could  not  have  sent  me  any 
thing  that  would  have  been  more  welcome,  unless 
you  had  sent  me  your  own  meditations  instead  ot 
them. 

Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Huntingdon,  August  17,  1765. 

You  told  me,  my  dear  cousin,  that  I  need  not 
fear  writing  too  often,  and  you  perceive  I  take  you 
at  your  word.  At  present,  however,  I  shall  do 
httle  more  than  thank  you  for  the  Meditations, 
which  I  admire  exceedingly:  the  author  of  them 
manifestly  loved  the  truth  with  an  undissembled 
affection,  had  made  a  great  progress  in  the  know- 
ledge of  it,  and  experienced  all  the  happiness  that 
naturally  results  from  that  noblest  of  attainments. 
There  is  one  circumstance,  which  he  gives  us  fre- 
quent occasion  to  observe  in  him,  which  I  believe 
will  ever  be  found  in  the  philosophy  of  every  true 
Christian.  I  mean  the  ei^inent  rank  which  he 
assigns  to  faith  among  the  virtues,  as  the  source 
and  parent  of  them  all.  There  is  nothing  more 
infallibly  true  than  this,  and  doubtless  it  is  with  a 
view  to  the  purifying  and  sanctifying  nature  of  a 
true  faith,  that  our  Saviour  says,  '  He  that  be- 
lieveth in  me  hath  everlasting  life,'  with  many 
other  expressions  to  the  same  purpose.  Consi- 
dered in  this  light,  no  wonder  it  has  the  power  of 
salvation  ascribed  to  it !  Considered  in  any  other, 
we  must  suppose  it  to  operate  like  an  oriental  talis- 
man, if  it  obtains  for  us  the  least  advantage,  which, 
is  an  affront  to  him  who  insists  upon  our  having 
it,  and  will  on  no  other  terms  admit  us  to  his  fa- 
vour. I  mention  this  distinguishing  article  in  his 
Reflections  the  rather,  because  it  serves  for  a  sohd 
foundation  to  the  distinction  I  made,  in  my  last, 
between  the  specious  professor  and  the  true  be- 
Hever,  between  him  whose  faith  is  his  Sunday- 
suit  and  him  who  never  puts  it  off  at  all — a  dis- 
tinction I  am  a  little  fearful  sometimes  of  making, 
because  it  is  a  heavy  stroke  upon  the  practice  of 
more  than  half  the  Christians  in  the  world. 

My  dear  cousin,  I  told  you  I  read  the  book  with 
great  pleasure,  which  may  be  accounted  for  from 
its  own  merit,  but  perhaps  it  pleased  me  the  more 
because  you  had  travelled  the  same  road  before 
me.  You  know  there  is  such  a  pleasure  as  this, 
which  would  want  great  explanation  to  some  folks, 
being  perhaps  a  mystery  to'those  whose  hearts  are 
a  mere  muscle,  and  serve  only  for  the  purposes  of 
an  even  circulation.  W.  C. 


Let.  9. 


LETTERS. 


169 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Sept.  4,  1765. 
Though  I  have  some  very  agreeable  acquaintance 
at  Huntingdon,  raj  dear  cousin,  none  of  their 
visits  are  so  agreeable  as  the  arrival  of  your  letters. 
I  thank  you  for  that  which  I  have  just  received 
from  Droxford;  and  particularly  for  that  part  of  it 
where  you  give  me  an  unlimited  liberty  upon  the 
subject  I  have  already  so  often  written  upon. 
Whatever  interests  us  deeply  as  naturally  flows 
into  the  pen  as  it  does  from  the  lips,  when  every 
restraint  is  taken  away,  and  we  meet  with  a  friend 
indulgent  enough  to  attend  to  us.  How  many,  in 
all  that  variety  of  characters  with  whom  I  am 'ac- 
quainted, could  I  find  after  the  strictest  search,  to 
whom  I  could  write  as  I  do  to  you'?  I  hope  the 
number  will  increase.    I  am  sure  it  can  not  easily 

be  diminished.    Poor  !  I  have  heard  the 

whole  of  his  history,  and  can  only  lament  what  I 
am  sure  I  can  make  no  apology  for.    Two  of  my 
friends  have  been  cut  off  during  my  illness,  in  the 
midst  of  such  a  life  as  it  is  frightful  to  reflect  upon; 
and  here  am  I,  in  better  health  and  spirits  than  I 
can  almost  remember  to  have  enjoyed  before,  after 
having  spent  months  in  the  apprehension  of  instant 
death.    How  mysterious  are  the  ways  of  ProAd- 
dence!  Why  did  I  fe^e  grace^nd  mercy  ?  Why 
was  I  preserved,  afl3icted  for  my  good,  received,  as 
I  trust,  into  favour,  and  blessed  with  the  greatest 
happiness  I  can  ever  know  or  hope  for  in  this  life, 
while  these  were  overtaken  by  the  great  arrest' 
unawakened,  unrepenting,  and  every  way  unpre- 
pared for  if?  His  infinite  wisdom,  to  whose  in- 
finite mercy  I  owe  it  aU,  can  solve  these  questions, 
and  none  beside  him.    If  a  free-thinker,  as  many 
a  man  miscalls  himself,  could  be  brought  to  give  a 
serious  answer  to  them,  he  would  certainly  say— 
'  Without  doubt,  sir,  you  was  in  great  danger,  you 
had  a  narrow  escape,  a  most  fortunate  one  indeed.' 
How  excessively  foolish,  as  well  as  shocking!  As 
if  life  depended  upon  luck,  and  all  that  we  are  or 
can  be,  all  that  we  have  or  hope  for,  could  possibly 
be  referred  to  accident.    Yet  to  this  freedom  of 
thought  it  is  owing  that  he,  who,  as  our  Saviour 
tells  us,  is  thoroughly  apprized  of  the  death  of  the 
meanest  of  his  creatures,  is  supposed  to  leave  tliose, 
whom  he  has  made  in  his  own  image  to  the  mercy 
of  chance;  and  to  this,  therefore,  it  is  likewise  osv- 
ing  that  the  correction  which  our  heavenly  Father 
bestows  upon  us,  that  we  may  be  fitted  to  receive 
his  blessing,  is  so  often  disappointed  of  its  benevo- 
lent intention,  and  that  men  despise  the  chastening 
of  the  Almighty.    Fevers  and  all  diseases  are  ac- 
cidents; and  long'  life,  recovery  at  least  from  sick- 
ness, is  the  gift  of  the  physician.    No  man  can  be 
a  greater  fpend  to  the  use  of  means  upon  these 
occasions  than  myself,  for  it  were  presumption  andi 
enthusiasm  to  neglect  them.    God  has  endued 


them  with  salutary  properties  on  purpose  that  we 
might  avail  ourselves  of  them,  otherwise  that  part 
of  his  creation  were  in  vain.    But  to  imppte  our 
recovery  to  the  medicine,  and  to  carry  our  views  no 
further,  is  to  rob  God  of  his  honour;  and  is  saying 
m  eflfect  he  has  parted  with  the  keys  of  life  and 
death,  and,  by  giving  to  a  drug  the  power  to  heal 
us,  has  placed  our  fives  out  of  his  own  reach.  He 
that  thinks  thus  may  as  well  fall  upon  his  knees 
at  once,  and  return  thanks  to  the  medicine  that 
cured  him,  for  it  was  certainly  more  immediately 
instrumental  in  his  recovery  than  either  the  apo- 
thecary or  the  doctor.    My  dear  cousin,  a  firm  per- 
suasion of  the  superintendence  of  Providence  over 
all  our  concerns  is  absolutely  necessary  to  our  hap- 
piness.   Without  it  we  can  not  be  said  to  believe 
in  the  scripture,  or  practise  any  thing  like  resigna- 
tion to  liis  will.    If  I  am  convinced  that  no  afflic- 
tion can  befal  me  without  the  permission  of  God, 
I  am  convinced  likewise  that  he  sees  and  knows 
that  I  am  afflicted;  believing  this,  I  must  in  the 
same  degree  believe  that,  if  I  pray  to  him  for  de- 
liverance, he  hears  me;  I  must  needs  know  like- 
wise with  equal  assurance  that,  if  he  hears,  he  will 
also  deliver  me,  if  that  will  upon  the  whole  be  most 
conducive  to  my  happiness;  and  if  he  does  not  de- 
liver me,  I  may  be  well  assured  that  he  has  none 
but  the  most  benevolent  intention  in  declining  it. 
He  made  us,  not  because  we  could  add  to  his  hap- 
piness,  which  was  always  perfect,  but  that  we 
might  be  happy  ourselves;  and  will  he  not  in  all 
his  dispensations  towards  us,  even  in  the  minutest 
consult  that  end  for  which  he  made  US'?   To  sup- 
pose the  contrary,  is  (which  we  are  not  always 
aware  of)  afl^ronting  every  one  of  his  attributes; 
and  at  the  same  time  the  certain  consequence  of 
disbelieving  his  care  for  us  is,  that  we  renounce  ut- 
terly our  dependence  upon  him.    In  this  view  it 
will  appear  plainly  that  the  line  of  duty  is  not 
stretched  too  tight,  when  we  are  told  that  we  ought 
to  accept  every  thing  at  his  hands  as  a  blessing, 
and  to  be  thankful  even  while  we  smart  under  the 
rod  of  iron  with  which  he  sometimes  rules  us. 
Without  this  persuasion,  every  blessing,  however 
we  may  think  ourselves  happy  in  it,  loses  its 
greatest  recommendation,  and  every  affliction  is  in- 
tolerable.   Death  itself  must  be  welcome  to  him 
who  has  this  faith,  and  he  who  has  it  not  must  aim 
at  it,  if  he  is  not  a  madman.    You  can  not  think 
how  glad  I  am  to  hear  you  are  going  to  commence 
lady  and  mistress  of  Freemantle.*  I  know  it  well 
and  I  could  go  from  Southampton  blindfold.  You 
are  kind  to  invite  me  to  it,  and  I  shall  be  so  kind  to 
myself  as  to  accept  the  invitation,  though  I  should 
not  for  a  slight  consideration  be  prevailed  upon  to 
quit  my  beloved  retirement  at  Huntingdon. 

Yours  ever^  W.  C. 


'  Freemantle,  a  village  near  Southamptoa 


170 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  10,  11,  12, 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Huntingdon,  Sept.  14,  17G5. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN, 

The  longer  I  live  here,  the  better  I  like  the 
place,  and  the  people  who  belong  to  it.  I  am 
upon  very  good  terms  with  no  less  than  five  fami- 
lies, besides  two  or  three  odd  scrambling  fellows 
like  myself.  The  last  acquaintance  I  made  here 
is  with  the  race  of  the  Unwins,  consisting  of  father 
and  mother,  son  and  daughter,  the  most  comforta- 
ble, social  folks  you  ever  knew.  The  son  is  about 
twenty-one  years  of  age,  one  of  the  most  unre- 
served and  amiable  young  men  I  ever  conversed 
with.  He  is  not  yet  arrived  at  that  time  of  Ufe, 
when  suspicion  recommends  itself  to  us  in  the  form 
of  wisdom,  and  sets  every  thing  but  our  own  dear 
selves  at  an  immeasurable  distance  from  our  es- 
teem and  confidence.  Consequently  he  is  knov.-n 
almost  as  soon  as  seen,  and  having  nothing  in  his 
heart  that  makes  it  necessary  for  him  to  keep  it 
barred  and  bolted,  opens  it  to  the  perusal  even  of  a 
stranger.  The  father  is  a  clergyman,  and  the  son 
is  designed  for  orders.  The  design,  however,  is 
quite  his  own,  proceeding  merely  from  his  being 
and  having  always  been  sincere  in  his  behef  and 
love  of  the  gospel.  Another  acquaintance  I  have 
lately  made  is  with  a  Mr.  Nicholson,  a  North- 
country  divine,  very  poor,  but  very  good,  and  very 
happy.  He  reads  prayers  here  twice  a  day,  all  the 
year  round;  and  travels  on  foot  to  serve  two 
churches  every  Sunday  through  the  year,  his  jour- 
ney out  and  home  again  being  sixteen  miles.  I 
supped  with  him  last  night.  He  gave  me  bread 
and  cheese,  and  a  black  jug  of  ale  of  his  own 
brewing,  and  doubtless  brewed  by  his  own  hands. 

Another  of  my  acquaintance  is  Mr.  ■,  a  thin, 

tall,  old  man,  and  as  good  as  he  is  thin.  He 
drinks  nothing  but  water,  and  eats  no  flesh;  partly 
(I  believe)  from  a  religious  scruple  (for  he  is  very 
religious),  and  partly  in  the  spirit  of  a  valetu- 
dinarian. He  is  to  be  met  with  every  morning 
of  his  life,  at  about  six  o'clock,  at  a  fountain  of  very 
fine  water,  about  a  mile  from  the  town,  which  is 
reckoned  extremely  hke  the  Bristol  spring.  Being 
both  early  risers,  and  the  only  early  walkers  in  the 
place,  we  soon  became  acquainted.  His  great 
piety  can  be  equalled  by  nothing  but  his  great 
regularity,  for  he  is  the  most  perfect  time-piece  in 
the  world.    I  have  received  a  visit  likewise  from 

Mr.  .    He  is  very  much  a  gentleman,  well- 

~Tead,  and  sensible.  I  am  persuaded,  in  short,  that 
if  I  had  the  choice  of  all  England,  where  to  fix  my 
abode,  I  could  not  have  chosen  better  for  myself, 
and  most  likely  I  should  not  have  chosen  so  well. 

You  say,  you  hope  it  is  not  necessary  for  salva- 
tion, to  undergo  the  same  afflictions  that  I  have 
undergone.  No!  my  dear  cousin.  God  deals  with 
his  children  as  a  merciful  father ;  he  does  not,  as 


he  himself  tells  us,  afflict  willingly  the  sons  of  men. 
Doubtless  there  are  many,  who,  having  been  placed 
by  his  good  providence  out  of  the  reach  of  any 
great  evil  and  the  influence  of  bad  example,  have 
from  their  very  infancy  been  partakers  of  the  grace 
of  his  holy  spirit,  in  such  a  manner  as  never  to 
have  allowed  themselves  in  any  grievous  offence 
against  him.  May  you  Igve  him  more  and  more 
day  by  day ;  as  every  day,  while  you  think  upon 
him,  you  will  find  him  more  worthy  of  your  love : 
and  may  you  be  finally  acce]jtcd  with  him  for  his 
sake,  whose  intercession  for  all  his  faithful  servants 
can  not  but  prevail  1  Yours  ever,  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Huntingdon,  Oct.  10,  1765. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN, 

I  SHOULD  grumble  at  your  long  silence,  if  I  did 
not  know  that  one  may  love  one's  friends  very  well, 
though  one  is  not  always  in  the  humour  to  write 
to  them.  Besides,  I  have  the  satisfaction  of  being 
perfectly  sure  that  you  have  at  least  twenty  times 
recollected  the  debt  you  owe  me,  and  as  often  re- 
solved to  pay  it :  and  perhaps  while  you  remain 
indebted  to  me,  you  think  of  me  twice  as  often  as 
you  would  do,  if  the  account  |Was  clear.  These 
are  the  reflections  with  which  I  comfort  myself, 
under  the  afiliction  of  not  hearing  from  you ;  my 
temper  does  not  incline  me  to  jealousy,  and  if  it 
did,  I  should  set  all  right  by  having  recourse  to  what 
I  have  already  received  from  you. 

I  thank  God  for  your  friendship,  and  for  every 
friend  I  have ;  for  all  the  pleasing  circumstances 
of  my  situation  here,  for  my  health  of  body,  and  ^ 
perfect  serenity  of  mind.  To  recollect  the  past, 
and  compare  it  with  the  present,  is  all  I  have  need 
of  to  fill  me  with  gratitude :  and  to  be  grateful  ia 
to  be  happy.  Not  that  I  think  myself  sufficiently 
thankful,  or  that  I  shall  ever  be  so  in  this  life. 
The  warmest  heart  perhaps  only  feels  by  fits,  and 
is  often  as  insensible  as  the  coldest.  This  at  least 
is  frequently  the  case  with  mine,  and  oftener  than 
it  should  be.  But  the  mercy  that  can  forgive  ini- 
quity will  never  be  severe  to  mark  our  frailties ;  to 
that  mercy,  my  dear  cousin,  I  commend  you,  with 
earnest  wishes  for  your  welfare,  and  remain  your 
ever  aflTectionate  W.  C. 

TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Huntingdon,  Oct.  18,  1765. 
I  WISH  you  joy,  my  dear  cousin,  of  being  safely 
arrived  in  port  from  the  storms  of  Southampton. 
For  my  own  part,  who  am  but  as  a  Thames 
wherry,  in  a  world  full  of  tempest  and  commotion, 
I  know  so  well  the  value  of  the  creek  I  have  put 
into,  and  the  snugness  it  affords  me,  that  I  have 


Let.  13. 


LETTERS. 


171 


a  sensible  sympathy  with  you  in  the  pleasure  you 
find  in  being  once  more  blown  to  Droxford.  I 
know  enough  of  Miss  Morley  to  send  her  my 
compliments ;  to  which,  if  I  had  never  seen  her, 
her  affection  for  you  would  sufficiently  entitle  her. 
If  I  neglected  to  do  it  sooner,  it  is  only  because  I 
am  naturally  apt  to  neglect  what  I  ought  to  do  • 
and  if  I  was  as  genteel  as  I  am  negligent,  I  should 
be  the  most  delightful  creature  in  the  universe. 
I  am  glad  you  think  so  favourably  of  my  Hun- 
tingdon acquaintance ;  they  are  indeed  a  nice  set 
of  folks,  and  suit  me  exactly.    I  should  have  been 
more  particular  in  my  account  of  Miss  Unwin, 
if  I  had  had  materials  for  a  minute  description. 
She  is  about  eighteen  years  of  age,  rather  hand- 
some and  genteel.    In  her  mother's  corppany  she 
says  Uttle ;  not  because  her  mother  requires  it  of 
her,  but  because  she  seems  glad  of  that  excuse  for 
not  talking,  being  somewhat  inclined  to  bashful- 
ness.    There  is  the  most  remarkable  cordiality 
between  all  the  parts  of  the  family ;  and  the  mother 
and  daughter  seem  to  doat  upon  each  other.  The 
first  time  I  went  to  the  house  I  was  introduced  to 
the  daughter  alone ;  and  sat  with  her  near  half 
an  hour,  before  her  brother  came  in,  who  had  ap 
pointed  me  to  call  upon  him.    Talking  is  neces 
sary  in  a  tete-a-tete,  to  distinguish  the  pej-sons  of 
the  drama  from  the  chairs  they  sit  on :  accordingly 
she  talked  a  great  deal,  and  extremely  well ;  and, 
like  the  rest  of  the  family,  behaved  with  as  much 
ease  of  address  as  if  we  had  been  old  acquaintance. 
She  resembles  her  mother  in  her  great  piety,  who 
is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  instances  of  it  I 
have  ever  seen.    They  are  altogether  the  cheer- 
fullest  and  most  engaging  family-piece  it  is  possi- 
ble to  conceive.— Since  I  wrote  the  above,  I  met 
Mrs.  Unwin  in  the  street,  and  went  home  with 
her.    She  and  I  walked  together  near  two  hours 
in  the  garden,  and  had  a  conversation  which  did 
me  jpore  good  than  I  should  have  received  from 
an  audience  of  the  first  prince  in  Europe.  That 
woman  is  a  blessing  to  me,  and  I  never  see  her 
without  being  the  better  for  her  company.    I  am 
treated  in  the  family  as  if  I  was  a  near  relation, 
and  have  been  repeatedly  invited  to  call  upon  them 
at  all  times.    You  know  what  a  shy  fellow  I  am ; 
I  can  not  prevail  with  myself  to  make  so  much 
use  of  this  privilege  as  I  am  sure  they  intend  I 
should ;  but  perhaps  this  awkwardness  will  wear 
off  hereafter.    It  was  my  earnest  request  before  I 
left  St.  Alban's,  that  wherever  it  might  please 
Providence  to  dispose  of  me,  1  might  meet  vdth 
such  an  acquaintance  as  I  find  in  Mrs.  Unwin. 
How  happy  it  is  to  believe,  with  a  steadfast  assur- 
ance, that  our  petitions  are  heard  even  while  we 
are  making  them— and  how  delightful  to  meet 
with  a  proof  of  it  in  the  effectual  and  actual  grant 
of  them :  Surely  it  is  a  gracious  finishing  given  to 
those  means,  which  the  Almighty  has  been  pleased 

Q 


to  make  use  of  for  my  conversion.  After  having 
been  deservedly  rendered  unfit  for  any  society,  to 
be  again  qualified  for  it,  and  admitted  at  once  into 
the  fellowship  of  those  whom  God  regards  as  the 
excellent  of  the  earth,  and  whom,  in  the  emphati- 
cal  language  of  Scripture,  he  preserves  as  the 
apple  of  his  eye,  is  a  blessing  which  carries  with 
It  the  stamp  and  visible  superscription  of  divine 
bounty— a  grace  unlimited  as  undeserved;  and, 
like  its  glorious  Author,  free  in  its  course,  and 
blessed  in  its  operation  ! 

My  dear  cousin!  Health  and  happiness, '  and 
above  all,  the  favour  of  our  great  and  gracious 
Lord,  attend  you !  While  we  seek  it  in  spirit  and 
in  truth,  we  are  infinitely  more  secure  of  it  than 
of  the  next  breath  we  expect  to  draw.  Heaven 
and  earth  have  their  destined  periods;  ten  thou- 
sand worlds  vsdll  vanish  at  the  consummation  of  all 
things ;  but  the  word  of  God  standeth  fast ;  and 
they  who  trust  in  him  shall  never  be  confounded. 

My  love  to  all  who  enquire  after  me. 

Yours  afiectionately,  W.  C. 


TO  MAJOR  COWPER. 

Huntingdon,  Oct.  18,  1765. 

MY  DEAR  MAJOR, 

I  have  neither  lost  the  use  of  my  fingers  nor  my 
memory,  though  my  unaccountable  silence  might 
incline  you  to  suspect  that  I  had  lost  both.  The 
history  of  those  things  which  have,  from  time  to 
time,^  prevented  my  scribbling,  would  not  only  be 
insipid  but  extremely  voluminous ;  for  which  rea- 
sons they  will  not  make  their  appearance  at  pre- 
sent, nor  probably  at  any  time  hereafter.    If  my 
neglecting  to  write  to  you  were  a  proof  that  I  had 
never  thought  of  you,  and  that  had  been  really  the 
case,  five  sliillings  apiece  would  have  been  much 
too  Uttle  to  give  for  the  sight  of  such  a  monster ! 
but  I  am  no  such  monster,  nor  do  I  perceive  in 
myself  the  least  tendency  to  such  a  transformation. 
You  may  recollect  that  I  had  but  very  uncomfort- 
able expectations  of  the  accommodation  T  should 
meet  with  at  Huntingdon.    How  much  better  is  * 
it  to  take  our  lot,  where  it  shall  please  Providence 
to  cast  it,  without  anxiety  !    Had  I  chosen  for  my- 
self, it  is  impossible  I  could  have  fixed  upon  a 
place  so  agreeable  to  me  in  all  respects.    I  so 
much  dreaded  the  thought  of  having  a  new  ac- 
quaintance to  make,  with  no  other  recommenda- 
tion than  that  of  being  a  perfect  stranger,  that  I 
heartily  wished  no  creature  here  might  take  the 
least  notice  of  me.    Instead  of  which,  in  about 
two  months  after  my  arrival,  I  became  known  to 
all  the  visitable  people  here,  and  do  verily  think  it 
the  most  agreeable  neighbourhood  I  ever  saw. 

Here  are  three  families  who  have  received  me 
with  the  utmost  civiUty;  and  two  in  particular 


172 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  14,  15. 


have  treated  me  with  as  much  cordiaUty,  as  if  their 
pedigrees  and  mine  had  grown  upon  the  same 
sheep-skin.  Besides  these,  there  are  three  or  four 
single  men  who  suit  my  temper  to  a  hair.  The 
town  is  one  of  the  neatest  in  England ;  the  coun- 
try is  fine  for  several  miles  about  it ;  and  the  roads, 
which  are  all  turnpike,  and  strike  out  four  or  five 
different  ways,  are  perfectly  good  all  the  year 
round.  I  mention  this  latter  circumstance  chiefly 
because  my  distance  from  Cambridge  has  made  a 
horseman  of  me  at  last,  or  at  least  is  likely  to  do 
so.  My  brother  and  I  meet  every  week,  by  an 
alternate  reciprocation  of  intercourse,  as  Sam  John- 
son Would  express  it ;  sometimes  I  get  a  lift  in  a 
neighbour's  chaise,  but  generally  ride.  As  to  my 
own  personal  condition,  I  am  much  happier  than 
the  day  is  long,  and  sunshine  and  candlelight  see 
me  perfectly  contented.  I  get  books  in  abund- 
ance, as  much  company  as  I  choose,  a  deal  of  com- 
fortable leisure,  and  enjoy  better  health,  I  think, 
than  for  many  years  past.  What  is  tliere  want- 
ing to  make  me  happy  1  Nothing,  if  I  can  but 
be  as  thankful  as  I  ought ;  and  I  trust  that  He 
who  has  bestowed  so  many  blessings  upon  me,  will 
give  me  gratitude  to  crown  them  all.  .  I  beg  you 
will  give  my  love  to  my  dear  cousin  Maria,  and  to 
every  body  at  the  Park.  If  Mrs.  Maitland  is 
with  you,  as  I  suspect  by  a  passage  in  Lady  Hes- 
keth's  letter  to  me,  pray  remember  me  to  her  very 
affectionately!  And  believe  me,  my  dear  friend, 
ever  yours. 


suits  me  exactly ;  go  when  I  will,  I  find  a  house 
full  of  peace  and  cordiality  in  all  its  parts,  and  I 
am  sure  to  hear  no  scandal,  but  such  discourse 
instead  of  it  as  we  are  all  better  for.  You  remem- 
ber Rousseau's  description  of  an  English  morning; 
such  are  the  mornings  I  s])end  with  these  good  peo- 
ple ;  and  the  evenings  differ  from  them  in  nothing, 
except  that  they  are  still  more  snug  and  quieter. 
Now  I  know  them,  I  wonder  that  I  liked  Hun- 
tingdon so  well  before  I  knew  them,  and  am  apt 
to  think  I  should  find  every  place  disagreeable  that 
had  not  an  Unwin  belonging  to  it. 

This  incident  convinces  me  of  the  truth  of  an 
observation  I  have  often  made,  that  when  we  cir- 
cumscribe our  estimate  of  all  that  is  clever  within 
the  limits  of  our  own  acquaintance  (which  I  at 
least  have  been  always  apt  to  do,)  we  are  guilty 
of  a  very  uncharitable  censure  upon  the  rest  of  the 
world,  and  of  a  narrowness  of  thinking  disgrace- 
ful to  ourselves.  Wapping  and  Redriff  may  con- 
tain some  of  the  most  amiable  persons  living,  and 
such  as  one  would  go  to  Wapping  and  Redriff  to 
make  acquaintance  with.  You  remember  Mr. 
Gray's  stanza — 

'  Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  deep  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen; 

And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air.' 

Yours,  dear  Joe,  W,  C. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

DEAR  JOE,  October  25,  1765. 

I  AM  afraid  the  month  of  October  has  proved 
rather  unfavourable  to  the  belle  assemblee  at 
Southampton;  high  winds  and  continual  rains 
being  bitter  enemies  to  that  agreeable  lounge, 
"which  you  and  I  are  equally  fond  of  I  have  very 
cordially  betaken  myself  to  my  books,  and  my 
fireside;  and  seldom  leave  them  unless  for  exer- 
cise. I  have  added  another  family  to  the  number 
of  those  I  was  acquainted  with  when  you  were 
here.  Their  name  is  Unwin — the  most  agreeable 
people  imaginable;  quite  sociable,  and  as  free  from 
the  ceremonious  civility  of  country  gentlefolks  as 
any  I  ever  met  with.  They  treat  me  more  like  a 
near  relation  than  a  stranger,  and  their  house  is 
always  open  to  me.  The  old  gentleman  carries 
me  to  Cambridge  in  his  chaise,  tie  is  a  man  of 
learning  and  good  sense,  and  as  simple  as  parson 
Adams.  His  wife  has  a  very  uncommon  under- 
standing, has  read  much  to  excellent  purpose,  and 
is  more  polite  than  a  duchess.  The  son  who  be- 
longs to  Cambridge,  is  a  most  amiable  young  man, 
and  the  daughter  quite  of  a  piece  with  the  rest  of 
the  family.    They  see  but  little  company,  which 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Huntingdon,  March  6,  1766. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN, 

I  HAVE  for  some  time  past  imputed  your  silence 
to  the  cause  which  you  yourself  assign  for  it,  viz. 
to  my  change  of  situation :  and  was  even  saga- 
cious enough  to  account  for  the  frequency  of  your 
letters  to  me,  while  I  lived  alone,  from  your  Mten- 
tion  to  me  in  a  state  of  such  solitude  as  seei^d  to 
make  it  an  act  of  particular  charity  to  write  to 
me.  I  bless  God  for  it,  I  was  happy  even  then; 
solitude  has  nothing  gloomy  in  it  if  the  soul  points 
upwards.  St.  Paul  tells  his  Hebrew  converts, 
'  ye  are  come  (already  come)  to  Mount  Sion,  to 
an  innumerable  company  of  angels,  to  the  general 
assembly  of  the  first-born,  which  are  written  in 
heaven,  and  to  Jesus  the  mediator  of  the  new  co- 
venant.' When  this  is  the  case,  as  surely  it  was 
with  them,  or  the  Spirit  of  Truth  had  never  spoken 
it,  there  is  an  end  of  the  melancholy  and  dullness 
of  a  solitary  life  at  once.  You  will  not  suspect 
me,  my  dear  cousin,  of  a  design  to  understand  this 
passage  literally.  But  this,  however,  it  certainly 
means;  that  a  lively  faith  is  able  to  anticipate  in 
some  measure  the  joys  of  that  heavenly  society, 
which  the  soul  shall  actually  possess  hereafter. 

Since  I  have  changed  my  situation,  I  have  found 


Let.  16,  17. 


LETTERS. 


173 


'still  greater  cause  of  thanksgiving  to  the  Father 
of  all  mercies.  The  family  with  whom  I  live  are 
Christians;  and  it  has  pleased  the  Almighty  to 
bnng  me  to  the  knowledge  of  them,  that  I  may 
want  no  means  of  improvement  in  that  temper 
and  conduct  Which  he  is  pleased  to  require  in  all 
his  servants. 

My  dear  cousin !  one  half  of  the  christian  world 
would  call  this  madness,  fanaticism,  and  folly:  but 
are  not  all  these  things  warranted  by  the  word  of 
God,  not  only  in  the  passages  I  have  cited,  but  in 
many, others  1    If  we  have  no  communion  with 
God  here,  surely  we  can  expect  none  hereafter. 
A  faith  that  does  not  place  our  conversation  in 
heaven;  that  does  not  warm  the  heart,  and  purify 
it  too;  that  does  not,  in  short,  govern  our  thought, 
word,  and  deed,  is  no  faith,  nor  will  it  obtain  for 
us  any  spiritual  blessing  here  or  hereafter.  Let 
us  see  therefore,  my  dear  cousin,  that  we  do  not  de 
ceive  ourselves  in  a  matter  of  such  infinite  moment. 
The  world  will  be  ever  telling  us  that  we  are  good 
enough ;  and  the  world  will  vilify  us  behind  o'a: 
backs.    But  it  is  not  the  world  which  tries  the 
heart;  that  is  the  prerogative  of  God  alone.  My 
dear  cousin !  I  have  often  prayed  for  you  behind 
your  back,  and  now  I  pray  for  you  to  your  face 
There  are  many  who  would  not  forgive  me  this 
wrong;  but  I  have  known  you  so  long,  and  so 
well,  that  I  am  not  afraid  of  telling  you  how  sincere- 
ly I  wish  for  your  growth  in  every  christian  grace, 
in  every  thing  that  may  promote  and  secure  your 
everlasting  welfare. 

I  am  obliged  to  Mrs.  Cowper  for  the  book,  which 
you  perceive  arrived  safe.  I  am  willing  to  consi- 
der it  as  an  intimation  on  her  part  that  she  would 
wish  me  to  write  to  her,  and  shall  do  it  accord- 
ingly. My  circumstances  are  rather  particular, 
such  as  call  upon  my  friends,  those  I  mean  who 
are  truly  such,  to  take  some  little  notice  of  me ; 
and  will  naturally  make  those  who  are  not  such 
in  sincerity  rather  shy  of  doing  it.  To  this  1  im- 
pute the  silence  of  many  with  regard  to  me,  who 
before  the  affliction  that  oefel  me,  were  ready 
enough  to  converse  with  me. 

Yours  ever,  W,  C, 


to  this  place.  The  lady  in  whose  house  I  hve  is 
so  excellent  a  person,  and  regards  me  with  a  friend- 
ship so  truly  christian,  that  I  could  almost  fancy 
my  own  mother  restored  to  Hfe  again,  to  compen- 
sate to  me  for  all  the  friends  I  have  lost,  and  all 
my  connexions  broken.  She  has  a  son  at  Cam- 
bridge in  all  respects  worthy  of  such  a  mother, 
the  most  amiable  young  man  I  ever  knew.  His 
natural  and  acquired  endowments  are  very  consi- 
derable ;  and  as  to  his  virtues,  I  need  only  say 
that  he  is  a  christian.  It  ought  to  be  a  matter  of 
daily  thanksgiving  to  me,  that  I  am  admitted  info 
the  society  of  such  persons;  and  I  pray  God  to 
make  me  and  keep  me  worthy  of  them. 

Your  brother  Martin  has  been  very  kind  to  me, 
having  written  to  me  twice  in  a  style  which,  though 
it  was  once  irksome  to  me,  to  say  the  least,  I  now 
know  how  to  value.  I  pray  God  to  forgive  me  the 
many  light  things  I  have  both  said  and  thought 
of  him  and  his  labours.  Hereafter  I  shall  consi- 
der him  as  a  burning  and  a  shining  Ught,  and  as 
one  of  those'  '  who,  having  turned  many  unto 
righteousness,  shall  shine  hereafter  as  the  stars 
for  ever  and  ever.' 

So  much  for  the  state  of  my  heart ;  as  to  my 
spirits,  I  am  cheerful  and  happy,  and  having  peace 
with  God  have  peace  within  myself  For  the  con- 
tinuance of  this  blessing  I  trust  to  Him  who  gives 
it :  and  they  who  trust  in  Him  shall  never  be  con- 
founded. Yours  affectionately,  W.  C. 
Huntingdon,  at  the  Rev.  Mr.  Unwin's, 
March  12,  1785. 


TO  MRS.  COWPER. 


TO  MRS.  COWPER. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN, 

I  AM  much  obliged  to  you  for  Pearsall's  Medi- 
tations, especially  as  it  furnishes  me  with  an  occa- 
sion of  writing  to  you,  which  is  all  I  have  waited 
for.  My  friends  must  excuse  me,  if  I  write  to  none 
but  those  who  lay  it  fairly  in  my  way  to  do  so. 
The  inference  I  am  apt  to  draw  from  their  silence 
is,  that  they  wish  me  to  be  silent  too. 

I  have  great  reason,  my  dear  cousin,  to  be  thank- 
ful to  the  gracious  Providence  that  conducted*  me 


MY  DEAR  COUSIN, 

I  AGREE  with  you  that  letters  are  not  essential 
to  friendship ;  but  they  seem  to  be  a  natural  fruit 
of  it,  when  they  are  the  only  intercourse  that  can 
be  had.  And  a  friendship  producing  no  sensible 
effects  is  so  like  indifference,  that  the  appearance 
may  easily  deceive  even  an  acute  discerner.  I  re- 
tract, however,  all  that  I  said  in  my  last  upon  this 
subject,  having  reason  to  suspect  that  it  proceeded 
from^a  principle  which  I  would  discourage  in  my- 
self upon  all  occasions,  even  a  pride  that  felt  itself 
hurt  upon  a  mere  suspicion  of  neglect.  I  have  so 
much  cause  for  humility,  and  so  much  need  of  it 
too,  and  every  little  sneaking  resentment  is  such 
an  enemy  to  it,  that  I  hope  I  shall  never  give  quar- 
ter to  any  thing  that  appears  in  the  shape  of  sul- 
lenness,  or  self-consequence,  hereafter.  Alas !  if 
my  best  Friend,  who  laid  down  his  life  for  me,  were 
to  remember  all  the  instances  in  which  I  have  ne- 
glected him,  and  to  plead  them  against  me  in  judg- 
ment, where  should  I  hide  my  guilty  head  in  the 
day  of  recompense  1  I  will  pray,  therefore,  for 
blessings  upon  my  friends,  even  though  they  cease 


.74 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  18. 


be  so ;  and  upon  my  enemies,  though  they  con- 
tinue such.  The  dccoiti'uhiess  of  tlie  natural 
heart  is  inconceivable.  I  know  well  that  I  passed 
upon  my  friends  for  a  person  at  least  religiously 
inclined,  if  not  actually  religious;  and  what  is 
more  wonderful,  I  thought  myself  a  Christian, 
when  I  had  no  faith  in  Christ,  when  I  saw  no 
beauty  in  him  that  I  should  desire  him ;  in  short, 
when  I  had  neither  faith  nor  love,  nor  any  christ- 
ian grace  whatever,  but  a  thousand  seeds  of  rebel- 
lion instead,  evermore  springing  up  in  enmity 
against  him.  But  blessed  be  God,  even  the  God 
who  is  become  my  salvation,  the  hail  of  affliction, 
and  rebuke  for  sin,  has  swept  away  the  refuge  of 
lies.  It  pleased  the  Almighty  in  great  mercy  to 
set  all  my  misdeeds  before  me.  At  length,  the 
storm  being  past,  a  quiet  and  peaceful  serenity  of 
soul  succeeded,  such  ^  ever  attends  the  gift  of 
lively  faith  in  the  all-sufficient  atonement,  and  the 
sweet  sense  of  mercy  and  pardon  purchased  by  the 
blood  of  Christ.  Thus  did  he  break  me,  and  bind 
me  up;  thus  did  he  wound  me,  and  his  hands 
made  me  whole.  My  dear  cousin,  I  make  no  apo- 
logy for  entertaining  you  with  the  history  of  my 
conversion,  because  I  know  you  to  be  a  Christian 
in  the  sterling  import  of  the  appellation.  Thi&  is 
however  but  a  very  summary  account  of  th<  mat- 
ter, neither  would  a  letter  contain  the  astonishing 
particulars  of  it.  If  we  ever  meet  again  in  this 
world,  I  will  relate  them  to  you  byword  of  mouth; 
if  not,  they  will  serve  for  the  subject  of  a  confer- 
ence in  the  next,  where  I  doubt  not  I  shall  remem- 
her  and  record  them  with  a  gratitude  better  suited 
to  the  subject. 

Yours,  my  dear  cousin,  affectionately,  W.  C. 


TO  MRS.  COWPER. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN,  Afril  17,  1766. 

As  in  matters  unattainable  by  reason,  and  un- 
revealed  in  the  Scripture,  it  is  impossible  to  argue 
at  all ;  so  in  matters  concerning  which  reason  can 
only  give  a  probable  guess,  and  the  scripture  has 
made  no  explicit  discovery,  it  is,  though  not  im- 
possible to  argue  at  all,  yet  impossible  to  argue  to 
any  certain  conclusion.  This  seems  to  me  to  be 
the  very  case  with  the  point  in  question— reason  is 
able  to  form  many  plausible  conjectures  concerning 
the  possibility  of  our  knowing  each  other  in  a  fu- 
ture state  ;  and  the  scripture  has,  here  and  there, 
favoured  us  with  an  expression  that  looks  at  least 
like  a  slight  intimation  of  it ;  but  because  a  con- 
jecture can  never  amount  to  a  proof,  and  a  slight 
intimation  can  not  be  construed  into  a  positive  as- 
sertion, therefore  I  think  we  can  never  come  to 
any  absolute  conclusion  upon  the  subject.  We 
may  indeed  reason  about  the  plausibility  of  our 
conjectures,  and  we  may  discuss,  with  great  indus- 


try and  shrewdness  of  argument,  those  passages 
in  the  scripture  which  seem  to  favour  the  opinion ; 
but  still,  no  certain  means  having  been  afforded 
us,  no  certain  end  can  be  attained ;  and  after  all 
that  can  be  said,  it  will  still  be  doubtful  whether 
we  shall  know  each  other  or  not. 

As  to  arguments  founded  upon  human  reason 
only,  it  would  be  easy  to  muster  up  a  much  great- 
er number  on  the  affirmative  side  of  the  question, 
than  it  would  be  worth  my  while  to  write,  or  yours 
to  read.  Let  us  see,  therefore,  what  the  scripture 
says,  or  seems  to  say,  towards  the  proof  of  it ;  and 
of  this  kind  of  argument  also  I  shall  insert  but  a 
few  of  those  which  seem  to  me  to  be  the  fairest 
and  clearest  for  the  purpose.  For  after  all,  a  dis- 
putant on  either  side  of  this  question  is  in  danger 
of  that  censure  of  our  blessed  Lord's,  'Ye  do  err, 
not  knowing  the  scripture,  nor  the  power  of  God.' 

As  to  parables,  I  know  it  has  been  said,  in  the 
dispute  concerning  the  intermediate  state,  that  they 
are  not  argumentative ;  but  this  having  been  con- 
troverted by  very  wise  and  good  men,  and  the  pa- 
rable of  Dives  and  Lazarus  having  been  used  by 
such  to  prove  an  intermediate  state,  I  see  not  why 
it  may  not  be  as  fairly  used  for  the  proof  of  any 
other  matter  which  it  seems  fairly  to  imply.  In 
this  parable  we  see  that  Dives  is  represented  as 
knowing  Lazarus,  and  Abraham  as  knowing  them 
both,  and  the  discourse  between  them  is  entirely- 
concerning  their  respective  characters  and  circum- 
stances upon  earth.  Here,  therefore,  our  Saviour 
seems  to  countenance  the  notion  of  a  mutual 
knowledge  and  recollection ;  and  if  a  soul  that  has 
perished  shall  know  the  soul  that  is  saved,  surely 
the  heirs  of  salvation  shall  know  and  recollect  each 
other. 

In  the  first  epistle  to  the  Thessalonians,  the  se- 
cond chapter,  and  nineteenth  verse,  St.  Paul  says, 
'What  is  our  hope,  or  joy,  or  crown  of  rejoicing'? 
Are  not  even  ye  in  the  presence  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  at  his  coming  1  For  ye  are  )ur  glory  and 
our  joy.' 

As  to  the  hope  which  the  apostle  has  formed 
concerning  them,  he  himself  refers  the  accomplish- 
ment of  it  to  the  coming  of  Christ,  meaning  that 
then  he  should  receive  the  recompense  of  his  la- 
bours in  their  behalf;  his  joy  and  glory  he  refers 
likewise  to  the  same  period,  both  which  would  re- 
sult from  the  sight  of  such  numbers  redeemed  by 
the  blessing  of  God  upon  his  ministration,  when 
he  should  present  them  before  the  great  J udge,  and 
say,  in  the  words  of  a  greater  than  himself,  '  Lo ! 
I,  and  the  children  whom  thou  hast  given  me.' 
This  seems  to  imply  that  the  apostle  should  know 
the  converts,  and  the  converts  the  apostle,  at  least 
at  the  day  of  judgment;  and  if  then,  why  not 
afterwards '? 

See  also  the  fourth  chapter  of  that  epistle,  verses 
13,  14,  16,  which  I  have  not  room  to  transcribe. 


Let,  19. 


LETTERS. 


175 


Here  the  apostle  comforts  them  under  their  afflic-  j  nurture  of  the  holy  Spirit  has  produced  such  a 
tion  for  their  deceased  brethren,  exhorting  them  plentiful  harvest  of  immortal  bliss,  was  as  a  grain 
'Not  to  sorrow  as  without  hope;'  and  what  is  the  of  mustard  seed,  small  in  itself,  promising  but  little 
hope  by  which  he  teaches  them  to  support  their  fruit,  and  producing  less  1  To  recollect  the  va- 
spirits?  Even  this,  'That  them  which  sleep  in  rious  attempts  that  were  made  upon  it,  by  the 
Jesus  shall  God  bring  with  him.'  In  other  words,  word,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil,  and  its  various  tri- 
and  by  a  fair  paraphrase  surely,  telling  them  that  umphs  over  all,  by  the  assistance  of  God,  through 
they  are  only  taken  from  them  for  a  season,  and  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  7  At  present,  whatever 
that  they  should  receive  them  at  their  resurrection,  our  convictions  may  be  of  the  sinfulness  and  cor- 
If  you  can  take  off  the  force  of  these  texts,  my  |  ruption  of  our  nature,  we  can  make  but  a  very 
dear  cousin,  you  will  go  a  great  way  towards  ;  imperfect  estimate  either  of  our  weakness  or  our 
shaking  my  opinion ;  if  not,  I  think  they  must  go  'guilt.  Then,  no  doubt,  we  shall  understand  the 
a  great  way  towards  shaking  yours.  j  full  value  of  the  wonderful  salvation  wrought  out 

The  reason  why  I  did  not  send  you  my  opinion  !  for  us :  and  it  seems  reasonable  to  suppose,  that, 
of  Pearsall  was,  because  I  had  not  then  read  him ;  |  in  order  to  form  a  just  idea  of  our  redempti  ' 
I  have  read  him  since,  and  like  him  much,  espe-  shall  be  able  to  form  a  iust  one  of  the  dan 


espe- 
cially the  latter  part  of  him ;  but  you  have  whet- 
ted my  curiosity  to  see  the  last  letter  by  tearing  it 
out :  unless  you  can  give  me  a  good  reason  why  1 
should  not  see  it,  I  shall  inquire  for  the  book  the 
first  time  I  go  to  Cambridge.  Perhaps  I  may  be 
partial  to  Hervey  for  the  sake  of  his  other  writings ; 
but  I  can  not  give  Pearsall  the  preference  to  him, 
for  1  think  him  one  of  the  most  scriptural  writers 
in  the  world.  Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  MRS.  COWPER. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN,  April  18, 1766. 

Having  gone  as  far  as  I  thought  needful  to  jus- 
tify the  opinion  of  our  meeting  and  knowing  each 
other  hereafter,  I  find,  upon  reflection,  that  I  have 
done  but  half  my  business,  and  that  one  of  the 
questions  you  proposed,  remains  entirely  unconsi- 
dered, viz.  '  Whether  the  things  of  our  present 
state  will  not  be  of  too  low  and  mean  a  nature  to 
engage  our  thoughts,  or  make  a  part  of  our  com- 
munications in  heaven.' 

The  common  and  ordinary  occurrences  of  life, 
no  doubt,  and  even  the  ties  of  kindred,  and  of  all 
temporal  interests,  will  be  entirely  discarded  from 
amongst  that  happy  society;  and  possibly  even  the 
remembrance  of  them  done  away.  But  it  does 
not  therefore  follow  that  our  spiritual  concerns, 
even  in  this  life,  will  be  forgotten;  neither  do  I 
think  that  they  can  ever  appear  trifling  to  us  in 
any  the  most  distant  period  of  eternity.  God,  as 
you  say  in  reference  to  the  scripture,  will  be  all  in 
all.  But  does  not  that  expression  mean,  that  being 
admitted  to  so  near  an  approach  to  our  heavenly 
Father  and  Redeemer,  our  whole  nature,  the  soul 
and  all  its  faculties,  will  be  employed  in  praising 
and  adoring  him  1  Doubtless  however  this  will 
be  the  case;  and  if  so,  will  it  not  furnish  out  a 
glorious  theme  of  thanksgiving,  to  recollect  '  The 
mck  whence  we  were  hewn,  and  the  hole  of  the 
pit  whence  we  were  digged  V  To  recollect  the 
ame  when  our  faith,  which  under  the  tuition  and 

a3 


ion,  we 

just  one  of  the  danger  we 
have  escaped ;  when  we  know  how  weak  and  frail 
we  were,  surely  we  shall  be  more  able  to  render 
due  praise  and  honour  to  his  strength  who  fought 
for  us ;  when  we  know  completely  the  hatefulness 
of  sin  in  the  sight  of  God,  and  how  deeply  we 
were  tainted  by  it,  we  shall  know  how  to  value  the 
blood  by  which  we  were  cleansed  as  we  ought. 
The  twenty-four  elders,  in  the  fifth  of  the  Revela- 
tions, give  gloiy  to  God  for  their  redemption  out 
of  every  kindred,  and  tongue,  and  people,  and 
nation.  This  surely  implies  a  retrospect  to  their 
respective  conditions  upon  earth,  and  that  each 
remembered  out  of  what  particular  kindred  and 
nation  he  had  been  redeemed ;  and  if  so,  then  sure- 
ly the  minutest  circumstance  of  their  redemption 
did  not  escape  their  memory.  They  who  triumph 
over  the  beast,  in  the  fifteenth  chapter,  sing  the 
song  of  Moses,  the  servant  of  God ;  and  what  was 
that  song  1  A  sublime  record  of  Israel's  dehver- 
ance,  and  the  destruction  of  her  enemies  in  the 
Red  Sea,  typical  no  doubt  of  the  song  which  the 
redeemed  in  Sion  shall  sing  to  celebrate  their  own 
salvation,  and  the  defeat  of  their  spiritual  enemies. 
This,  again,  imphes  a  recollection  of  the  dangers 
they  had  before  encountered,  and  the  supplies  of 
strength  and  ardour  they  had  in  every  emergency 
received  from  the  great  deliverer  out  of  all.  These 
quotations  do  not  indeed  prove  that  their  warfare 
upon  earth  includes  a  part  of  their  converse  with 
each  other;  but  they  prove  that  it  is  a  theme  not 
unworthy  to  be  heard  even  before  the  throne  of 
God,  and  t^ierefore  it  can  not  be  unfit  for  recipro- 
cal communication. 

But  you  doubt  whether  there  is  any  communi- 
cation between  the  blessed  at  all ;  neither  do  I  re- 
collect any  scripture  that  proves  it,  or  that  bears 
any  relation  to  the  subject.  But  reason  seems  to 
require  it  so  peremptorily,  that  a  society  without 
social  intercourse  seems  to  be  a  solecism,  and  a 
contradiction  in  terms;  and  the  inhabitants  of 
those  regions  are  called,  you  know,  an  innumera- 
ble company,  and  an  assembly,  which  seems  to 
convey  the  idea  of  society  as  clearly  as  the  word 


176 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  20. 


itself.  Human  testimony  weighs  but  little  in  mat- 
ters of  this  sort,  but  let  it  have  all  the  weight  it 
can :  I  know  no  greater  names  in  divinity  than 
Watts  and  Doddridge;  they  were  both  of  this 
opinion,  and  I  send  you  the  words  of  the  latter: — 
'  Our  companions  in  glory  may  probably  assist 
us  by  their  wise  and  good  observations,  when  we 
come  to  make  the  -providence  of  God,  here  upon 
earth,  under  the  guidance  and  direction  of  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ,  the  subject  of  our  mutual  con- 
verse.' 

Thus,  my  dear  cousin,  I  have  spread  out  my 
reasons  before  you  for  an  opinion  which,  whether 
admitted  or  denied,  affects  not  the  state  or  interest 
of  our  soul.  May  our  Creator,  Redeemer,  and 
Sanctifier,  conduct  us  into  his  own  Jerusalem ; 
where  there  shall  be  no  night,  neither  any  dark- 
ness at  all ;  where  we  shall  be  free  even  from  in- 
nocent error,  and 'perfect  in  the  light  of  the  know- 
ledge of  God  in  the  face  of  Jesus  Christ. 

Yours  faithfully,  W.  C. 


TO  MRS.  COWPER. 

Huntingdon,  Sept.  3, 1766. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN, 

It  is  reckoned,  you  know,  a  great  achievement 
to  silence  an  opponent  in  disputation;  and  your 
silence  was  of  so  long  a  continuance,  that  I  might 
well  begin  to  please  myself  with  the  apprehension 
of  having  accomplished  so  arduous  a  matter.  To 
be  serious,  however,  I  am  not  sorry  that  what  I 
have  said  concerning  our  knowledge  of  each  other 
in  a  future  state  has  a  little  inclined  you  to  the 
affirmative.  For  though  the  redeemed  of  the  Lord 
shall  be  sure  of  being  as  happy  in  that  state  as  in- 
finite power,  employed  by  infinite  goodness,  can 
make  them ;  and  therefore  it  may  seem  immaterial 
whether  we  shall  or  shall  not,  recollect  each  other 
hereafter,  yet  our  present  happiness  at  least  is  a 
little  interested  in  the  question.  A  parent,  a  friend, 
a  wife,  must  needs,  I  think,  feel  a  little  heartache 
the  thought  of  an  eternal  separation  from  the 
objects  of  her  regard;  and  not  to  know  them  when 
she  meets  them  in  another  life,  or  never  to  meet 
them  at  all,  amounts,  though  not  altogether,  yet 
nearly  to  the  same  thing.  Remember  them  I  think 
she  needs  must.    To  hear  that  they  are  happy, 
will  indeed  be  no  small  addition  to  her  own  felicity; 
but  to  see  them  so  will  surely  be  a  greater.  Thus 
at  least  it  appears  to  our  present  human  apprehen- 
sion ;  consequently,  therefore,  to  think  that  when 
we  leave  them,  we  lose  them  for  ever,  that  we 
must  remain  eternally  ignorant  whether  they,  that 
were  flesh  of  our  flesh,  and  bone  of  our  bone,  par- 
take with  us  of  celestial  glory,  or  are  disinherited 
of  their  heavenly  portion,  must  shed  a  dismal  gloom 


over  all  our  present  connexions.   For  my  own 
part,  this  life  is  such  a  momentary 'thing,  and  all 
its  interests  have  so  shrunk  in  my  estimation,  since 
by  the  grace  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  I  became 
attentive  to  the  things  of  another,  that,  like  a 
worm  in  the  bud  of  all  my  friendships  and  aflfec- 
tions,  this  very  thought  would  eat  out  the  heart 
of  them  all,  had  I  a  thousand ;  and  were  their  date 
to  terminate  with  this  Hfe,  I  think  I  should  have 
no  inclination  to  cultivate  and  improve  such  a  fu- 
gitive business.    Yet  friendship  is  necessary  to 
our  happiness  here;  and  built  upon  christian  prin- 
ciples, upon  which  only  it  can  stand,  is  a  thing 
even  of  religious  sanction— for  what  is  that  love 
which  the  Holy  Spirit,  speaking  by  St.  John,  sp 
much  inculcates,  but  friendship'?  the  only  love 
which  deserves  the  name;  a  love  which  can  toil, 
and  watch,  and  deny  itself,  and  go  to  death  for  its 
brother.    Worldly  friendships  are  a  poor  weed 
compared  with  this:  and  even  this  union  of  spirit 
in  the  bond  of  peace  would  suflfer,  in  my  mind  at 
least,  could  I  think  it  were  only  coeval  with  our 
iarthly  mansions.    It  may  possibly  argue  great 
weakness  in  me,  in  this  instance,  to  stand  so  much 
in  need  of  future  hopes  to  support  me  in  the  dis- 
charge of  present  duty.    But  so  it  is— I  am  far,  I 
know,  very  far  from  being  perfect  in  christian  love, 
or  any  other  divine  attainment,  and  am  therefor© 
unwilling  to  forego  whatever  may  help  me  in  my 
progress. 

You  are  so  kind  as  to  inquire  after  my  health, 
for  which  reason  I  must  tell  you,  what  otherwise 
would  not  be  worth  mentioning,  that  1  have  lately 
been  just  enough  indisposed  to  convince  me  that 
not  only  human  life  in  general,  but  mine  in  parti- 
cular, hangs  by  a  slender  thread.  I  am  stout 
enough  in  appearance,  yet  a  little  illness  demoHsh- 
es  me.  I  have  had  a  severe  shake,  and  the  build- 
ing is  not  so  firm  as  it  was.  But  I  bless  God  for 
it  vsdth  all  my  heart.  If  the  inner  man  be  but 
strengthened  day  by  day,  as,  I  hope,  under  the 
renewing  influences  of  the  Holy  Ghost  it  will  be, 
no  matter  how  soon  the  outward  is  dissolved.  He 
who  has  in  a  manner  raised  me  from  the  dead,  in 
a  literal  sense,  has  given  me  the  grace,  I  trUst,  to 
be  ready  at  the  shortest  notice  to  surrender  up  to 
him  that  life'  which  I  have  twice  received  from  him. 
Whether  I  live  or  die,  I  desire  it  may  be  to  His 
glory,  and  it  must  be  to  my  happiness.— I  thank 
God  that  I  have  those  amongst  my  kindred  to 
whom  I  can  write  without  reserve  my  sentiments 
upon  this  subject,  as  I  do  to  you.  A  letter  upon 
any  other  subject  is  more  insipid  to  me  than  ever 
my  task  was  when  a  schoolboy ;  and  I  say  not  this 
in  vain  glory,  God  forbid!  but  to  show  you  what 
the  Almighty,  whose  name  I  am  unworthy  to  men- 
tion, has  done  for  me,  the  chief  of  sinners.  Once 
he  was  a  terror  to  me,  and  his  service,  Oh  what  a 


Let.  21,  22. 


LETTERS. 


177 


weariness  it  was !  Now  I  can  say  I  love  him,  and 
his  holy  name,  and  I  am  never  so  happy  as  when  I 
speak  of  his  mercies  to  me. 

Yours,  dear  cousin,  W.  C 


TO  MRS.  COWPER. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN,     Huntingdon,  Oct.  20, 1766, 

I  AM  very  sorry  for  poor  Charles's  illness,  and 
hope  you  will  soon  have  cause  to  thank  God 
for  his  complete  recovery.  "We  have  an  epidemical 
fever  in  this  country  likewise,  which  leaves  behind 
it  a  continual  sighing,  almost  to  suffocation ;  not 
that  I  have  seen  any  instance  of  it,  for,  blessed  be 
God !  our  family  have  hitherto  escaped  it,  but  such 
was  the  account  I  heard  of  it  this  morning. 

I  am  obUged  to  you  for  the  interest  you  take  in 
my  welfare,  and  for  your  inquiring  so  particularly 
after  the  manner  in  which  my  time  passes  here.  As 
to  amusements,  I  mean  what  the  world  calls  such, 
we  have  none ;  the  place  indeed  swarms  with  them, 
and  cards  and  dancing  are  the  professed  business 
of  almost  all  the  gentle  inhabitants  of  Huntingdon. 
We  refuse  to  take  part  in  them,  or  to  be  accessaries 
to  this  way  of  murdering  our  time,  and  by  so  doing 
have  acquired  the  name  of  Methodists.  HaAing 
told  you  how  we  do  not  spend  our  time,  I  will  next 
say  how  we  do.  We  breakfast  commonly  between 
eight  and  nine;  till  eleven,  we  read  either  the 
Scripture,  or  the  sermons  of  some  faithful  preach- 
er of  those  holy  mysteries ;  at  eleven  we  attend  Di- 
vine Service,  which  is  performed  here  twice  every 
day;  and  from  twelve  to  three  we  separate  and 
amuse  ourselves  as  we  please.  During  that  inter- 
val I  either  read  in  my  own  apartment,  or  walk,  or 
ride,  or  work  in  the  garden.  We  seldom  sit  an 
hour  after  dinner,  but  if  the  weather  permits  ad- 
journ to  the  garden,  where  with  Mrs.  Unwin  and 
her  son  I  have  generally  the  pleasure  of  religious 
conversation  till  tea-time.  If  it  rains,  or  is  too 
windy  for  walking,  we  either  converse  within  doors, 
or  sing  some  hymns  of  Martin's  collection,  and  by 
the  help  of  Mrs.  Unwin's  harpsichord  make  up  a 
tolerable  concert,  in  which  our  hearts,  I  hope,  are 
the  best  and  most  musical  performers.  After  tea 
we  sally  forth  to  walk  in  good  earnest.  Mrs.  Un- 
win is  a  good  walker,  and  we  have  generally  tra- 
velled about  four  miles  before  we  see  home  again. 
When  the  days  are  short,  we  make  this  excursion 
in  the  former  part  of  the  day,  between  church-time 
and  dinner.  At  night  we  read  and  converse,  as 
before,  till  supper,  and  commonly  finish  the  evening 
either  with  hymns  or  a  sermon,  and  last  of  all  the 


have  something  very  like  a  filial  one  for  her,  and 
her  son  and  I  are  brothers.  Blessed  be  the  God 
of  our  salvation  for  such  companions,  and  for  such 
a  life ;  above  all,  for  a  heart  to  like  it. 

I  have  had  many  anxious  thoughts  about  taking 
orders,  and  I  believe  every  new  convert  is  apt  to 
think  himself  called  upon  for  that  purpose ;  but  it 
has  pleased  God,  by  means  which  there  is  no  need 
to  particularize,  to  give  me  full  satisfaction  as  to 
the  propriety  of  declining  it;  indeed  they  who 
have  the  least  idea  of  what  I  have  suffered  from 
the  dread  of  public  exhibitions,  will  readily  excuse 
my  never  attempting  them  hereafter.  In  the 
meantime,  if  it  please  the  Almighty,  I  may  be  an 
instrument  of  turning  many  to  the  truth  in  a  pri- 
vate way,  and  I  hope  that  my  endeavours  in  this 
way  have  not  been  entirely  unsuccessful.  Had  I 
the  zeal  of  Moses,  I  should  want  an  Aaron  to  be 
my  spokesman. 

Yours  ever,  my  dear  cousin,  W.  C. 


TO  MRS.  COWPER. 
MY  DEAR  COUSIN,  March  11,  1767. 

To  find  those  w  ^om  I  love,  clearly  and  strongly 
persuaded  of  evangelical  truth,  gives  me  a  pleasure 
superior  to  any  thing  that  this  world  can  afford 
me.  Judge  then,  whether  your  letter,  in  which 
the  body  and  substance  of  a  saving  faith  is  so  evi- 
dently set  forth,  could  meet  with  a  lukewarm  re- 
ception at  my  hands,  or  be  entertained  with  indif- 
ference !  Would  you  know  the  true  reason  of  my 
long  silence '?  Conscious  that  my  religious  prin- 
ciples are  generally  excepted  against,  and  that  the 
conduct  they  produce,  wherever  they  are  heartily 
maintained,  is  still  more  the  object  of  disapproba- 
tion than  those  principles  themselves ;  and  remem- 
bering that  I  had  made  both  the  one  and  the  other 
known  to  you,  without  having  any  clear  assurance 
that  our  faith  in  Jesus  was  of  the  same  stamp  and 
character ;  I  could  not  help  thinking  it  possible  that 
you  might  disapprove  both  my  sentiments  and  prac- 
tice ;  that  you  might  think  the  one  unsupported  by 
Scripture,  and  the  other  whimsical,  and  unneces- 
sarily strict  and  rigorous,  and  consequently  would 
be  rather  pleased  with  the  suspension  of  a  corres- 
pondence, which  a  different  way  of  thinking  upon 
so  momentous  a  subject  as  that  we  wrote  upon,  was 
likely  to  render  tedious  and  irksome  to  you. 

I  have  told  you  the  truth  from  my  heart ;  forgive 
me  these  injurious  suspicions,  and  never  iihagine 
that  I  shall  hear  firom  you  upon  this  delightful 
theme  without  a  real  joy,  or  without  prayer  to  God 


family  are  caUed  to  prayers.  I  need  not  tell  you  |  to  prosper  you  in  the  way  of  his  truth,  his  sancti- 
that  such  a  life  as  this  is  consistent  with  the  utmost '  tying  and  saving  truth.    The  book  you  mention 


,  cheerfulness ;  accordingly  we  are  all  happy,  and 
dwell  together  in  unity  as  brethren.  Mrs,  Un- 
win has  almost  a  maternal  affection  for  me,  and  I 


lies  now  upon  my  table.  Marshal  is  an  old  ac- 
quaintance of  mine :  I  have  both  read  him  and 
heard  him  read  with  pleasure  and  edification.  The 


178 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  23,  24. 


doctrines  he  nuiintaius  are,  under  the  influence  of 
the  spirit  of  Christ,  the  very  hfe  of  my  soul,  and 
the  soul  of  all  my  happiness :  tliat  Jesus  is  a  pre- 
sent Saviour  from  the  guilt  of  sin  by  his  most  pre- 
cious blood,  and  from  the  power  of  it  by  his  spirit ; 
that,  corrupt  and  wretched  in  ourselves,  in  him, 
and  in  him  only,  we  are  complete;  that  being 
united  to  Jesus  by  a  lively  faith,  we  have  a  solid 
and  eternal  interest  in  his  obedience  and  sufferings, 
to  justify  us  before  the  face  of  our  heavenly  Father ; 
and  that  all  this  inestimable  treasure,  the  earnest 
of  which  is  in  grace,  and  its  consummation  in  glo- 
ry, is  given,  freely  given  to  us  of  God ;  in  short, 
that  he  hath  opened  the  kingdom  of  Heaven  to  all 
believers.  These  are  the  truths  which,  by  the 
grace  of  God,  shall  ever  be  dearer  to  me  than  life 
itself;  shall  ever  be  placed  next  my  heart,  as  the 
throne  whereon  the  Saviour  himself  shall  sit,  to 
sway  all  its  motions,  and  reduce  that  world  of  ini- 
quity and  rebellibn  to  a  state  of  fihal  and  affec- 
tionate obedience  to  the  will  of  the  most  Holy. 

These,  my  dear  cousin,  are  the  truths,  to  which 
by  nature  we  are  enemies— they  debase  the  sinner, 
and  exalt  the  Saviour,  to  a  degree  which  the  pride 
of  our  hearts  (till  Almighty  grace  subdues  them)  is 
determined  never  to  allow.  May  the  Almighty 
reveal  his  Son  in  our  hearts  continually  more  and 
more,  and  teach  us  to  increase  in  love  towards  him 
continually,  for  having  given  us  the  unspeakable 
riches  of  Christ !         Yours  faithfully,  W.  C. 


I  think  Marshal  one  of  the  best  writers,  and  tho 
most  spiritual  expositor  of  Scripture,  1  ever  read. 
I  admire  the  strength  of  his  argument,  and  the 
clearne'ss  of  his  reasonings,  upon  those  parts  of  our 
most  holy  religion  which  are  generally  least  under- 
stood, even  by  real  christians,  as  masterpieces  of 
the  kind.  His  section  upon  the  union  of  the  soul 
with  Christ  is  an  instance  of  what  I  mean,  in 
which  he  has  spoken  of  a  most  mysterious  truth 
with  admirable  perspicuity,  and  with  great  good 
sense,  making  it  all  the  while  subservient  to  his 
main  purport  of  proving  holiness  to  be  the  fruit  and 
effect  of  faith. 

I  subjoin  thus  much  upon  that  author,  because, 
though  you  desired  my  opinion  of  him,  I  remember 
that  in  my  last  I  rather  left  you  to  find  it  out  by 
inference,  than  expressed  it  as  I  ought  to  have 
done.  I  never  met  with  a  man  who  understood 
the  plan  of  salvation  better,  or  was  more  happy  in 
explaining  it,  ^ 


W.  C. 


TO  MRS.  COWPER. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN,  March  14,  1767 

I  JUST  add  a  line  by  way  of  Postscript  to  my 
last,  to  apprise  you  of  the  arrival  of  a  very  dear 
friend  of  mine  at  the  Park  on  Friday  next,  the  son 
of  Mr.  Unwin,  whom  I  have  desired  to  call  on 
you,  in  his  way  from  London  to  Huntingdon.  If 
you  knew  him  as  well  as  I  do,  you  would  love  him 
as  much.  But  I  leave  the  young  man  to  speak  for 
himself,  which  he  is  very  able  to  do.  He  is  ready 
possessed  of  an  answer  to  every  question  you  can 
possibly  ask  concerning  nie,  and  knows  my  whole 
story  from  first  to  last.  I  give  you  this  previous 
notice,  because  I  know  you  are  not  fond  of  strange 
fayces,  and  because  I  thought  it  would  in  some  de- 
gree save  him  the  pain  of  announcing  himself 
I  am  become  a  great  florist,  and  shrub  doctor 


TO  MRS.  COWPER. 

Huntingdon,  April  3,  1767. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN, 

You  sent  my  friend  Unwin  home  to  us  charmed 
with  your  kind  reception  of  him,  and  with  every 
thing  he  saw  at  the  Park.  Shall  I  once  more  give 
you  a  peep  into  my  vile  and  deceitful  heart  1  What 
motive  do  you  think  lay  at  the  bottom  of  my  con- 
duct when  I  desired  him  to  call  upon  you'?  I  did 
not  suspect  at  first  that  pride  and  vain  glory  had 
any  share  in  it;  but  quickly  after  I  had  recom- 
mended the  visit  to  him,  I  discovered  in  that  fruit- 
ful soil  the  very  root  of  the  matter.  You  know  I 
am  a  stranger  here;  all  such  are  suspected  charac- 
ters, unless  they  bring  their  credentials  with  them. 
To  this  moment,  I  believe,  it  is  matter  of  specula- 
tion in  the  place,  whence  I  came,  and  to  whom  I 
belong. 

Though  my  friend,  you  may  suppose,  before  I 
was  admitted  an  inmate  here,  was  satisfied  that  I 
was  not  a  mere  vagabond,  and  has  since  that  time 
received  more  convincing  proofs  of  my  sponsibility, 
yet  I  could  not  resist  the  opportunity  of  furnishing 
him  with  ocular  demonstration  of  it,  by  introducing 
him  to  one  of  my  most  splendid  connexions;  that 
when  he  hears  me  called  "  That  fellow  Cowper," 
which  has  happened  heretofore,  he  may  be  able, 
upon  unquestionable  evidence,  to  assert  my  gen- 
tlemanhood,  and  relieve  me  from  the  weight  of  that 
Oh  pride !  pride !  it  de- 


If  the  major  can  make  up  a  small  packet  of  seeds 

that  wHl  make  a  figure  in  a  garden,  where  we|  opprobrious  appellation 
have  little  else  besides  jessamine  and  honey-suckle  ;  c.eives  with  the  subtlety  of  a  serpent,  and  seems  to 
such  a  packet  I  mean  as  may  be  put  in  one's  fob,  i  walk  erect,  though  it  crawls  upon  the  earth.  How 
I  will  promise  to  take  great  care  of  them,  as  I  j  will  it  twist  and  twine  itself  about,  to  get  from 
ought  to  value  natives  of  the  Park.  They  must  under  the  cross,  which  it  is  the  glory  of  our  ,Chns- 
not  be  such  however  as  require  great  skill  in  the  tian  calling  to  be  able  to  bear  with  patience  and 
management,  for  at  present  I  have  no  skill  to' good  will.  They  who  can  guess  at  the  heart  of  a 
gpj^^g  I  stranger,  and  you  especially,  who  are  of  a  com- 


Let.  25,  26,  27. 


LETTERS. 


179 


passionate  temper,  will  be  more  ready,  perhaps,  to 
excuse  me,  in  this  instance,  than  I  can  be  to  ex- 
cuse myself.  But  in  good  truth,  it  was  abomina 
ble  pride  of  heart,  indignation,  and  vanity,  and 
deserves  no  better  name.  How  should  such 
creature  be  admitted  into  those  pure  and  sinless 
mansions,  where  nothing  shall  enter  that  defileth, 
did  not  the  blood  of  Christ,  apphed  by  the  hand 
of  faith,  take  away  the  guilt  of  sin,  and  leave  no 
spot  or  stain  benind  it  7  Oh  what  continual  need 
have  I  of  an  almighty,  all-sufficient  Saviour!  I 
am  glad  you  are  acquainted  so  particularly  with 
all  the  circumstances  of  my  story,  for  I  know  that 
your  secrecy  and  discretion  may  be  trusted  with 
any  thing.  A  thread  of  mercy  ran  through  all 
the  intricate  maze  of  those  afflictive  providences, 
so  mysterious  to  myself  at  the  time,  and  which 
must  ever  remain  so  to  all,  who  will  not  see  what 
was  the  great  design  of  them;  at  the  judgment- 
seat  of  Christ  the  whole  shall  be  laid  open.  How 
is  the  rod  of  iron  changed  into  a  sceptre  of  love 

1  thank  you  for  the  seeds:  I  have  committed 
some  of  each  sort  to  the  ground,  whence  they  will 
soon  spring  up  like  so  many  mementos  to  remind 
me  of  my  friends  at  the  Park.  W.  C 


to  assist  us  with  his  inquiries, 
shall  stay  here  till  Michaelmas, 


It  is  probable  we 
W.  C. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

Huntingdon,  July  16,  1767. 

DEAR  JOE, 

Your  wishes  that  the  newspapers  may  have 
misinformed  you  are  vain.  Mr.  TJnwin  is  dead, 
and  died  in  the  manner  there  mentioned.  At  nine 
o'clock  on  Sunday  morning  he  was  in  perfect 
health,  and  as  likely  to  Uve  twenty  years  as  either 
of  us,  and  before  ten  was  stretched  speechless  and 
senseless  upon  a  flock  bed,  in  a  poor  cottage,  where 
(it  being  impossible  to  remove  him)  he  died  on 
Thursday  evening.  I  heard  his  dying  groans, 
the  effect  of  great  agony,  for  he  was  a  strong  man, 
and  much  convulsed  in  his  last  moments.  The 
few  short  intervals  of  sense  that  were  indulged  him 
he  spent  in  earnest  prayer,  and  in  expressions  of  a 
firm  trust  and  confidence  in  the  only  Saviour.  T 
that  strong  hold  we  must  all  resort  at  last,  if  w« 
would  have  hope  in  our  death:  when  every  other 
refuge  fails,  we  are  glad  to  fly  to  the  only  shelter, 
to  which  we  can  repair  to  any  purpose;  and  happy 
is  It  for  us  when,  the  false  ground  we  have  chosen 
for  ourselves  being  broken  under  us,  we  find  our- 
selves obliged  to  have  recourse  to  the  rock  which 
can  never  be  shaken;  when  this  is  our  lot,  we  re- 
ceive great  and  undeserved  mercy. 

Our  society  will  not  break  up,  but  we  shall 
settle  in  some  other  place;  where,  is  at  present 
uncertain.*  Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  MRS.  COWPER. 

Huntingdon,  July  13,  1767. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN, 

The  newspaper  has  told  you  the  truth.  Poor 
Mr.  Urwin  being  flung  from  his  horse,  as  he  was 
going  to  his  church  on  Sunday  morning,  received 
a  dreadful  fracture  on  the  back  part  of  the  scull, 
under  which  he  languished  till  Thursday  evening 
and  then  died.  This  awful  dispensation  has  left 
an  impression  upon  our  spirits,  which  v^^ill  not  pre- 
sently be  worn  off.  He  died  in  a  poor  cottage,  to 
which  he  was  carried  immediately  after  his  fall, 
about  a  mile  from  home;  and  his  body  could  not 
be  brought  to  his  house,  till  the  spirit  was  gone  to 
him  who  gave  it.  May  it  be  a  lesson  to  us  to 
watch,  since  we  know  not  the  day  nor  the  hour 
when  our  Lord  cometh ! 

The  effect  of  it  upon  my  circumstances  will 
only  be  a  change  of  the  place  of  my  abode.  For  I 
shall  still,  by  God's  leave,  continue  with  Mrs. 
Unwin,  whose  behaviour  to  me  has  always  been 
that  of  a  mother  to  a  son.  We  know  not  yet 
where  we  shall  settle,  but  we  trust  that  the  Lord, 
whom  we  seek,  will  go  before  us,  and  prepare  a  them.  Whether  the  nation  is  worshipping  Mr. 
rest  for  us.  We  have  employed  our  friend  Haweis,  |  Wilkes  or  any  other  idol,  is  of  little  moment  to 
Dr.  Conyers  of  Helmsley  in  Yorkshire,  and  Mr.  j  one  who  hopes  and  believes  that  he  shall  shortly 
Newton  of  Olney,  to  look  out  a  place  for  us,  but  . 

at  present  are  entirely  ignorant  under  which  of  the!    .r^       ^  w         r  r^  .  v,    m    •      ^  ■ 
.  r  1   11     . .  1  1.1  ,       .  ,  '      On  the  fourteenth  of  October  followmar,  the  Society  was 

three  we  shall  settle,  or  whether  under  either.    ^  -  •^oi-iei.y  was 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 
DEAR  JOE,  Olney,  June  16,  1768. 

I  THANK  you  for  so  full  an  answer  to  so  empty 
an  epistle.  If  Olney  furnished  any  thing  for  your 
amusement,  you  should  have  it  in  return;  but 
occurrences  here  are  as  scarce  as  cucumbers  at 
Christmas. 

I  visited  St.  Alban's  about  a  fortnight  since  in 
person,  and  I  visit  it  every  day  in  thought.  Th« 
recollection  of  what  passed  there,  and  the  conse- 
quences that  followed  it,  fill  my  mind  continu- 
ally, and  make  the  circumstances  of  a  poor  tran- 
sient half-spent  life  so  insipid  and  unaffecting, 
that  I  have  no  heart  to  think  or  write  much  about 


settled  in  tlie  town  of  Olney  in  Buckinghamshire,  of  which 


have  written  to  my  aunt  Madan,  to  desire  Martin  the  Rev.  Mr.  Newton  was  curate, 


180 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  28,  29,  30. 


stand  in  the  presence  of  the  great  and  blessed  God. 
I  thank  him  that  he  has  given  me  such  a  deep 
impressed  persuasion  of  this 'awful  truth,  as  a 
thousand  worlds  would  not  purchase  from  me.  It 
gives  a  relish  to  every  blessing,  and  makes  every 
trouble  light. 

Affectionately  yours,  W.  C. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

DEAR  JOE,  1769. 

Sir  Thomas  crosses  the  Alps,  and  Sir  Cowper, 
for  that  is  his  title  at  Olney,  prefers  his  home  to 
any  other  spot  of  earth  in  the  world.  Horace, 
observing  this  difference  of  temper  in  different 
persons,  cried  out  a  good  many  years  ago,  in  the 
true  spirit  of  poetry,  '  how  much  one  man  differs 
from  another!'  This  does  not  seem  a  very  sublime 
exclamation  in  Enghsh,  but  I  remember  we  were 
taught  to  admire  it  in  the  original. 

My  dear  friend,  I  am  obhged  to  you  for  your 
\nvitation:  but  being  long  accustomed  to  retire- 
ment, which  I  was  always  fond  of,  I  am  now  more 
than  ever  unwiUing  to  revisit  those  noisy  and 
crowded  scenes  which  I  never  loved,  and  which  1 
now  abhor.  I  remember  you  with  all  the  friend- 
ship I  ever  professed,  which  is  as  much  as  I  ever 
entertained  for  any  man.  But  the  strange  and 
uncommon  incidents  of  my  life  have  given  an  en- 
tire new  turn  to  my  whole  character  and  conduct, 
and  rendered  me  incapable  of  receiving  pleasure 
from  the  same  employments  and  amusements  of 
which  I  could  readily  partake  in  former  days. 

I  love  you  and  yours,  I  thank  you  for  your  con- 
tinued remembrance  of  me,  and  shall  not  cease  to 
be  their  and  your 

Affectionate  friend  and  servant,,  W.  C. 


TO  MRS.  COWPER. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN, 

I  HAVE  not  been  behindhand  in  reproaching 
myself  with  neglect,  but  desire  to  take  shame  to 
myself  for  my  unprofitableness  in  this,  as  well  as 
in  all  other  respects.  I  take  the  next  immediate 
opportunity  however  of  thanking  you  for  yours, 
and  of  assuring  you,  that  instead  of  being  sur- 
prised at  your  silence,  I  rather  wonder  that  you, 
or  any  of  my  friends,  have  any  room  left  for  so 
careless  and  negligent  a  correspondent  in  your 
memories.  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  the  intelligence 
you  send  me  of  my  kindred,  and  rejoice  to  hear 
of  their  welfare.  He  who  settles  the  bounds  of 
our  habitations  has  at  length  cast  our  lot  at  a 
great  distance  from  each  other;  but  I  do  not  there- 
fore forget  their  former  kindness  to  me,  or  cease 
to  be  interested  in  their  well  being.  You  live  in 
the  centre  of  a  world  I  know  you  do  not  delight  in. 


Happy  are  you,  my  dear  friend,  in  being  able  to 
discern  the  insufficiency  of  all  it  can  afford  to  fill 
and  satisfy  the  desires  of  an  immortal  soul.  That 
God  who  created  us  for  the  enjoyment  of  himself, 
has  determined  in  mercy  that  it  shall  fail  us  here, 
in  order  that  the  blessed  result  of  all  our  inquiries 
after  happiness  in  the  creature  may  be  a  warm 
pursuit  and  a  close  attachment  to  our  true  inter- 
ests, in  fellowship  and  communion  with  Him, 
through  the  name  and  mediation  of  a  dear  Re- 
deemer. I  bless  his  goodness  and  grace,  that  I 
have  any  reason  to  hope  I  am  a  partaker  with  you 
in  the  desire  after  better  things,  than  are  to  be 
found  in  a  world  polluted  with  sin,  and  therefore 
devoted  to  destruction.  May  he  enable  us  both 
to  consider  our  present  hfe  in  its  only  true  light, 
as  an  opportunity  put  into  our  hands  to  glorify 
him  amongst  men,  by  a  conduct  suited  to  his  word 
and  will.  I  am  miserably  defective  in  this  holy 
and  blessed  art,  but  I  hope  there  is  at  the  bottom 
of  all  my  sinful  infirmities  a  sincere  desire  to  live 
just  so  long  as  I  may  be  enabled,  in  some  poor 
measure,  to  answer  the  end  of  my  existence  in 
this  respect,  and  then  to  obey  the  summons,  and 
attend  him  in  a  world  where  they  who  are  his 
servants  here  shall  pay  him  an  unsinful  obedience 
for  ever.  Your  dear  mother  is  too  good  to  me,  and 
puts  a  more  charitable  construction  upon  my  si- 
lence than  the  fact  will  warrant.  I  am  not  better 
employed  than  I  should  be  in  corresponding  with 
her.  I  have  that  within  which  hinders  me  wretch- 
edly in  every  thing  that  I  ought  to  do,  but  is  prone 
to  trifle,  and  let  time  and  every  good  thing  run  to 
waste.    I  hope  however  to  write  to  her  soon. 

My  love  and  best  wishes  attend  Mr.  Cowper, 
and  all  that  inquire  after  me.  May  God  be  with 
you,  to  bless  you,  and  do  you  good  by  all  his  dis- 
pensations; don't  forget  me  when  you  are  speak- 
ing to  our  best  friend  before  his  Mercy-seat. 

Yours  ever,  W.  C. 

N.  B.  I  am  not  married. 


TO  MRS.  COWPER. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN,       Olney,  August  31,  1769.- 

A  LETTER  from  your  brother  Frederic  brought 
me  yesterday  the  most  afflicting  intelligence  that 
has  reached  me  these  many  years.  I  pray  to  God 
to  comfort  you,  and  to  enable  you  to  sustain  this 
heavy  stroke  with  that  resignation  to  his  will, 
which  none  but  himself  can  give,  and  which  he 
o-ives  to  none  but  his  own  children.  How  blessed 
and  happy  is  your  lot,  my  dear  friend,  beyond  the 
common  lot  of  the  greater  part  of  mankind;  thfit 
you  know  what  it  is  to  draw  near  to  God  in  prayer, 
and  are  acquainted  with  a  Throne  of  Grace!  You 
have  resources  in  the  infinite  love  of  a  dear  Re- 
deemer, which  are  withheld  from  millions:  and 


Let.  31,  32. 


LETTERS. 


181 


the  promises  of  God,  which  are  yea  and  amen  in 
Jesus,  are  sufficient  to  answer  all  your  necessities, 
and  to  sweeten  the  bitterest  cup  which  your  hea- 
venly Father  will  ever  put  into  your  hand.  May 
he  now  give  you  liberty  to  drink  at  these  wells  of 
salvation,  till  you  are  filled  with  consolation  and 
peace  in  the  midst  of  trouble !    He  has  said,  when 
thou  passest  through  the  fire  I  will  be  with  thee, 
and  when  through  the  floods,  they  shall  not  over- 
flow thee.    You  have  need  of  such  a  word  as  this, 
and  he  knows  your  need  of  it,  and  the  time  of  ne- 
cessity is  the  time  when  he  will  be  sure  to  appear 
in  behalf  of  those  who  trust  in  him.    I  bear  you 
and  yours  upon  my  heart  before  him  night  and 
day,  for  I  never  expect  to  hear  of  distress  which 
shall  call  upon  me  with  a  louder  voice  to  pray  for 
the  sufferer.    I  know  the  Lord  hears  me  for  my- 
self, vile  and  sinful  as  I  am,  and  believe  and  am 
sure  that  he  will  hear  me  for  you  also.    He  is  the 
friend  of  the  widow,  and  the  father  of  the  father- 
less, even  God  in  his  holy  habitation ;  in  all  our 
afflictions  he  is  afflicted,  and  chastens  us  in  mercy. 
Surely  he  will  sanctify  this  dispensation  to  you, 
do  you  great  and  everlasting  good  by  it,  make  the 
world  appear  hke  dust  and  vanity  in  your  sight, 
as  it  truly  is,  and  open  to  your  view  the  glories  of 
a  better  country,  where  there  shall  be  no  more 
death,  neither  sorrow  nor  pain,  but  God  shall 
wipe  away  all  tears  from  your  eyes  forever.  O 
that  comfortable  word!  '  I  have  chosen  thee  in  the 
furnace  of  affliction;'  so  that  our  very  sorrows  are 
evidences  of  our  calling,  and  he  chastens  us,  be- 
cause we  are  his  children. 

My  dear  cousin,  I  commit  you  to  the  word  of  his 
grace,  and  to  the  comforts  of  his  holy  spirit.  Your 
life  is  needful  for  your  family;  may  God  in  mercy 
to  them  prolong  it,  and  may  he  preserve  you  from 
the  dangerous  effects,  which  a  stroke  like  this 
might  have  upon  a  frame  so  tender  as  yours.  I 
grieve  with  you,  I  pray  for  you;  could  1  do  more 
I  .would,  but  God  must  comfort  you. 
Yours,  in  our  dear  Lord  Jesus, 


threatening,  by  the  only  physician  of  value.  1 
doubt  not  he  will  have  an  interest  in  your  prayers, 
as  he  has  in  the  prayers  of  many.  May  the  Lord 
incline  his  ear,  and  give  an  answer  of  peace!  I 
know  it  is  good  to  be  afflicted.  I  trust  that  you  have 
found  it  so,  and  that  under  the  teaching  of  God's 
own  spirit  we  shall  both  be  purified.  It  is  the  de- 
sire of  my  soul  to  seek  a  better  country,  where 
God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  the  eye's  of  his 
people:  and  where,  looking  back  upon  the  ways 
by  which  he  has  led  us,  we  shall  be  filled  with 
everiasting  wonder,  love,  and  praise.  I  must  add 
no  more.  Yours  ever,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  J.  NEWTON. 


TO  MRS.  COWPER. 


W.  C. 


1770. 


March  5, 

My  brother  continues  much  as  he  was.  His 
case  is  a  very  dangerous  one.  An  imposthume 
of  the  liver,  attended  by  an  asthma  and  dropsy. 
The  physician  has  little  hope  of  his  recovery.  I 
beheve  I  might  say  none  at  all;  only  being  a  friend 
he  does  not  formally  give  him  over,  by  ceasing  to 
visit  him,  lest  it  should  sink  his  spirits.  For  my 
own  part  I  have  no  expectation  of  his  recovery, 
except  by  a  signal  interposition  of  Providence  in 
answer  to  prayer.    His  case  is  clearly  out  of  the 

reach  of  medicine;  but  I  have  seen  many  a  sick-|  „„„^  „„„  _  ^^-i----^  ....^xv. c^pusu 

ness  healed,  where  the  danger  has  been  equally! himself  to  by  being  so.    Under  the  weight  of 


MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  March  31,  1770. 

I  AM  glad  that  the  Lord  made  you  a  fellow 
labourer  with  us  in  praying  my  dear  brother  out 
of  darkness  into  hght.  It  was  a  blessed  work: 
and  when  it  shall  be  your  turn  to  die  in  the  Lord, 
and  to  rest  from  all  your  labours,  that  work  shall 
follow  you.  I  once  entertained  hopes  of  his  re- 
covery :  from  the  moment  when  it  pleased  God  to 
give  him  light  in  his  soul,  there  was  for  four  days 
such  a  visible  amendment  in  his  body  as  surprised 
us  all.  Dr.  Glynn  himself  was  puzzled,  and  be- 
gan to  think  that  all  his  threatening  conjectures 
would  fail  of  their  accomplishment.  I  am  well 
satisfied  that  it  was  thus  ordered,  not  for  his  own 
sake,  but  for  the  sake  of  us,  who  had  been  so 
deeply  concerned  for  his  spiritual  welfare,  that  he 
might  be  able  to  give  such  evident  proof  of  the 
work  of  God  upon  his  soul  as  should  leave  no 
doubt  behind  it.  As  to  his  friends  at  Cambridge, 
they  knew  nothing  of  the  matter.  He  never  spoke 
of  these  things  but  to  myself,  nor  to  me,  when 
others  were  within  hearing,  except  that  he  some- 
times would  speak  in  the  presence  of  the  nurse. 
He  knew  well  to  make  the  distinction  between 
those  who  could  understand  him,  and  those  who 
could  not ;  and  that  he  was  not  in  circumstances 
to  maintain  such  a  controversy  as  a  declaration  of 
his  new  views  and  sentiments  would  have  exposed 
him  to.  Just  after  his  death  I  spoke  of  this  change 
to  a  dear  friend  of  his,  a  fellow  of  the  college,  who 
had  attended  him  through  all  his  sickness  with  as- 
siduity and  tenderness.  But  he  did  not  under- 
stand me. 

I  now  proceed  to  mention  such  particulars  as  I 
can  recollect,  and  which  I  had  not  opportunity  to 
insert  in  my  letters  to  Olney ;  for  I  left  Cambridge 
suddenly,  and  sooner  than  I  expected.  He  was 
deeply  impressed  with  a  sense  of  the  difficulties 
he  should  have  to  encounter,  if  it  should  please 
God  to  raise  him  again.  He  saw  the  necessity  of 
being  faithful,  and  the  opposition  he  should  expose 


182 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  33. 


these  thoughts  he  one  day  broke  out  in  the  follow- 
ing prayer,  when  only  myself  was  with  him,  '  O 
Lord,  thou  art  light ;  and  in  thee  is  no  darkness 
at  all.  Thou  art  the  fountain  of  all  wisdom,  and 
it  is  essential  to  thee  to  be  good  and  gracious.  I 
am  a  child,  O  Lord,  teach  me  how  I  shall  con- 
duct myself!  Give  me  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent 
with  the  harmlessness  of  the  dove  !  Bless  the  souls 
^thou  hast  committed  to  the  care  of  thy  helpless 
miserable  creature,  who  has  no  wisdom  or  know- 
ledge of  his  own,  and  make  me  faithful  to  them  for 
thy  mercy's  sake  !'  Another  time  he  said,  '  How 
wonderful  it  is,  that  God  should  look  upon  man ; 
and  how  much  more  wonderful,  that  he  should  look 
upon  such  a  worm  as  I  am !  Yet  he  does  look 
upon  me,  and  takes  the  exactest  notice  of  all  my 
sufferings.  He  is  present  and  I  see  him  (I  mean 
by  faith) ;  and  he  stretches  out  his  arms  towards 
me' — and  he  then  stretched  out  his  own — and 
he  says — '  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  are  weary 
and  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest !'  He 
smiled  and  wept,  when  he  spoke  these  words. 
When  he  expressed  himself  upon  these  sub- 
jects, there  was  a  weight  and  a  dignity  in  his 
manner  such  as  I  never  saw  before.  He  spoke 
with  the  greatest  deliberation,  making  a  pause  at 
the  end  of  every  sentence ;  and  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  air  and  in  the  tone  of  his  voice,  inex- 
pressibly solemn,  unlike  himself,  unlike  what  I 
had  ever  seen  in  another. 

This  hath  God  wrought.  I  have  praised  him 
for  his  marvellous  act,  and  have  felt  a  joy  of  heart 
upon  the  subject  of  my  brother's  death,  such  as  I 
never  felt  but  in  my  own  conversion.  He  is  now 
before  the  throne ;  and  yet  a  little  \yhile  and  we 
shall  meet,  never  more  to  be  divided. 

Yours,  my  very  dear  friend,  with  my  affection- 
ate respects  to  yourself  and  yours. 

WILLIAM  COWPER. 

Postscript.  A  day  or  two  before  his  death  he 
grew  so  weak  and  was  so  very  ill,  that  he  required 
continual  attendance,  so  that  he  had  neither 
strength  nor  opportunity  to  say  much  to  me.  On- 
ly the  day  before  he  said  he  had  a  sleepless,  but  a 
composed  and  quiet  night.  I  asked  him,  if  he 
had  been  able  to  collect  his  thoughts.  He  re- 
pHed,  '  All  night  long  I  have  endeavoured  to 
think  upon  God  and  to  continue  in  prayer.  I  had 
great  peace  and  comfort ;  and  what  comfort  I  had 
came  in  that  way.'  When  I  saw  him  the  next 
morning  at  seven  o'clock  he  was  dying,  fast  asleep, 
arid  exempted,  in  all  appearance,  from  the  sense 
of  those  pangs  which  accompany  dissolution.  I 
shall  be  glad  to  hear  from  you,  my  dear  friend 
when  you  can  find  time  to  write,  and  are  so  in 
cUned.  The  death  of  my  beloved  brother  teems 
with  many  useful  lessons.  May  God  seal  the  in- 
struction upon  our  hearts ! 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

DEAR  JOE,  May  8,  1770. 

Your  letter  did  not  reach  me  till  the  last  post, 
when  I  had  not  time  to  answer  it.  I  left  Cam- 
bridge immediately  after  my  brother's  death. 

I  am  obliged  to  you  for  the  particular  account 
you  have  sent  me 

He  to  whom  I  have  surrendered  myself  and  all 
my  concerns  hath  otherwise  appointed,  and  let  his 
will  be  done.  He  gives  me  much  which  he  with- 
holds from  others  ;  and  if  he  was  pleased  to  with- 
hold all  that  makes  an  outward  difference  between 
me  and  the  poor  mendicant  in  the  street,  it  would 
still  become  me  to  say,  his  will  be  done. 

It  pleased  God  to  cut  short  my  brother's  con- 
nexions and  expectations  here,  yet  not  without 
giving  him  lively  and  glorious  views  of  a  better 
happiness  than  any  he  could  propose  to  himself  in 
such  a  world  as  this.  Notwithstanding  his  great 
learning,  (for  he  was  one  of  the  chief  men  in  the 
university  in  that  respect)  he  was  candid  and  sin- 
cere in  his  inquiries  after  truth.  Though  he  could 
not  come  into  my  sentiments  when  I  first  ac- 
quainted him  with  them,  nor  in  the  many  conver- 
sations which  I  afterwards  had  with  him  upon 
the  subject,  could  he  be  brought  to  acquiesce  in 
them  as  scriptural  and  true,  yet  I  had  no  sooner 
left  St.  Alban's  than  he  began  to  study  with  the 
deepest  attention  those  points  in  which  we  differed, 
and  to  furnish  himself  with  the  best  writers  upon 
them.  His  mind  was  kept  open  to  conviction  for 
five  years,  during  all  which  time  he  laboured  in 
this  pursuit  with  unwearied  diligence,  as  leisure 
and  opportunity  were  afforded.  Amongst  his  dy- 
ing words  were  these,  '  Brother,  I  thought  you 
wrong,  yet  wanted  to  believe  as  you  did.  I  found 
myself  not  able  to  believe,  yet  always  thought  I 
should  be  one  day  brought  to  do  so.'  From  the 
study  of  books,  he  was  brought  upon  his  death- 
bed to  the  study  of  himself,  and  there  learnt  to 
renounce  his  righteousness,  and  his  own  most 
amiable  character,  and  to  submit  himself  to  the 
righteousness  which  is  of  God  by  faith.  With 
these  views  he  was  desirous  of  death.  Satisfied  of 
his  interest  in  the  blessing  purchased  by  the  blood 
of  Christ,  he  prayed  for  death  with  earnestness, 
felt  the  approaches  of  it  with  joy,  and  died  in 
peace.  Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 


TO  MRS.  COWPER. 
MY  DEAR  COUSIN,  Oltiey,  June  7,  1770. 

I  AM  am  obliged  to  you  for  sometimes  thinking 
of  an  unseen  friend,  and  bestowing  a  letter  upon 
me.  It  gives  me  pleasure  to  hear  from  you,  es- 
pecially to  find  that  our  gracious  Lord  enables 


Let.  35,  36. 


LETTERS. 


183 


you  to  weather  out  the  storms  you  meet  with,  and 
to  cast  anchor  within  the  veil. 

You  judge  rightly  of  the  manner  in  which  I 
have  been  affected  by  the  Lord's  late  dispensation 
towards  my  brother.    I  found  in  it  cause  of  sor- 
row, that  I  had  lost  so  near  a  relation,  and  one  so 
deservedly  dear  to  me,  and  that  he  left  me  just 
when  our  sentiments  upon  the  most  interesting 
subject  became  the  same;  but  much  more  cause 
of  joy,  that  it  pleased  God  to  give  me  clear  and 
evident  proof  that  he  had  changed  his  heart,  and 
adopted  him  into  the  number  of  his  children.  For 
this  I  hold  myself  pecuHarly  bound  to  thank 
him,  because  he  might  have  done  all  that  he  Was 
pleased  to  do  for  him,  and  yet  have  afforded  him 
neither  strength  nor  opportunity  to  declare  it.  I 
doubt  not  that  he  enlightens  the  understandings, 
and  works  a  gracious  change  in  the  hearts  of  many 
in  their  last  moments,  whose  surrounding  friends 
are  not  made  acquainted  with  it. 

He  told  me  that  from  the  time  he  was  first  or- 
dained he  began  to  be  dissatisfied  with  his  reli- 
gious opinions,  and  to  suspect  that  there  were 
greater  things  concealed  in  the  Bible,  than  were 
generally  believed  or  allowed  to  be  there.  From 
the  time  when  I  first  visited  him  after  my  release 
from  St.  Alban's,  he  began  to  read  upon  the  sub- 
ject.   It  was  at  that  time  I  informed  him  of  the 
views  of  divine  truth  which  I  had  received  in  that 
school  of  affliction.    He  laid  what  I  said  to  heart, 
and  began  to  furnish  himself  with  the  best  writers 
upon  the  controverted  points,  whose  works  he 
read  with  great  diligence  and  attention,  comparing 
them  all  the  while  with  the  Scripture.  None  ever 
truly  and  ingenuously  sought  the  truth  but  they 
found  it.    A  spirit  of  earnest  inquiry  is  the  gift 
of  God,  who  never  says  to  any,  Seek  ye  my  face 
in  vain.    Accordingly,  about  ten  days  before  his 
death,  it  pleased  the  Lord  to  dispel  all  his  doubts, 
and  to  reveal  in  his  heart  the  knowledge  of  the 
Saviour,  and  to  give  him  firm  and  unshaken  peace 
in  the  belief  of  his  ability  and  willingness  to  save. 
As  to  the  affair  of  the  fortune-teller,  he  never  men- 
tioned it  to  me,  nor  was  there  any  such  paper 
found  as  you  mention.    I  looked  over  all  his  pa- 
pers before  I  left  the  place,  and  had  there  been 
such  a  one,  must  have  discovered  it.  I  have  heard 
the  report  from  other  quarters,  but  no  other  parti- 
culars than  that  the  woman  foretold  him  when  he 
should  die.    I  suppose  there  may  be  some  truth  in 
the  matter,  but  whatever  he  might  think  of  it  be- 
fore his  knowledge  of  the  truth,  and  however  ex- 
traordinary her  predictions  might  really  be,  I  am 
satisfied  that  he  had  then  received  far  other'views 
of  the  wisdom  and  majesty  of  God,  than  to  sup- 
pose that  he  would  entrust  his  secret  counsels  to  a 
vagrant,  who  did  not  mean,  I  suppose,  to  be  un- 
derstood to  have  received  her  intelligence  from  the 
Fountain  of  Light,  but  thought  herself  sufficiently 


honoured  by  any  who  would  give  her  credit  for  a 
secret  intercourse  of  this  kind  with  the  prince  of 
darkness. 

Mrs.  Unvpin  is  much  obliged  to  you  for  your 
kind  inquiry  after  her.  She  is  well,  I  thank  God, 
as  usual,  and  sends  her  respects  to  you.  Her  son 
is  in  the  ministry,  and  has  the  living  of  Stock,  in 
Essex.  We  were  last  week  alarmed  with  an  ac- 
count of  his  being  dangerously  ill;  Mrs.  Unwin 
went  to  see  him,  and  in  a  few  days  left  him  out 
of  danger.  -yf  q 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa 
DEAR  JOE,  Sept.  25,  1770. 

I  HAVE  not  done  conversing  with  terrestrial  ob- 
jects, though  I  should  be  happy  were  I  able  to 
hold  more  continual  converse  with  a  friend  above 
the  skies.  He  has  my  heart,  but  he  allows  a  cor- 
ner in  it  for  all  who  show  me  kindness,  and  there- 
fore one  for  you.  The  storm  of  sixty-three  made 
a  wreck  of  the  friendships  I  had  contracted  in  the 
course  of  many  years,  yours  excepted,  which  has 
survived  the  tempest. 

I  thank  you  for  your  repeated  invitation.  Sin- 
gular thanks  are  due  to  you  for  so  singular  an 
instance  of  your  regard.  I  could  not  leave  Olney, 
unless  in  a  case  of  absolute  necessity,  without 
much  inconvenience  to  myself  and  others. 

W.  C* 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 
BEAR  UNWIN,  June  8,  1778. 

I  FEEL  myself  much  obliged  to  you  for  your 
kind  intimation,  and  have  given  the  subject  of  it 
all  my  best  attention,  both  before  I  received  your 
letter  and  since.    The  result  is,  that  I  am  per- 
suaded it  will  be  better  not  to  write.    I  know  the 
man  and  his  disposition  well;  he  is  very  liberal  in 
his  way  of  thinking,  generous  and  discerning. 
He  is  well  aware  of  the  tricks  that  are  played  upon 
such  occasions,  and  after  fifteen  years  interrup- 
tion of  all  intercourse  between  us,  would  translate 
my  letter  into  this  language— pray  remember  the 
poor.    This  would  disgust  him,  because  he  would 
think  our  former  intimacy  disgraced  by  such  an 
oblique  application.    He  has  not  forgotten  me, 
and  if  he  had,  there  are  those  about  him  who  can 
not  come  into  his  presence  without  reminding  hhn 
of  me,  and  he  is  also  perfectly  acquainted  with  my 
circumstances.    It  would  perhaps  give  him  plea- 
sure to  surprise  me  with  a  benefit;  and  if  he 


*  The  subsequent  chasm  in  the  Letters  of  this  Volume  was 
occasioned  by  a  long  and  severe  illness  with  which  the  writer 
was  i"^-"*"-' 


184 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  37, 38,  39. 


means  me  such  a  favour,  I  should  disappoint  him 
by  asking  it. 

I  repeat  my  thanks  for  your  suggestion;  you 
Bee  a  part  of  ray  reasons  for  thus  conducting  my- 
self; if  we  were  together  I  could  give  you  more.* 
Yours  affectionately,        W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

May  26, 1779. 

I  AM  obliged  to  you  for  the  Poets;  and  though  I 
little  thought  I  was  translating  so  much  money 
out  of  your  pocket  into  the  bookseller's,  when  I 
turned  Prior's  poem  into  Latin,  yet  I  must  needs 
say  that,  if  you  think  it  worth  while  to  purchase 
the  EngUsh  Classics  at  all,  you  can  not  possess 
yourself  of  them  upon  better  terms.  I  have  looked 
into  some  of  the  volurhes,  but  not  having  yet  finish- 
ed the  Register,  have  merely  looked  into  them.  A 
few  things  I  have  met  with,  which  if  they  had 
been  burned  the  moment  they  were  written,  it 
would  have  been  better  for  the  author,  and  at 
least  as  well  for  his  readers.  There  is  not  much 
of  this,  but  a  little  too  much.  I  think  it  a  pity 
the  editor  admitted  any;  the  English  muse  would 
have  lost  no  credit  by  the  omission  of  such  trash. 
Some  of  them  again  seem  to  me  to  have  but  a  very 
disputable  right  to  a  place  among  the  Classics; 
and  I  am  quite  at  a  loss  when  I  see  them  in  such 
company,  to  conjecture  what  is  Dr.  Johnson's  idea 
or  definition  of  classical  merit.  But  if  he  inserts 
the  poems  of  some  who  can  hardly  be  said  to  de- 
serve such  an  honour,  the  purchaser  may  comfort 
himself  with  the  hope  that  he  will  exclude  none 
that  do.  W.  C 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 
AMico  Mio,  Sept.  21, 1779. 

Be  pleased  to  buy  me  a  glazier's  diamond  pen 
cil.  I  have  glazed  the  two  frames  designed  to  re 
ceive  my  pine  plants.  But  I  can  not  mend  the 
kitchen  windows,  till  by  the  help  of  that  imple- 
ment I  can  reduce  the  glass  to  its  proper  dimen 
sions.  If  I  were  a  plumber  I  should  be  a  com 
plete  glazier;  and  possibly  the  happy  time  may 
come,  when  I  shall  be  seen  trudging  away  to  the 
neighbouring  towns  with  a  shelf  of  glass  hanging 
at  my  back.  If  government  should  impose  ano- 
tax  upon  that  commodity,  I  hardly  know  a  busi- 
ness in  which  a  gentleman  might  more  success 
fully  employ  himself.  A  Chinese,  of  ten  times 
my  fortune,  would  avail  himself  of  such  an  oppor- 
tunity without  scruple;  and  why  should  not  I 


who  want  money  as  much  as  any  mandarin  in 
China Rousseau  would  have  been  charmed  to 
have  seen  me  so  occupied,  and  would  have  ex- 
claimed with  rapture,  "  that  he  had  found  the 
Emilius  who  (he  supposed)  had  subsisted  only  in 
his  own  idea."  I  would  recommend  it  to  you  to 
follow  my  example.  You  will  presently  qualify 
yourself  for  the  task,  and  may  not  only  amuse 
yourself  at  home,  but  may  even  exercise  your  skill 
in  mending  the  church  windows;  which,  as  it 
would  save  money  to  the  parish,  would  conduce, 
together  with  your  other  ministerial  accomplish- 
ments, to  make  you  extremely  popular  in  the 
place. 

I  have  eight  pair  of  tame  pigeons.  When  I 
first  enter  the  garden  in  a  morning,  I  find  them 
perched  upon  the  wall,  waiting  for  their  breakfast; 
for  I  feed  them  always  upon  the  gravel-walk.  If 
your  wish  should  be  accomplished,  and  you  should 
find  yourself  furnished  with  the  wings  of  a  dove, 
I  shall  undoubtedly  find  you  amongst  them.  Only 
be  so  good,  if  that  should  be  the  case,  to  announce 
yourself  by  some  means  or  other.  For  I  imagine 
your  crop  will  require  something  better  than  tares 
to  fill  it. 

Your  mother  and  I  last  week  made  a  trip  in  a 
post  chaise  to  Gayhurst,  the  seat  of  Mr.  Wright, 
about  four  miles  off.  He  understood  that  I  did  not 
much  affect  strange  faces,  and  sent  over  his  ser- 
vant on  purpose  to  inform  me  that  he  was  going 
into  Leicestershire,  and  that,  if  I  chose  to  see  the 
gardens,  I  might  gratify  myself  without  danger  of 
seeing  the  proprietor.  I  accepted  the  invitation, 
and  was  delighted  with  all  I  found  there.  The 
situation  is  happy,  the  gardens  elegantly  disposed, 
the  hot-house  in  the  most  flourishing  state,  and 
the  orange-trees  the  most  captivating  creatures  of 
the  kind  I  ever  saw.  A  man,  in  short,  had  need 
have  the  talents  of  Cox  or  Langford,  the  auc- 
tioneers, to  do  the  whole  scene  justice.  Our  love 
attends  you  all.  Yours,  W.  C. 


*  The  allusion  in  this  letter  is  to  Lord  Thurlow,  who  was 
promoted  to  the  Lord  High  Chancellorship  of  England  in  the 
early  part  ol  the  month  in  which  it  was  written. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Oct.  31,  1779. 

I  WROTE  my  last  letter  merely  to  inform  you  that 
I  had  nothing  to  say,  in  answer  to  which  you  have 
said  nothing.  I  admire  the  propriety  of  your  con- 
duct, though  I  am  a  loser  by  it.  I  will  endeavour 
to  say  something  now,  and  shall  hope  for  some- 
thing in  return. 

I  have  been  well  entertained  with  Johnson'fe 
biography,  for  which  I  thank  you;  with  one  ex- 
ception, and  that  a  swinging  one,  I  think  he  has 
acquitted  himself  with  his  usual  good  sense  and 
sufficiency.  His  treatment  of  Milton  is  unn^erci- 
ful  to  the'  last  degree.  He  has  belaboured  that 
great  poet's  character  with  the  most  industrious 


Let.  40,  41. 


LETTERS. 


185 


cruelty.    As  a  man,  he  has  hardly  left  him  the 
shadow  of  one  good  quality.    Churlishness  in  his 
private  life,  and  a,  rancorous  hatred  of  every  thing 
royal  in  his  public,  are  the  two  colours  with  which 
he  has  smeared  all  the  canvas.    If  he  had  any  vir- 
tues, they  are  not  to  be  found  in  the  doctor's  pic- 
ture of  him,  and  it  is  well  for  Milton  that  some 
sourness  in  his  temper  is  the  only  vice  with  which 
his  memory  has  been  charged ;  it  is  evident  enough 
that  if  his  biographer  could  have  discovered  more, 
he  would  not  have  spared  him.    As  a  poet,  he  has 
treated  him  with  severity  enough,  and  has  plucked 
one  or  two  of  the  most  beautiful  feathers  out  of 
his  Muse's  wing,  and  trampled  them  under  his 
great  foot.    He  has  passed  sentence  of  condemna- 
tion upon  Lycidas,  and  has  taken  occasion,  from 
that  charming  poem,  to  expose  to  ridicule  (what  is 
indeed  ridiculous  enough)  the  childish  prattlement 
of  pastoral  compositions,  as  if  Lycidas  was  the 
prototype  and  pattern  of  them  all.    The  liveliness 
of  the  description,  the  sweetness  of  the  numbers, 
the  classical  spirit  of  antiquity  that  prevails  in  it' 
go  for  nothing.    I  am  convinced,  by  the  way,  that 
he  has  no  ear  for  poetical  numbers,  or  that  it  was 
stopped  by  prejudice  against  the  harmony  of  Mil- 
ton's.   Was  there  ever  any  thing  so  delightful  as 
the  music  of  the  Paradise  Lost?    It  is  like  that 
of  a  fine  organ;  has  the  fullest  and  the  deepest 
tones  of  majesty,  with  all  the  softness  and  elegance 
of  the  Dorian  flute.    Variety  without  end,  and 
never  equalled,  unless  perhaps  by  Virgil.  Yet  the 
doctor  has  little  or  nothing  to  say  upon  this  co- 
pious theme,  but  talks  something  about  the  unfit- 
ness of  the  EngUsh  language  for  blank  verse,  and 
how  apt  it  is  in  the  mouth  of  some  readers,  to  de 
generate  into  declamation.  ' 

I  could  talk  a  good  while  longer,  but  I  have  no 
room;  our  love  attends  you. 

Yours  affectionately,  W.  C 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  /JgC.  2  1779, 

How  quick  is  the  succession  of  human  events! 
The  cares  of  to-day  are  seldom  the  cares  of  to- 
morrow; and  when  we  lie  down  at  night,  we  may 
safely  say  to  most  of  our  troubles  "  Ye  have  done 
your  worst,  and  we  shall  meet  no  more." 

This  observation  was  suggested  to  me  by  read- 
ing your  last  letter;  which  though  I  have  written 
since  I  received  it,  I  have  never  answered.  When 
that  epistle  passed  under  your  pen,  you  were  mi- 
serable about  your  tithes,  and  your  imagination 
was  hung  round  with  pictures,  that  terrified  you 
to  such  a  degree  as  made  even  the  receipt  of  mo- 
ney burdensome.  But  it  is  all  over  now.  You 
sent  away  your  farmers  in  good  humour  (for  you 
can  make  people  merry  whenever  you  please),  and 


now  you  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  chink  your 
purse,  and  laugh  at  what  is  past.  Your  delicacy 
makes  you  groan  under  that  which  other  men 
never  feel,  or  feel  but  Ughtly.  A  fly  that  settles 
upon  the  tip  of  the  nose,  is  troublesome ;  and  this 
IS  a  comparison  adequate  to  the  most  that  man- 
kind m  general  are  sensible  of,  upon  such  tiny  oc- 
casions. But  the  flies  that  pester  you,  always  get 
between  your  eye-lids,  where  the  annoyance  is  al- 
most insupportable. 

I  would  follow  your  advice,  and  endeavour  to  fur- 
nish Lord  North  with  a  scheme  of  supplies  for  the 
ensmng  year,  if  the  difiiculty  I  find  in  answering 
the  call  of  my  own  emergencies  did  not  make  me 
despair  of  satisfying  those  of  the  nation.  I  can  say 
but  this;  if  I  had  ten  acres  of  land  in  the  worid 
whereas  I  have  not  one,  and  in  those  ten  acres 
should  discover  a  gold  mine,  richer  than  all  Mexico 
and  Peru,  when  I  had  reserved  a  few  ounces  for 
my  own  annual  supply,  I  would  willingly  give  the 
rest  to  government.    My  ambition  would  be  more 
gratified  by  annihilating  the  national  incumbrances 
than  by  going  daily  down  to  the  bottom  of  a  mine 
to  wallow  in  my  own  emolument.    This  is  patriot- 
ism—you  will  allow;  but  alas,  this  virtue  is  for  the 
most  part  in  the  hands  of  those  who  can  do  no  good 
with  it!    He  that  has  but  a  single  handful  of  it, 
catches  so  greedily  at  the  first  opportunity  of  grow- 
ing rich,  that  his  patriotism  drops  to  the  ground, 
and  he  grasps  the  gold  instead  of  it.    He  that 
never  meets  with  such  an  opportunity,  holds  it  fast 
in  his  clenched  fist,  and  says,— «  Oh,  how  much 
good  I  would  do  if  I  could!" 

Your  mother  says—"  Pray  send  my  dear  love." 
There  is  hardly  room  to  add  mine,  but  you  will 
suppose  it.  Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Peh.  27,  1780. 

As  you  are  pleased  to  desire  my  letters,  I  am 
the  more  pleased  with  writing  them,  though,  at 
the  same  time,  I  must  needs  testify  my  surprise 
that  you  should  think  them  worth  receiving,  as  I 
seldom  send  one  that  I  think  favourably  of  myself. 
This  is  not  to  be  understood  as  an  imputation 
upon  your  taste  or  judgment,  but  as  an  encomium 
upon  my  own  modesty  and  humility,  which  I 
desire  you  to  remark  well.    It  is  a  just  observation 
of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  that  though  men  of  ordi- 
nary talents  may  be  highly  satisfied  with  their 
own  productions,  men  of  true  genius  never  are. 
Whatever  be  their  subject,  they  always  seem  to 
themselves  to  fall  short  of  it,  even  when  they  seem 
to  others  most  to  excel.    And  for  this  reason— 
because  they  have  a  certain  sublune  sense  of  per- 
fection which  other  men  are  strangers  to,  and 
which  they  themselves  in  their  performances  are 


186 


eOWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  42, 43. 


not  able  to  exemplify.  Your  servant,  Sir  Joshua! 
I  little  thought  of  seeing  you  when  I  began,  but 
as  you  have  popped  in  you  are  welcome. 

When  I  wrote  last,  I  was  little  inclined  to  send 
you  a  copy  of  verses  entitled  the  Modern  Patriot, 
but  was  not  quite  pleased  with  a  line  or  two  which 
I  found  it  difficult  to  mend,  therefore  did  not.  At 
night  I  read  Mr.  Burke's  speech  in  the  newspaper, 
and  was  so  well  pleased  with  his  proposals  for  a 
reformation,  and  with  the  temper  in  which  he 
made  them,  that  I  began  to  think  better  of  his 
cause,  and  burnt  my  verses.  Such  is  the  lot  of 
the  man  who  writes  upon  the  subject  of  the  day: 
the  aspect  of  affairs  changes  in  an  hour  or  two, 
and  his  opinion  with  it;  what  was  just  and  well- 
deserved  satire  in  the  morning,  in  the  evening 
becomes  a  libel;  the  author  commences  his  own 
judge,  and  while  he  condemns  with  unrelenting 
severity  what  he  so  lately  approved,  is  sorry  to 
find  that  he  has  laid  his  leaf-gold  upon  touch-wood, 
which  crumbled  away  under  his  fingers.  Alas! 
what  can  I  do  with  my  wif?  *I  have  not  enough 
to  do  great  things  with,  and  these  little  things  are 
so  fugitive,  that  while  a  man  catches  at  the  sub- 
ject, he  is  only  fiUing  his  hand  with  smoke.  I  must 
do  with  it  as  1  do  with  my  linnet;  I  keep  him  for 
the  most  part  in  a  cage,  but  now  and  then  set  open 
the  door  that  he  may  whisk  about  the  room  a  little, 
and  then  shut  him  up  again.  My  whisking  wit 
has  produced  the  following,  the  subject  of  which 
is  more  important  than  the  manner  in  which  I 
have  treated  it  seems  to  imply,  but_a  fable  may 
speak  truth,  and  all  truth  is  sterling;  I  only  pre- 
mise, that  in  a  philosophical  tradt  in  the  Register, 
I  found  it  asserted  that  the  glow-worm  is  the 
nightingale's  food.* 

_An  officer  of  a  regiment,  part  of  which  is  quar- 
tered here,  gave  one  of  the  soldiers  leave  to  be 
drunk  six  weeks,  in  hopes  of  curing  him  by  satie- 
ty— ^he  was  drunk  six  weeks,  and  is  so  still,  as 
often  as  he  can  find  an  opportunity.  One  vice 
may  swallow  up  another,  but  no  coroner  in  the 
state  of  Ethics  ever  brought  in  his  verdict,  when  a 
\ice  died,  that  it  wa.s—felo  de  se. 

Thanks  for  all  you  have  done,  and  all  you  in- 
tend :  the  biography  will  be  particularly  welcome 
Yours,  W.  C 


TO  THE  REV.  J.  NEWTON. 

March  18,  1780. 
I  AM  obliged  to  you  for  the  communication  of 

your  correspondence  with  .    It  was  impossi 

ble  for  any  man,  of  any  temper  whatever,  and 


however  wedded  to  his  own  purpose,  to  resent  bo 
gentle  and  friendly  an  exhortation  as  you  sent  him. 
Men  of  lively  imaginations  are  not  often  remarka- 
ble for  solidity  of  judgment.  They  have  gener- 
ally strong  passions  to  bias  it,  and  are  led  far 
away  from  their  proper  road,  in  pursuit  of  pretty 
phantoms  of  their  own  creating.  No  law  ever 
did  or  can  effect  what  he  has  ascribed  to  that  of 
Moses ;  it  is  reserved  for  mercy  to  subdue  the  cor- 
rupt inclinations  of  mankind,  which  threatenings 
and  penalties,  through  the  depravity  of  the  heart, 
have  always  had  a  tendency  rather  to  inflame. 

The  love  of  power  seems  as  natural  to  kings,  as 
the  desire  of  liberty  is  to  their  subjects ;  the  excess 
of  either  is  vicious,  and  tends  to  the  ruin  of  both. 
There  are  many,  I  believe,  who  wish  the  present 
corrupt  state  of  things  dissolved,  in  hope  that  the 
pure  primitive  constitution  will  spring  up  from  the 
ruins.  But  it  is  not  for  man,  by  himself  man,  to 
bring  order  out  of  confusion ;  the  progress  from 
one  to  the  other  is  not  natural,  much  less  necessa- 
ry, and  without  the  intervention  of  divine  aid, 
impossible;  and  they  who  are  for  making  the 
hazardous  experiment,  would  certainly  find  them  - 
selves disappointed. 

Affectionately  yours,  W.  C. 


*  This  letter  contained  the  beautiful  fable  of  the  Nightin- 
gale and  Glow-worm, 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  March  28,  1780. 

I  have  heard  nothing  more  from  Mr.  Newton, 
upon  the  subject  you  mention ;  but  I  dare  say  that 
having  been  given  to  expect  the  benefit  of  your 
nomination  in  behalf  of  his  nephew,  he  still  de- 
pends upon  it.    His  obligations  to  Mr.  have 

been  so  numerous,  and  so  weighty,  that  though  he 
has,  in  a  few  instances,  prevailed  upon  himself  to 
recommend  an  object  now  and  then  to  his  patron- 
age, he  has  very  sparingly,  if  at  all,  exerted  his 
interest  with  him  in  behalf  of  his  own  relations. 

With  respect  to  the  advice  you  are  required  to 
give  to  a  young  lady,  that  she  may  be  properly 
instructed  in  the  manner  of  keeping  the  sabbath, 
I  just  subjoin  a  few  hints  that  have  occurred  to  me 
upon  the  occasion ;  not  because  I  think  you  want 
them,  but  because  it  would  seem  unkind  to  with- 
hold them.  The  sabbath  then,  I  think,  may  be 
considered,  first,  as  a  commandment,  no  less  bind- 
ing upon  modern  christians  than  upon  ancient 
Jews,  because  the  spiritual  people  amongst  them  did 
not  think  it  enough  to  abstain  from  manual  occu- 
pations upon  that  day;  but,  entering  more  deeply 
into  the  meaning  of  the  precept,  allotted  those 
hours  they  took  from  the  world,  to  the  cultivation 
of  holiness  in  their  own  souls,  which  ever  was, 
and  ever  will  be  a  duty  incumbent  upon  all  who 
ever  heard  of  a  sabbath,  and  is  of  perpetual  obli- 
gation both  upon  Jews  and  christians;  (the  com- 


1«ET.  44,45. 


LETTERS. 


187 


mandment,  therefore,  enjoins  it;  the  prophets  have 
miso  enforced  it;  and  in  many  instances,  both 
•scriptural  and  modern,  the  breach  of  it  has  been 
punished  with  providential  and  judicial  severity 
that  may  make  by-standers  tremble) ;  secondly,  as 
a  privilege,  which  you  well  know  how  to  dilate 
upon,  better  than  I  can  tell  you :  thirdly,  as  a  sign 
of  that  covenant  by  which  believers  are  entitled  to 
a  rest  that  yet  remaineth:  fourthly,  as  the  sine 
qua  non  of  the  christian  character;  and  upon  this 
head  I  should  guard  against  being  mfsunderstood 
tOTnean  no  more  than  two  attendances  upon  pub 
lie  worshij>,  which  is  a  form  complied  with  by 
thousands  who  never  kept  a  sabbath  in  their  lives. 
Consistence  is  necessary,  to  give  substance  and 
solidity  to  the  whole.    To  sanctify  the  day  at 
church,  and  to  trifle  it  away  out  of  church,  is  pro- 
fanation, and  vitiates  all.    After  all,  I  could  ask 
my  catechumen  one  short  question—'  Do  you  love  the 
day,  or  do  you  not  %    If  you  love  it,  you  v^dll  never 
inquire  how  far  you  may  safely  deprive  yourself 
of  the  enjoyment  of  it.    If  you  do  not  love  it,  arid 
you  find  yourself  obliged  in  conscience  to  ac- 
knowledge it,  that  is  an  alarming  symptom,  and 
ought  to  make  you  tremble.    If  you  do  not  love  it, 
then  it  is  a  weariness  to  you,  and  you  wish  it  was 
over.    The  ideas  of  labour  and  rest  are  not  more 
opposite  to  each  other  than  the  idea  of  a  sabbath, 
and  that  dislike  and  disgust  with  which  it  fills  the 
souls  of  thousands  to  be  obliged  to  keep  it.    It  is 
worse  than  bodily  labour.'  W.  C 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  April  6,  1780. 

I  NEVER  was,  any  more  than  yourself,  a  friend 
to  pluralities;  they  are  generally  found  in  the 
hands  of  the  avaricious,  whose  insatiable  hunger 
afterprefermentproves  themunworthy  of  any  at  all. 
They  attend  much  to  the  regular  payment  of  their 
dues,  but  not  at  all  to  the  spiritual  interest  of  their 
parishioners.  Having  forgot  their  duty,  or  never 
known  it,  they  differ  in  nothing  from  the  laity,  ex- 
cept their  outward  garb,  and  their  exclusive  right 
to  the  desk  and  pulpit.  But  when  pluralities  seek 
the  man,  instead  of  being  sought  by  him;  and 
when  the  man  is  honest,  conscientious,  and  pious  • 
careful  to  employ  a  substitute  in  those  respects 
like  himself;  and,  not  contented  with  this,  will  see 
with  his  own  eyes  that  the  concerns  of  his  parishes 
are  decently  and  diligently  administered;  in  that 
case,  considering  the  present  dearth  of  such  cha- 
racters in  the  ministry,  I  think  it  an  event  advan- 
tageous to  the  people,  and  much  to  be  desired  by  all 
who  regret  the  great  and  apparent  want  of  sobriety 
and  earnestness  among  the  clergy.  A  man  who 
does  not  seek  a  living  merely  as  a  pecuniary  emol- 
ument has  no  need,  in  my  judgment,  to  refuse  one 

b2 


because  it  is  so.  He  means  to  do  his  duty,  and  by 
doing  it  he  earns  his  wages.  The  two  rectories 
being  contiguous  to  each  other,  and  following 
easily  under  the  care  of  one  pastor,  and  both  so 
near  to  Stock  that  you  can  visit  them  with- 
out difliculty,  as  often  as  you  please,  I  see  no 
reasonable  objection,  nor  does  your  mother.  As 
to  the  wry-mouthed  sneers  and  ilhberal  miscon- 
structions of  the  censorious,  I  know  no  better  shield 
to  guard  you  against  them,  than  what  you  are 
already  furnished  with-  a  clear  and  unoffending 
conscience. 

I  am  obliged  to  you  for  what  you  said  upon  the 
subject  of  book-buying,  and  am  very  fond  of  avail- 
ing myself  of  another  man's  pocket,  when  I  can 
do  it  creditably  to  myself,  and  without  injury  to 
him.  Amusements  are  necessary,  in  a  retirement 
like  mine,  especially  in  such  a  sable  state  of  mind 
as  I  labour  under.  The  necessity  of  amusement 
makes  me  sometimes  write  verses— it  made  me  a 
carpenter,  a  bird-cage  maker,  a  gardener— and  has 
lately  taught  me  to  draw,  and  to  draw  too  with 
such  surprising  proficiency  in  the  art,  considering 
my  total  ignorance  of  it  two  months  ago,  that  when 
I  show  your  mother  my  productions,  she  is  all  ad- 
miration and  applause. 

You  need  never  fear  the  communication  of  what 
you  entrust  to  us  in  confidence.  You  know  your 
mother's  delicacy  in  this  point  sufficiently;  and  as 
for  me,  I  once  wrote  a  Connoisseur  upon  the  sub- 
ject of  secret  keeping,  and  from  that  day  to  this  I 
believe  I  have  never  divulged  one. 

We  were  much  pleased  with  Mr.  Newton's  ap- 
plication to  you  for  a  charity  sermon,  and  with 
what  he  said  upon  that  subject  in  his  last  letter, 
'  that  he  was  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  give  you 
that  proof  of  his  regard.' 

Believe  me  yours,  W.  C 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON, 
Olney,  April  16,  1780. 
Since  I  wrote  my  last  we  have  had  a  visit 

from  .    I  did  not  feel  myself  vehemently 

disposed  to  receive  him  with  that  complaisance, 
from  which  a  stranger  generally  infers  that  he  is 
welcome.  By  his  manner,  which  was  rather  bold 
than  easy,  I  judged  that  there  was  no  occasion  for 
it,  and  that  it  was  a  trifle  which,  if  he  did  not  meet 
with,  neither  would  he  feel  the  want  of.  He  has 
the  air  of  a  traveled  man,  but  not  of  a  traveled 
gentleman;  is  quite  delivered  from  that  reserve 
which  is  so  common  an  ingredient  in  the  English 
character,  yet  does  not  open  himself  gently  and 
gradually,  as  men  of  poUte  behaviour  do,  but  bursts 
upon  you  all  at  once.  He.  talks  very  loud,  and 
when  our  poor  little  robins  hear  a  great  noise,  they 
are  immediately  seized  with  an  ambition  to  surpass 


188 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  46,  47,  48. 


it;  the  increase  of  their  vociferation  occasioned  an 
increase  of  his,  and  his  in  return  acted  as  a  stimu- 
lus upon  theirs;  neither  side  entertained  a  thought 
of  giving  up  the  contest,  which  became  continually 
more  interesting  to  our  ears,  during  the  whole 
visit.  The  birds  however  survived  it,  and  so  did 
we.    They  perhaps  flatter  themselves  they  gained 

a  complete  victory,  but  I  believe  Mr.  could 

have  killed  them  both  in  another  hour.    W.  C 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 


fine  estate,  a  large  conservatory,  a  hot-house  rich 
as  a  West-Indian  garden,  things  of  consequence; 
visit  them  with  pleasure,  and  muse  upon  them 
with  ten  times  more.  I  am  pleased  with  a  frame 
of  four  lights,  doubtful  whether  the  few  pines  it 
contains  will  ever  be  worth  a  farthing;  amuse  my- 
self with  a  greenhouse  which  lord  Bute's  gardener 
could  take  upon  his  back,  and  walk  away  with; 
and  when  I  have  paid  it  the  accustomed  visit,  and 
watered  it,  and  given  it  air,  I  say  to  myself—'  This 
is  not  mine,  'tis  a  plaything  lent  me  for  the  pre- 
sent; I  must  leave  it  soon.'  W.  C. 


DEAR  SIR,  May  3,  1780. 

You  indulge  me  in  such  a  variety  of  subjects 
and  allow  me  such  a  latitude  of  excursion  in  this 
scribbling  employment,  that  I  have  no  excuse  for 
silence.    I  am  much  bbliged  to  you  for  swallowing 
such  boluses  as  I  send  you,  for  the  sake  of  my 
gilding,  and  verily  believe  that  I  am  the  only  man 
alive,  from  whom  they  would  be  welcome  to  a  pa- 
late like  yours.    I  wish  I  could  make  them  more 
splendid  than  they  are,  more  alluring  to  the  eye, 
at  least,  if  not  more  pleasing  to  the  taste;  but  my 
leaf  gold  is  tarnished,  and  has  received  such  a  tinge 
from  the  vapours  that  are  ever  brooding  over  my 
mind,  that  I  think  it  no  small  proof  of  your  par- 
tiality to  me,  that  you  will  read  my  letters.    1  am 
not  fond  of  long-winded  metaphors;  I  have  always 
observed,  that  they  halt  at  the  latter  end  of  their 
progress,  and  so  do  mine.    I  deal  much  in  ink  in- 
deed, but  not  such  ink  as  is  employed  by  poets, 
and  writers  of  essays.    Mine  is  a  harmless  fluid, 
and  guilty  of  no  deceptions,  but  such  as  may  pre- 
vail without  the  least  injury  to  the  person  imposed 
on.  I  draw  mountains,  valleys,  woods,  and  streams, 
and  ducks,  and  dab-chicks.    I  admire  them  my- 
self, and  Mrs.  Unwin  admires  them;  and  her 
praise,  and  my  praise  put  together,  are  fame  enough 
for  me.    O !  I  could  spend  whole  days  and  moon- 
light nights  ill  feeding  upon  a  lovely  prospect! 
My  eyes  drink  the  rivers  as  they  flow.    If  every 
human  being  upon  earth  could  think  for  one  quar 
ter  of  an  hour  as  I  have  done  for  many  years,  there 
might  perhaps  be  many  miserable  men  among 
them,  but  not  an  unawakened  one  could  be  found, 
from  the  Arctic  to  the  Antarctic  circle.    At  pre- 
sent, the  difterence  between  them  and  me  is  greatly 
to  their  advantage.    I  deUght  in  baubles,  and 
know  them  to  be  so :  for  rested  in,  and  viewed  with- 
out a  reference  to  their  author,  what  is  the  earth, 
what  are  the  planets,  what  is  the  sun  itself  but  a 
bauble  %  Better  for  a  man  never  to  have  seen  them, 
or  to  see  them  with  the  eyes  of  a  brute,  stupid  and 
unconscious  of  what  he  beholds,  than  not  to  be 
able  to  say,  '  The  M^ker  of  all  these  wonders  is 
my  friend !'    Their  eyes  have  never  been  opened, 
to  see  that  they  are  trifles;  mine  have  been,  and 
will  be  till  they  are  closed  for  ever.   They  think  a 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa: 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Olney,  May  6, 1780. 

I  am  much  obUged  to  you  for  your  speedy  answer 
to  my  queries.  I  know  less  of  the  law  than  a 
country  attorney,  yet  sometimes  I  think  I  have  al- 
most as  much  business.  My  former  connexion 
with  the  profession  has  got  wind;  and  though  I 
earnestly  profess,  and  protest,  and  proclaim  it 
abroad  that  I  know  nothing  of  the  matter,  they 
can  not  be  persuaded  to  believe,  that  a  head  once 
endued  with  a  legal  periwig  can  ever  be  deficient 
in  those  natural  endowments  it  is  supposed  to 
cover.  I  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  once  or 
twice  in  the  right,  which,  added  to  the  cheapness 
of  a  gratuitous  counsel,  has  advanced  my  credit  to 
a  degree  I  never  expected  to  attain  in  the  capacity 
of  a  lawyer.  Indeed,  if  two  of  the  wisest  in  the 
science  of  jurisprudence  may  give  opposite  opinions 
on  the  same  point,  which  does  not  unfrequently 
happen,  it  seems  to  be  a  matter  of  indiflference 
whether  a  man  answers  by  rule  or  at  a  venture. 
He  that  stumbles  upon' the  right  side  of  the  ques- 
tion is  just  as  useful  to  his  client  as  he  that  ar- 
rives at  the  same  end  by  regular  approaches,  and 
is  conducted  to  the  mark  he  aims  at  by  the  greatest 
authorities. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 
These  violent  attacks  of  a  distemper  so  often 
fatal,  are  very  alarming  to  all  who  esteem  and  re- 
spect the  chancellor  as  he  deserves.  A  life  of  con- 
finement, and  of  anxious  attention  to  important 
objects,  where  the  habit  is  bilious  to  such  a  terrible 
degree,  threatens  to  be  but  a  short  one :  and  I  wish 
he  may  not  be  made  a  text  for  men  of  reflection  to 
moralize  upon,  aflfording  a  conspicuous  instance  of 
the  transient  and  fading  nature  of  all  human  ac- 
compUshments  and  attainments. 

Yours  affectionately,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  May  8,  1780. 

My  scribbling  humour  has  of  late  been  entirely 


Let.  49. 


LETTERS. 


189 


absorbed  in  the  passion  for  landscape  drawing.  It 
it  is  a  most  amusing  art,  and  like  every  other  art, 
requires  much  practice  and  attention. 

Nil  sine  multo 
Vita  labore  dedit  mortalibus. 

Excellence  is  providentially  placed  beyond  the 
reach  of  indolence,  that  success  may  be  the  reward 
of  industry,  and  that  idleness  may  be  punished 
with  obscurity  and  disgrace.  So  long  as  I  am 
pleased  with  an  employment,  I  am  capable  of  un- 
wearied application,  because  my  feelings  are  all 
of  the  intense  kind.  I  never  received  a  little  plea- 
sure from  any  thing  in  my  life ;  if  I  am  delighted, 
it  is  in  the  extreme.  The  unhappy  consequence 
of  t!iis  temperature  is,  that  my  attachment  to  any 
occupation  seldom  outUves  the  novelty  of  it.  That 
nerve  of  my  imagination,  that  feels  the  touch  of 
any  particular  amusement,  twangs  under  the 
energy  of  the  pressure  with  so  much  vehemence, 
that  it  soon  becomes  sensible  of  weariness  and  fa- 
tigue. Hence  I  draw  an  unfavourable  prognostic, 
and  expect  that  I  shall  shortly  be  constrained  to 
look  out  for  something  else.  Then  perhaps  I  may 
string  the  harp  again,  and  be  able  to  comply  with 
your  demand. 

Now  for  the  visit  you  propose  to  pay  us,  and 
propose  not  to  pay  us ;  the  hope  of  which  plays 
upon  your  paper,  like  a  jack-o-lantern  upon  the 
ceiling.  This  is  no  mean  simile,  for  Virgil,  (you 
remefmber)  uses  it.  'Tis  here,  'tis  there,  it  vanishes, 
it  returns,  it  dazzles  you,  a  cloud  interposes,  and  it 
is  gone.  However  just  the  comparison,  I  hope 
you  will  contrive  to  spoil  it,  and  that  your  final 
determination  will  be  to  come.  As  to  the  masons 
you  expect,  bring  them  with  you — ^bring  brick, 
bring  mortar,  bring  every  thing  that  would  oppose 
itself  to  your  journey— all  shall  be  welcome.  I 
have  a  greenhouse  that  is  too  small,  come  and  en- 
large it;  build  me  a  pinery;  repair  the  garden- 
wall,  that  has  great  need  of  your  assistance;  do 
any  thing;  you  can  not  do  too  much;  so  far  from 
thinking  you  and  your  train  troublesome,  we  shall 
rejoice  to  see  you,  upon  these  or  upon  any  other 
terms  you  can  propose.  But  to  be  serious — you 
will  do  well  to  consider  that  a  long  summer  is  be- 
fore you — that  the  party  will  not  have  such  ano- 
ther opportunity  to  meet  this  great  while;  that 
you  may  finish  your  masonry  long  enough  before 
winter,  though  you  should  not  begin  this  month, 
but  that  you  can  not  always  find  your  brother  and 
sister  Powley  at  Olney.  These,  and  some  other 
considerations,  such  as  the  desire  we  have  to  see 
you,  and  the  pleasure  we  expect  from  seeing  you 
all  together,  may,  and  I  think,  ought  to  overcome 
your  scruples. 

From  a  general  recollection  of  lord  Clarendon's 
History  of  the  Rebellion,  I  thought  (and  I  remem- 
ber I  told  you  so)  that  there  was  a  striking  resem- 
blance between  that  period  and  the  present.  But 


I  am  now  reading,  and  have  read  three  volumes 
of  Hume's  History,  one  of  which  is  engrossed  en- 
tirely by  that  subject.  There  I  see  reason  to  alter 
my  opinion,  and  the  seeming  resemblance  has  dis- 
appeared upon  a  more  particular  information. 
Charles  succeeded  to  a  long  train  of  arbitrary  prin- 
ces, whose  subjects  had  tamely  acquiesced  in  the 
despotism  of  their  masters,  till  their  privileges  were 
all  forgot.  He  did  but  tread  in  their  steps,  and 
exemplify  the  principles  in  which  he  had  been 
brought  up,  when  he  oppressed  his  people.  But 
just  at  that  time,  unhappily  for  the  monarch,  the 
subject  began  to  see,  and  to  see  that  he  had  a  right 
to  property  and  freedom.  This  marks  a  sufficient 
difference  between  the  disputes  of  that  day  and 
the  present.  But  there  was  another  main  cause 
of  that  rebellion,  which  at  this  time  does  not  ope- 
rate at  all.  The  king  was  devoted  to  the  hierar- 
chy ;  his  subjects  were  puritans,  and  would  not 
bear  it.  Every  circumstance  of  ecclesiastical  or- 
der and  discipline  was  an  abomination  to  them, 
and  in  his  esteem  an  indispensable  duty.  And 
though  at  last  he  was  obliged  to  give  up  many 
things,  he  would  not  abolish  episcopacy,  and  till 
that  were  done  his  concessions  could  have  no  con- 
ciliating effect.  These  two  concurring  causes 
were  indeed  sufficient  to  set  three  kingdoms  in  a 
flame.  But  they  subsist  not  now,  nor  any  other, 
1  hope,  notwithstanding  the  bustle  made  by  the 
patriots,  equal  to  the  production  of  such  terrible 
events.  Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 


TO  MRS,  COWPER. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN,  May  10,  1780. 

I  DO  not  write  to  comfort  you :  that  office  is  not 
likely  to  be  well  performed  by  one  who  has  no 
comfort  for  himself ;  nor  to  comply  with  an  im- 
pertinent ceremony,  which  in  general  might  weR 
be  spared  upon  such  occasions :  but  because  I  would 
not  seem  indifferent  to  the  concerns  of  those  I 
have  so  much  reason  to  esteem  and  love.  If  I  did 
not  sorrow  for  your  brother's  death,  I  should  ex- 
pect that  nobody  would  for  mine ;  when  I  knew 
him,  he  was  much  beloved,  and  I  doubt  not  con- 
finued  to  be  so.  To  live  and  die  together  is  the 
lot  of  a  few  happy  families,  who  hardly  know  what 
a  separation  means,  and  one  sepulchre  serves  them 
all;  but  the  ashes  of  our  kindred  are  dispersed  in- 
deed. Whether  the  American  gulf  has  swallow- 
ed up  any  other  of  my  relations,  I  know  not ;  it  has 
made  many  mourners. 

Believe  me,  my  dear  cousin,  though  after  a  long 
sUence  which  perhaps  nothing  less  than  the  pre- 
sent concern  could  have  prevailed  with  me  to  in- 
terrupt, as  much  as  ever. 

Your  affectionate  kinsman,  W.  C. 


190 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  50,  51. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 


praise  dearly,  especially  from  the  judicious,  and 
those  who  have  so  much  delicacy  themselves  as  not 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  May  10,  1780.    ,  to  offend  mine  in  giving  it.    But  then,  I  found 

Ip  authors  could  have  lived  to  adjust  and  authen-  this  consequence  attending,  or  likely  to  attend  the 
ticate  their  ov^rn  text,  a  commentator  would  have  eulogium  you  bestowed— if  my  friend  thought  me 
been  an  useless  creature.    For  instance — if  Dr.  witty  before,  he  shall  think  me  ten  times  more  wit- 


Bentley  had  found,  or  opined  that  he  had  found, 
the  word  tube,  where  it  seemed  to  present  itself  to 
you,  and  had  judged  the  subject  worthy  of  his  cri- 
tical axjumen,  he  would  either  have  justified  the 
corrupt  reading,  or  have  substituted  some  inven- 
tion of  his  own,  in  defence  of  which  he  would 
have  exerted  all  his  polemical  abilities,  and  have 
quarreled  with  half  the  literati  in  Europe.  Then 
suppose  the  writer  himself,  as  in  the  present  case, 

to  interpose  with  a  gentle  whisper,  thus  'If 

you  look  again,  doctor,  you  will  perceive  that  what 
appears  to  you  to  be  tube,  is  neither  more  nor  less 
than  the  simple  monosyllable  ink,  but  I  wrote  it  in 
great  haste,  and  the  want  of  sufficient  precision 
in  the  character  has  occasioned  your  mistake :  you 
will  be  especially  satisfied,  when  you  see  the  sense 
elucidated  by  the  explanation.' — But  I  question 
whether  the  doctor  would  quit  his  ground,  or  allow 
any  author  to  be  a  competent  judge  in  his  own 
case.  Th-e  world,  however,  would  acquiesce  im- 
mediately, and  vote  the  critic  useless. 

James  Andrews,  who  is  my  Michael  Angelo 
pays  me  many  compliments  on  my  success  in  the 
art  of  drawing,  but  I  have  not  yet  the  vanity  to 
think  myself  qualified  to  furnish  your  apartment. 
If  I  should  ever  attain  to  the  degree  of  self-opinion 
requisite  to  such  an  undertaking,  I  shall  labour  at 
it  with  pleasure.  I  can  only  say,  though  I  hope 
not  with  the  affected  modesty  of  the  above-men- 
tioned Dr.  Bentley,  who  said  the  same  thing, 
Me  quoque  dicunt 
Vatem  pastores.  Sed  non  Ego  credulus  illis. 
A  crow,  rook,  or  raven,  has  btiilt  a  nest  in  one 
of  the  young  elm-trees,  at  the  side  of  Mrs.  Aspray's 
orchard.  In  the  violent  storm  that  blew  yesterday 
morning,  I  saw  it  agitated  to  a  degree  that  seem- 
ed to  threaten  its  immediate  destruction,  and  ver- 
sified the  following  thoughts  upon  the  occasion.* 

W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  JuUC  8,  1780. 

It  is  possible  I  might  have  indulged  myself  in 
the  pleasure  of  writing  to  you,  without  waiting  for 
a  letter  from  you,  but  for  a  reason  which  you  will 
not  easily  guess.  Your  mother  communicated  to 
me  the  satisfaction  you  expressed  in  my  corres- 
pondence, that  you  thought  me  entertaining  and 
clever,  and  so  forth :  now  you  must  know,  1  love 


•  Cowper's  Fable  of  the  Raven  concluded  this  letter. 


ty  hereafter— where  I  joked  once,  I  will  joke  five 
times,  and  for  one  sensible  remark,  I  will  send  him 
a  dozen.  Now  this  foolish  vanity  would  have 
spoiled  me  quite,  and  would  have  made  me  as  dis- 
gusting a  letter-writer  as  Pope,  who  seems  to  have 
thought  that  unless  a  sentence  was  well  turned, 
and  every  period  pointed  with  some  conceit,  it  was 
not  worth  the  carriage.  Accordingly,  he  is  to  me, 
except  in  very  few  instances,  the  most  disagreea- 
ble maker  of  epistles  that  ever  I  met  with.  I  was 
willing,  therefore,  to  wait  till  the  impression  your 
commendation  had  made  upon  the  foolish  part  of 
me  was  worn  off,  that  I  might  scribble  away  as 
usual,  and  write  my  uppermost  thoughts,  and  those 
only.  f 
You  are  better  skilled  in  ecclesiastical  law  than 
I  am.  Mrs.  P.  desires  me  to  inform  her,  whether 
a  parson  can  be  obliged  to  take  an  apprentice.  For 
some  of  her  husband's  opposers  at  D  ,  threat- 
en to  clap  one  upon  him.  Now  I  think  it  would 
be  rather  hard,  if  clergymen,  who  are  not  allowed 
to  exercise  any  handicraft  whatever,  should  be 
subject  to  such  an  imposition.  If  Mr.  P.  was  a 
cordwainer,  or  a  breeches-maker,  all  the  week,  and 
a  preacher  only  on  Sundays,  it  would  seem  rea- 
sonable enough,  in  that  case,  that  he  should  take 
an  apprentice  if  he  chose  it.  But  even  then,  in 
my  poor  judgment,  he  ought  to  be  left  to  his  op- 
tion. If  they  mean  by  an  apprentice,  a  pupil, 
whom  they  will  oblige  him  to  hew  into  a  parson, 
and  after  chipping  away  the  block  that  hides  the 
minister  within,  to  qualify  him  to  stand  erect  in  a 
pulpit — ^that  indeed  is  another  consideration — But 
still  we  live  in  a  free  country,  and  I  can  not  bring 
myself  even  to  suspect  that  an  English  divine  can 
possibly  be  liable  to  such  compulsion.  Ask  your 
uncle,  however,  for  he  is  wiser  in  these  things  than 
either  of  us. 

I  thank  you  for  your  two  inscriptions,  and  like 
the  last  the  best;  the  thought  is  just  and  fine — 
but  the  two  last  lines  are  sadly  damaged  by  the 
monkish  jingle  of  peperit  and  reperit.  I  have 
not  yet  translated  them,  nor  do  I  promise  to  do  it, 
though  at  some  idle  hour  perhaps  I  may.  In  re- 
turn, I  send  you  a  translation  of  a  simile  ip  the 
Paradise  Lost.  Not  having  that  poem  at  hand, 
I  can  not  refer  you  to  the  book  and  page,  but  you 
may  hunt  for  it,  if  you  think  it  worth  your  while. 
— It  begins — 

So  when,  from  mountain  tops,  the  dusky  clouds 
Ascending,  &c.'* 


*  For  the  translation  of  this  simile,  see  Cowper's  Foenis, 


Let.  52,  53. 


LETTERS. 


191 


If  you  spy  axiy  fault  in  my  Latin,  tell  me,  for  I 
am  sometimes  in  doubt;  but,  as  I  told  you  when 
you  was  here,  I  have  not  a  Latin  book  in  the 
world  to  consult,  or  correct  a  mistake  by;  and 
some  years  have  passed  since  I  was  a  school-boy. 


An  English  Versification  of  a  Thought  that  popped  into 
my  Head  two  Months  since. 
Sweet  stream !  *  &c. 
Now  this  is  not  so  exclusively  applicable  to  a 
maiden,  as  to  be  the  sole  property  of  your  sister 
Shuttleworth.    If  you  look  at  Mrs.  Unwin,  you 
will  see  that  she  has  not  lost  her  right  to  this  just 
praise  by  marrying  you. 

Your  mother  sends  her  love  to  all  and  mine 
comes  jogging  along  by  the  side  of  it. 

Yours,  W.  C. 


bring  an  odium  on  the  profession  they  make,  that 
will  not  soon  be  forgotten.  Neither  is  it  possible 
for  a  quiet,  inoffensive  man,  to  discover,  on  a  sud- 
den, that  his  zeal  has  carried  him  into  such  com- 
pany, without  being  to  the  last  degree  shocked  at 
his  imprudence.  Their  religion  was  an  honour- 
able mantle,  like  that  of  Elijah;  but  the  majority 
wore  cloaks  of  Guy  Fawkes's  time,  and  meant 
nothing  so  little  as  what  they  pretended. 

W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

June  18,  1780. 

REVEREND  AND  DEAR  WILLIAM, 

The  affairs  of  kingdoms,  and  the  concerns  of 
individuals,  are  variegated  alike  with  the  checker- 
work  of  joy  and  sorrow.  The  news  of  a  great 
acquisition  in  America  has  succeeded  to  terrible 
tumults  in  London ;  and  the  beams  of  prosperity 
are  now  playing  upon  the  smoke  of  that  confla- 
gration which  so  lately  terrified  the  whole  land. 
These  sudden  changes,  which  are  matter  of  every 
man's  observation,  and  may  therefore  always  be 
reasonably  expected,  serve  to  hold  up  the  chin  of 
despondency  above  water,  and  preserve  mankind 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 
DIEAR  SIR,  June  12,  1780. 

We  accept  it  as  an  effort  of  your  friendship, 
that  you  could  prevail  with  yourself,  in  a  time  of 
such  terror  and  distress,  to  send  us  repeated  ac- 
counts of  yours  and  Mrs.  Newton's  welfare;  you 
supposed,  with  reason  enough,  that  we  should  be 

apprehensive  for  your  safety,  situated  as  you  were,  .  i  r-       ,  • 

apparently,  withm  the  reach  of  so  much  danger,  i .^^''^'^^  ^^"^'•^  accounting 

We  rejoice  that  you  have  escaped  at  all,  and  that,  i     «^ff  ^«  ^  burden  not  to  be  endured-an  evil  we 

except  the  anxiety  which  you  must  have  felt,  both  I  ^\  T!.^""  encounter,  if  we  were  not  war- 

for  yourselves  and  others,  you  have  suffered  no-i'^^^.'"^     ^^^^      ^  ^"g^*  ^~ 

j  flictive  experiences.    The  Spaniards  were  sick  of 

the  war  at  the  very  commencement  of  it;  and  I 
hope  that,  by  this  time,  the  Fren-ch  themselves 
begin  to  find  themselves  a  little  indisposed,  if  not 
desirous  of  peace,  which  that  restless  and  med- 
dUng  temper  of  theirs  is  incapable  of  desiring  for 
its  own  sake.  But  is  it  true,  that  this  detestable 
plot  was  an  egg  laid  in  France,  and  hatched  in 
London,  under  the  influence  of  French  corrup- 
tion'?— Nam  te  scire,  deos  quoniam  propius  con- 
tingis,  oportet.  The  offspring  has  the  features 
of  such  a  parent,  and  yet,  without  the  clearest 
proof  of  the  fact,  I  would  not  willingly  charge 
upon  a  civilized  nation  what  perhaps  the  most 
barbarous  would  abhor  the  thought  of  I  no  sooner 
saw  the  surmise  however  in  the  paper,  than  I  im- 
mediately began  to  write  Latin  verses  upon  the 
occasion.  '  An  odd  effect,'  you  will  say,  '  of  such 
a  circumstance:' — but  an  effect,  nevertheless,  that 
whatever  has,  at  any  time,  moved  my  passions, 
whether  pleasantly  or  otherwise,  has  always  had 
upon  me :  were  I  to  express  what  I  feel  upon  such 
occasions  in  prose,  it  would  be  verbose,  inflated, 
and  disgusting.  I  therefore  have  recourse  to 
verse,  as  a  suitable  vehicle  for  the  most  vehement 
expressions  my  thoughts  suggest  to  me.  What  I 
have  written,  I  did  not  v/rite  so  much  for  the  com- 
fort of  the  English,  as  for  the  mortification  of  the 


thing  upon  this  dreadful  occasion.  A  metropolis  in 
flames,  and  a  nation  in  ruins,  are  subjects  of  con- 
templation for  such  a  mind  as  yours  as  will  leave  a 
lasting  impression  behind  them.  It  is  well  that 
the  design  died  in  the  execution,  and  will  be  bu- 
ried, I  hope  never  to  rise  again,  in  the  ashes  of 
its  own  combustion.  There  is  a  melancholy  plea- 
sure in  looking  back  upon  such  a  scene,  arising 
from  a  comparison  of  possibilities  with  facts;  the 
enormous  bulk  of  the  intended  fnischief  with  the 
abortive  and  partial .  accomplishment  of  it;  much 
Was  done,  more  indeed  than  could  have  been  sup- 
posed practicable  in  a  well-regulated  city,  not  un- 
furnished with  a  military  force  for  its  pl-otection. 
But  surprise  and  astonishment  seem  at  first  to 
have  struck  every  nerve  of  the  police  with  a  palsy; 
and  to  have  disarmed  government  of  all  its 
powers. 

I  congratulate  you  upon  the  wisdom  that  with- 
held you  from  entering  yourself  a  member  of  the 
Protestant  association.  Your  friends  who  did  so 
have  reason  enough  to  regret  their  doing  it,  even 
though  they  should  never  be  called  upon.  Inno- 
cent as  they  are,  and  they  who  know  them  can 
not  doubt  of  their  being  perfectly  so,  it  is  likely  to 


Vide  Poems. 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  54,  55. 


French.  You  wi|l  inuucdiatcly  perceive  there- 
fore that  I  have  been  labouring  in  vain,  and  that 
this  bouncing  explosion  is  hkcly  to  spend  itself  in 
the  air.  For  I  have  no  means  of  circulating  what 
follows,  through  all  the  French  territories:  and 
unless  that,  or  something  like  it,  can  be  done,  my 
indignation  will  be  entirely  fruitless.  Tell  me 
how  I  can  convey  it  into  Sartine's  pocket,  or  who 
will  lay  it  upon  his  desk  for  me.  But  read  it  first, 
and  unless  you  think  it  pointed  enough  to  sting 
the  Gaul  to  the  quick,  burn  it. 

Jn  seditionem  horrendam,  corrupielis  Gullicis,  ut  fertur, 
Londini  nuper  exortam. 

Perfida,  crude)  is,  victa  et  lymphata  furore, 

Nou  avmis,  laui'um  Gallia  fraude  petit. 
Venalem  pretio  plebem  condusit,  et  urit 

Undique  privatas  patriciasque  domos. 
Nequicquam  conata  sua,  foedissima  sperat 

Posse  tamen  nostratnos  superare  manu. 
Gallia,  vana  struis!  Precibus  nunc  utere !  Vinces, 

Nam  mites  timidis,  supplicibusque  sumus. 

I  have  lately  exercised  my  ingenuity  in  con- 
triving an  exercise  for  yours,  and  have  composed  a 
riddle,  which,  if  it  does  not  make  you  laugh  before 
you  have  solved  it,  will  probably  do  it  afterwards. 
I  woiild  transcribe  it  now,  but  am  really  so  fatigued 
with  writing,  that  unless  I  knew  you  had  a  quinsy, 
and  that  a  fit  of  laughter  might  possibly  save  your 
life,  I  could  not  prevail  with  myself  to  do  it. 

What  could  you  possibly  mean,  slender  as  you 
are,  by  sallying  out  upon  your  two  walking  sticks 
at  two  in  the  morning,  into  the  midst  of  such  a 
tumult  We  admire  your  prowess,  but  can  not 
commend  your  prudence. 

Our  love  attends  you  all,  collectively  and  indi- 
vidually. 

Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  June  22,  1780. 

A  WORD  or  two  in  answer  to  two  or  three 
questions  of  yours,  which  I  have  hitherto  taken 
no  notice  of.  I  am  not  in  a  scribbling  mood,  and 
shall  therefore  make  no  excursions  to  amuse  either 
myself  or  you.  The  needful  will  be  as  much  as 
I  can  manage  at  present — the  playful  must  wait 
for  another  opportunity. 

I  thank  you  for  your  offer  of  Robertson ;  but  I 
have  more  reading  upon  my  hands  at  this  present 
writing  than  I  shall  get  rid  of  in  a  twelve-month : 
and  this  moment  recollect  that  I  have  seen  it  al- 
ready. He  is  an  author  that  I  admire  much ;  with 
one  exception,  that  I  think  his  style  is  too  laboured. 
Hume,  as  an  historian,  pleases  me  more. 

I  have  just  read  enough  of  the  Biogrophia  Bri- 
tannica  to  say,  that  I  have  tasted  it,  and  have  no 


doubt  but  I  shall  like  it.  I  am  pretty  much  in  the 
garden  at  this  season  of  the  year,  so  read  but  lit- 
tle. In  summer-time  I  am  as  giddy-headed  as  a 
boy,  and  can  settle  to  nothing.  Winter  condenses 
me,  and  makes  me  lumpish,  and  sober;  and  then 
I  can  read  all  day  long. 

For  the  same  reasons,  I  have  no  need  of  the 
landscapes  at  present;  when  I  want  the|i  I  will 
renew  my  application,  and  repeat  the  description, 
but  it  will  hardly  be  before  October. 

Before  I  rose  this  morning,  I  composed  the  three 
following  stanzas;  I  send  them  because  I  like 
them  pretty  well  myself ;  and  if  you  should  not, 
you  must  accept  this  handsome  compUment  as  an 
amends  for  their  deficiencies.  You  may  print  the 
Unes,  if  you  judge  them  worth  it.* 

I  have  only  time  to  add  love,  &c,,  and  my  two 
initials.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  June  23,  1780. 

Your  reflections  upon  the  state  of  London,  the 
sins  and  enormities  of  that  great  city,  while  you 
had  a  distant  view  of  it  from  Greenwich,  seem  to 
have  been  prophetic  of  the  heavy  stroke  that  fell 
upon  it  just  after.  Man  often  prophesies  without 
knowing  it ;  a  spirit  speaks  by  him  which  is  not 
his  own,  though  he  does  not  at  that  time  suspect 
that  he  is  under  the  influence  of  any  other.  Did 
he  foresee  what  is  always  foreseen  by  him  who 
dictates  what  he  supposes  to  be  his  own,  he  would 
suffer  by  anticipation,  as  well  as  by  consequence ; 
and  wish  perhaps  as  ardently  for  the  happy  igno- 
rance, to  which  he  is  at  present  so  much  indebted, 
as  some  have  foolishly  and  inconsiderately  done 
for  a  knowledge  that  would  be  but  another  name 
for  misery. 

And  why  have  I  said  all  this  1  especially  to  you, 
who  have  hitherto  said  it  to  me — not  because  I 
had  the  least  desire  of  informing  a  wiser  man  than 
myself,  but  because  the  observation  was  naturally 
suggested  by  the  recollection  of  your  letter,  and 
that  letter,  though  not  the  last,  happened  to  be 
uppermost  in  my  mind.  I  can  compare  this  mind 
of  mine  to  nothing  that  resembles  it  more,  than  to 
a  board  that  is  under  the  carpenter's  plane  (I  mean 
while  I  am  writing  to  you,)  the  shavings  are  my 
uppermost  thoughts;  after  a  few  strokes  of  the 
tool,  it  acquires  a  new  surface;  this  again,  upon  a 
repetition  of  his  task,  he  takes  off,  and  a  new  sur- 
face still  succeeds — whether  the  shavings  of  the 
present  day  will  be  worth  your  acceptance,  I  know 
not ,  I  am  unfortunately  made  neither  of  cedar 
nor  of  mahogany;  but  Truncus  fculnus^  inutile 


•  Verses  on  the  burning  of  Lord  Mansfield's  Library,  &c. 


Let.  56, 


LETTERS. 


193 


%nwm— consequently,  though  I  should  be  planed 
till  I  am  as  thin  as  a  wafer,  it  will  be  but  rubbish 
to  the  last. 

It  is  not  strange  that  you  should  be  the  subject 
of  a  false  report;  for  the  sword  of  slander,  like 
that  of  war,  devours  one  as  well  as  another;  and  a 
blameless  character  is  particularly  deUcious  to  its 
unsparing  appetite.    But  that  you  should  be  the 
object  of  such  a  report,  you  who  meddle  less  with 
the  designs  of  government  than  almost  any  man 
that  lives  under  it,  this  is  strange  indeed.    It  is 
well,  however,  when  they  who  account  it  good 
sport  to  traduce  the  reputation  of  another,  invent 
a  story  that  refutes  itself    I  wonder  they  do  not 
always  endeavour  to  accommodate  their  fiction  to 
the  real  character  of  the  person;  their  tale  would 
then  at  least  have  an  air  of  probability,  and  it  might 
cost  a  peaceable  good  man  much  more  trouble  to 
disprove  it.    But  perhaps  it  would  not  be  easy  to 
discern  what  part  of  your  conduct  lies  more  open 
to  such  an  attempt  than  another;  or  what  it  is 
that  you  either  say  or  do,  at  any  time,  that  pre- 
sents a  fair  opportunity  to  the  most  ingenious 
slanderer,  to  slip  in  a  falsehood  between  your 
words,  or  actions,  that  shall  seem  to  be  of  a  piece 
with  either.    You  hate  compliment,  I  know ;  but 
by  your  leave  this  is  not  one— it  is  a  truth— worse 
and  worse— now  I  have  praised  you  indeed— well, 
you  must  thank  yourself  for  it ;  it  was  absolutely 
done  without  the  least  intention  on  my  part,  and 
proceeded  from  a  pen  that,  as  far  as  I  can  remem- 
ber, was  never  guilty  of  flattery  since  I  knew  how 
to  liold  it.    He  that  slanders  me,  paints  me  blacker 
than  I  am,  and  he  that  flatters  me,  whiter— they 
both  daub  me;  and  when  I  look  in  the  glass  of 
conscience,  I  see  myself  disguised  by  both— I  had 
as  lief  my  tailor  should  sew  gingerbread  nuts  on 
my  coat  instead  of  buttons,  as  that  any  man  should 
call  my  Bristol  stone  a  diamond.    The  tailor's 
trick  would  not  at  all  embeUish  my  suit,  nor  the 
flatterer's  make  me  at  all  the  richer.    I  never 
make  a  present  to  my  friend  of  what  I  dislike  my- 
self Ergo  (I  have  reached  the  conclusion  at  last,) 
I  did  not  mean  to  flatter  you. 

We  have  sent  a  petition  to  lord  Dartmouth,  by 
this  post,  praying  him  to  interfere  in  parliament  in 
behalf  of  the  poor  lace-makers.  I  say  we,  because  I 
have  signed  it;  Mr.  G.  drew  it  up,  Mr. 


did  not  think  it  grammatical,  therefore  he  would 
not  sign  it.  Yet  I  think  Priscian  himself  would 
have  pardoned  the  manner  for  the  sake  of  the 
matter.  I  dare  say  if  his  lordship  d.tes  not  com- 
ply with  the  prayer  of  it,  it  will  not  be  because  he 
thinks  it  of  more  consequence  to  write  grammati- 
cally, than  that  the  poor  should  eat,  but  for  some 
better  reason. 
My  lev )  to  all  under  your  roof. 

Yours,       *   W.  C 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

July  2,  1780. 
Carissime,  I  am  glad  of  your  confidence,  and 
have  reason  to  hope  I  shall  never  abuse  it.    If  you 
trust  me  with  a  secret,  I  am  hermetically  sealed; 
and  if  you  call  for  the  exercise  of  my  judgment' 
such  as  it  is,  I  am  never  freakish  or  wanton  in  the 
use  of  it,  much  less  mischievous  and  malignant. 
Critics,  I  believe,  do  not  often  stand  so  clear  of 
these  vices  as  I  do.    I  like  your  epitaph,  except 
that  I  doubt  the  propriety  of  the  word  immaturus,- 
which,  I  think,  is  rather  appUcable  to  fruits  than 
flowers;  and  except  the  last  pentameter,  the  asser- 
tion it  contains  being  rather  too  obvious  a  thought 
to  finish  with;  not  that  I  think  an  epitaph  should  be 
pointed  Hke  an  epigram.  But  still  there  is  a  close- 
ness of  thought  and  expression  necessary  in  the 
conclusion  of  all  these  httle  things,  that  they  may 
leave  an  agreeable  flavour  upon  the  palate.  What- 
ever is  short,  should  be  nervous,  masculine,  and 
compact.    Little  men  are  so;  and  little  poems 
should  be  so;  because,  where  the  work  is  short 
the  author  has  no  right  to  the  plea  of  weariness  • 
and  laziness  is  never  admitted  as  an  available  ex- 
cuse in  any  thing.    Now  you  know  my  opinion, 
you  will  very  likely  improve  upon  my  improvement, 
and  alter  my  alterations  for  the  better.    To  touch 
and  retouch  is,  though  some  writers  boast  of  negli- 
gence, and  others  would  be  ashamed  to  showtheii 
foul  copies,  the  secret  of  almost  all  good  writing, 
especially  in  verse.    I  am  never  weary  of  it  my- 
self; and  if  you  would  take  as  much  pains  aa  I 
do,  you  would  have  no  need  to  ask  for  my  correc- 
tions. 

Hie  sepultus  est 
Inter  suorum  lacrymas 
GULIELMUS  NORTHCOT, 
Gulielmi  et  Marise  filius 
XJnicus,  unice  dilectus, 
Qui  floris  ritu  succisus  est  semihiantis, 
-    Aprilis  die  septimo, 
1780.  m.  10. 


Care  vale !  Sed  non  aeternum,  care,  valeto ! 

Namque  iterum  tecum,  sim  modo  dignus  ero: 
Turn  nihil  araplexus  poterit  divellere  nostros, 
Nec  tu  marcesces,  nec  lacrymabor  ego. 

Having  an  English  translation  of  it  by  me,  I 
send  it,  though  it  may  be  of  no  use.  ' 

Farewell !  «  but  not  forever,"  Hope  replies, 
"  Trace  but  his  steps,  and  meet  him  in  the  skies !" 
There  nothing  shall  renew  our  parting  pam, 
Thou  Shalt  not  wither,  nor  I  weep  again ! 

The  stanzas  that  I  sent  you  are  maiden  ones, 
having  never  been  seen  by  any  eye  but  jour 
mother's  and  your  own. 


19-4 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  57, 58,  59. 


If  you  send  me  franks,  I  shall  write  long  let- 1  especially  lest  some  French  hero  should  call  me  to 
ters — Valete,  sicut  et  nos  valemus!  Amate,  sicut  ^  "  -..i..  a,. 


r.t  nos  amamus. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

WON  AMI,  July  8,  1780, 

If  you  ever  take  the  tip  of  the  chancellor's  ear 
between  your  finger  and  thumb,  you  can  hardly 
improve  the  opportunity  to  better  purpose,  than  if 
you  should  whisper  into  it  the  voice  of  compassion 
and  lenity  to  the  lace-makers.  I  am  an  eye-wit- 
ness of  their  poverty,  and  do  know  that  hundreds 
in  this  little  town  are  upon  the  point  of  starving, 
and  that  the  most  unremitting  industry  is  but 
barely  sufficient  to  keep  them  from  it.  I  know 
that  the  bill  by  which  they  would  have  been  so 
fatally  affected  is  thrown  out :  but  lord  Stormont 
threatens  them  with  another ;  and  if  another  like 
it  should  pass,  they  are  undone.  We  lately  sent 
a  petition  from  hence  to  lord  Dartmouth ;  I  signed 
it,  and  am  sure  the  contents  are  true.  The  pur- 
port of  it  was  to  inform  him  that  there  are  very 
near  one  thousand  two  hundred  lace-makers  in 
this  beggarly  town,  the  most  of  whom  had  reason 
enough,  while  the  bill  was  in  agitation,  to  look 
upon  every  loaf  they  bought  as  the  last  they  should 
ever  be  able  to  earn.  I  can  never  think  it  good 
policy  to  incur  the  certain  inconvenience  of  ruin 
ing  thirty  thousand,  in  order  to  prevent  a  remote 
and  possible  damage  though  to  a  much  greater 
number.  The  measure  is  like  a  scythe,  and  the 
poor  lace-makers  are  the  sickly  crop  that  trembles 
before  the  edge  of  it.  The  prospect  of  peace  with 
America  is  like  the  streak  of  dawn  in  their  hori 
zon ;  but  this  bill  is  like  a  black  cloud  behind  it,  that 
threatens  their  hope  of  a  comfortable  day  with 
utter  extinction. 

I  did  not  perceive,  till  this  moment,  that  I  had 
tacked  two  similes  together;  a  practice  which, 
though  warranted  by  the  example  of  Homer,  and 
allowable  in  an  epic  poem,  is  rather  luxuriant  and 
licentious  in  a  letter ;  lest  I  should  add  another,  I 
conclude.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV. 


WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

July  II,  1780. 


account  for  it— I  add  it  on  the  other  side.  An 
author  ought  to  be  the  best  judge  of  his  own  mean  ■ 
ing ;  and  whether  I  have  succeeded  or  not,  I  can 
not  but  wish,  that  where  a  translator  is  wanted^ 
the  writer  was  always  to  be  his  own. 

False,  cruel,  disappointed,  stung  to  the  heart, 
France  quits  the  warrior's  for  the  assassin's  part; 
To  dirty  hands,  a  dirty  bride  conveys. 
Bids  the  low  street  and  lofty  palace  blaze. 
Her  sons  too  weak  to  vanquish  us  alone. 
She  hires  the  worst  and  basest  of  our  own, 
Kneel,  France !  a  suppliant  conquers  us  with  ease, 
"Wc  always  spare  a  coward  on  his  knees. 

I  have  often  wondered  that  Dryden's  illustrious 
epigram  on  Milton  (in  my  mind  the  second  best 
that  ever  was  made)  has  never  been  translated  into 
Latin,  for  the  admiration  of  the  learned  in  other 
countries.  I  have  at  last  presiimed  to  venture  upon 
the  task  myself  The  great  closeness  of  the  ori- 
ginal, which  is  equal  in  that  respect  to  the  most 
compact  Latin  I  ever  saw,  made  it  extremely  diffi- 
cult. 

Tres,  tria,  &c.' 
I  have  not  one  bright  thought  upon  the  chan- 
cellor's recovery ;  nor  can  I  strike  off  so  much  as 
one  sparkling  atom  from  that  brilliant  subject.  It 
is  not  when  I  will,  nor  upon  what  I  will,  but  as  a 
thought  happens  to  occur  to  me ;  and  then  I  ver- 
sify, whether  I  will  or  not.  I  never  write  but  for 
my  amusement ;  and  what  I  write  is  sure  to  an- 
swer that  end,  if  it  answers  no  other.  If,  besides 
this  purpose,  the  more  desirable  one  of  entertain- 
ing you  be  effected,  I  then  receive  double  fruit  of 
my  labour,  and  consider  this  produce  of  it  as  a 
second  crop,  the  more  valuable,  because  less  ex- 
pected. But  when  I  have  once  remitted  a  compo- 
sition to  you,  I  have  done  with  it.  It  is  pretty 
certain  that  I  shall  never  read  it  or  think  of  it  again. 
From  that  moment  I  have  constituted  you  sole 
judge  of  its  accompUshments,  if  it  has  any,  and 
of  its  defects,  which  it  is  sure  to  have. 

For  this  reason  I  decline  answering  the  qugs- 
tion  with  which  you  concluded  your  last,  and  can 
not  persuade  myself  to  enter  into  a  critical  examen 
of  the  two  pieces  upon  lord  Mansfield's  loss,  either 
with  respect  to  their  intrinsic  or  comparative  merit ; 
and  indeed  after  having  rather  discouraged  that 
use  of  them  which  you  had  designed,  there  is  no 
occasion  for  it.  W.  C. 


I  ACCOUNT  myself  sufficiently  commended  for 
my  Latin  exercise,  by  the  niunber  of  translations 
It  has  undergone.  That  which  you  distinguished 
in  the  margin  by  the  title  of  "  better,"  was  the 
production  of  a  friend;  and,  except  that  for  a 
modest  reason  he  omitted  the  third  couplet,  I  think 
it  a  good  one.  To  finish  the  group,  I  have  trans- 
lated it  myself;  and  though  I  would  not  wish  you 
to  give  it  to  the  world,  for  more  reasons  than  one, 


TO  MRS.  COWPER. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN.  J^I'ly  20,  1780. 

Mr.  Newton  having  desired  me  to  be  of  the 
party,  I  am  come  to  meet  him. 


You  see  me  sixteen 


Vid.  Poems. 


Let.  60,  61. 


LETTERS. 


195 


years  older  at  the  least,  than  when  I  saw  you  last;  but 
the  effects  of  time  seem  to  have  taken  place  rather 
on  the  outside  of  my  head,  than  within  it,  "What 
was  brown  is  become  gray,  but  what  was  foolish, 
remains  foolish  still.  Green  fruit  must  rot  before 
it  ripens,  if  the  season  is  such  as  to  afford  it  nothing 
but  cold  winds  and  dark  clouds,  that  interrupt  every 
ray  of  sunshine.  My  days  steal  away  silently, 
and  march  on  (as  poor  mad  King  Lear  would  have 
made  his  soldiers  march)  as  if  they  were  shod  vsdth 
felt;  not  so  silently  but  that  I  hear  them;  yet 
were  it  not  that  I  am  always  listening  to  their 
flight,  having  no  infirmity  that  I  had  not  when  I 
was  much  younger,  I  should  deceive  myself  with 
an  imagination  that  I  am  still  young. 

I  am  fond  of  writing  as  an  amusement,  but  do 
not  always  find  it  one.  Being  rather  scantily  fur- 
nished with  subjects  that  are  good  for  any  thing, 
and  corresponding  only  with  those  who  have  no 
relish  for  such  as  are  good  for  nothing,  I  often  find 
myself  reduced  to  the  necessity,  the  disagreeable 
necessity,  of  writing  about  myself  This  does 
not  mend  the  matter  much ;  for  though  in  a  de- 
scription of  my  own  condition,  I  discover  abundant 
materials  to  employ  my  pen  upon,  yet  as  the  task 
is  not  very  agreeable  to  me,  so  I  am  sufficiently 


one  blows  his  nose,  and  the  other  rubs  his  eye- 
brows ;  (by  the  way  this  is  very  much  in  Homer's 
manner)  such  seems  to  be  the  case  between  you 
and  me.  After  a  silence  of  some  days  I  write  you  a 
long  something,  that  (I  suppose)  was  nothing  to 
the  purpose,  because  it  has  not  afforded  you  ma- 
terials for  an  answer.  Nevertheless,  as  it  often 
happens  in  the  case  above-stated,  one  of  the  dis- 
tressed parties,  being  deeply  sensible  of  the  awk- 
wardness of  a  dumb  duet,  breaks  silence  again, 
and  resolves  to  speak,  though  he  has  nothing"  to 
say.  So  it  fares  with  me,  I  am  with  you  again  in 
the  form  of  an  epistle,  though,  considering  my 
present  emptiness,  I  have  reason  to  fear  that  your 
only  joy  upon  the  occasion  will  be,  that  it  is  con- 
veyed to  you  in  a  frank. 

When  I  began,  I  expected  no  interruption.  But 
if  I  had  expected  interruptions  without  end,  I 
should  have  been  less  disappointed.  First  came 
the  barber ;  who,  after  having  embellished  the  out- 
side of  my  head,  has  left  the  inside  just  as  unfur- 
nished as  he  found  it.  Then  came  Olney  bridge, 
not  into  the  house,  but  into  the  conversation.  The 
cause  relating  to  it  was  tried  on  Tuesday  at  Buck- 
ingham. The  judge  directed  the  jury  to  find  a 
verdict  favourable  to  Olney.    The  jury  consisted 


aware  that  it  is  likely  to  prove  irksome  to  others. ,  of  one  knave  aad  eleven  fools.    The  last-mention 

ed  followed  the  afore-mentioned,  as  sheep  follow  a 
bell-wether,  and  decided  in  direct  opposition  to  the 
said  judge.  Then  a  flaw  was  discovered  in  the  in- 
dictment. The  indictment  was  quashed,  and  an 
order  made  for  a  new  trial.  The  new  trial  will  be 
in  the  King's  Bench,  where  said  knave  and  said 
fools  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  So  the  men 
of  Olney  fling  up  their  caps,  and  assure  themselves 
of  a  complete  victory.  A  victory  will  save  me  and 
that  the  roarings  of  the  mad  multitude  did  not  I  your  mother  many  shillings,  perhaps  some  pounds, 


A  painter  who  should  confine  himself  in  the  ex 
ercise  of  his  art  to  the  drawing  of  his  own  picture, 
must  be  a  wonderful  coxcomb,  if  he  did  not  soon 
grow  sick  of  his  occupation ;  and  be  peculiarly  for- 
tunate, if  he  did  not  make  others  as  sick  as  him- 
self 

Remote  as  your  dwelling  is  from  the  late  scene 
of  riot  and  confusion,  I  hope  that  though  you  could 
not  but  hear  the  report,  you  heard  no  more,  and 


reach  you.  That  was  a  day  of  terror  to  the  innocent 
and  the  present  is  a  day  of  still  greater  terror  to  the 
guilty.  The  law  was  for  a  few  moments  like  an 
arrow  in  the  quiver,  seemed  to  be  of  no  use,  and 
did  no  execution ;  now  it  is  an  arrow  upon  the 
string,  and  many,  who  despised  it  lately,  are  trem- 
bling as  they  stand  before  the  point  of  it. 

I  have  talked  more  already  than  I  have  formerly 
done  in  three  visits — you  remember  my  taciturnity, 
never  to  be  forgotten  by  those  who  knew  me ;  not 
to  depart  entirely  from  what  might  be,  for  aught  I 
know,  the  most  shining  part  of  my  character — I 
here  shut  my  mouth,  make  my  bow,  and  return  to 
Olney.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  July  27,  1780. 

As  two  men  sit  silent,  after  having  exhausted 
all  their  topics  of  conversation :  one  says — '  It  is 
very  fine  weather,' — and  the  other  says — '  Yes;'  


which,  except  that  it  has  afforded  me  a  subject  to 
write  upon,  was  the  only  reason  why  I  said  so  much 
about  it.  I  know  you  take  an  interest  in  all  that 
concerns  us,  and  will  consequently  rejoice  with  us 
in  the  prospect  of  an  event  in  which  we  are  con- 
cerned so  nearly.   Yours  affectionately,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 
MY  DEAR  SIR,  July  30,  1780. 

You  may  think  perhaps  that  I  deal  more  liberal- 
ly with  Mr.  Unvvdn,  in  the  way  of  poetical  export, 
than  I  do  with  you,  and  I  believe  you  have  reason 
— the  truth  is  this — ^if  I  walked  the  streets  with  a 
fiddle  under  my  arm,  I  should  never  think  of  per- 
forming before  the  window  of  a  privy  counsellor, 
or  a  chief  justice,  but  should  rather  make  free  with 

ears  more  hkely  to  be  open  to  such  amusement.  

The  trifles  I  produce  in  this  way  are  indeed  such 
trifles,  that  I  can  not  think  them  seasonable  pre- 
sents for  you.   Mr.  Unwin  himself  would,  not  be 


196 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  62,  63 


»)ffended  if  I  was  to  tell  him  that  there  is  this  dif- 
ference between  him  and  Mr.  Newton ;  that  the 
latter  is  already  an  apostle,  while  he  himself  is  on- 
ly undergoing  the  business  of  an  incubation,  with 
a  hope  that  he  may  be  hatched  in  time.  When 
my  muse  comes  forth  arrayed  in  sables,  at  least  in 
a  robe  of  graver  cast,  I  make  no  scruple  to  direct 
her  to  my  friend  at  Hoxton.  This  has  been  one 
reason  why  I  have  so  long  delayed  the  riddle.  But 
lest  1  should  seem  to  set  a  value  upon  it,  that  I 
do  not,  by  making  it  an  object  of  still  further  in- 
quiry, here  it  comes. 

I  am  just  two  and  two,  I  am  warm,  I  am  cold, 
And  the  parent  of  numbers  that  can  not  be  told, 
I  am  lawful,  unlawful — a  duty,  a  fault, 
I  am  often  sold  dear,  good  for  nothing  when  bought, 
An  extraordinary  boon,  and  a  matter  of  course. 
And  yielded  with  pleasure — ^when  taken  by  force. 

W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  AugUSt  6,  1780. 

You  like  to  hear  from  me — This  is  a  very  good 
reason  why  I  should  write — But  I  have  nothing 
to  say — This  seems  equally  a  good  reason  why  1 
should  not. — Yet  if  you  had  alighted  from  your 
horse  at  our  door  this  morning,  and  at  this  present 
writing  being  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  had 
found  occasion  to  say  to  me — '  Mr.  Cov^er,  you 
have  not  spoke  since  I  came  in,  have  you  resolved 
never  to  speak  again  V  it  would  be  but  a  poor  re- 
ply, if  in  answer  to  the  summons  I  should  plead 
inability  as  my  best  and  only  excuse.  And  this 
by  the  way  suggests  to  me  a  seasonable  piece  of 
instruction,  and  reminds  me  of  what  I  am  very 
apt  to  forget,  when  I  have  any  epistolary  business 
in  hand,  that  a  letter  may  be  written  upon  any 
thing  or  nothing  just  as  that  any  thing  or  nothing 
happens  to  occur.  A  man  that  has  a  journey  be- 
fore him  twenty  miles  in  length,  which  he  is  to 
perform  on  foot,  will  not  hesitate  and  doubt  whe- 
ther he  shall  set  out  or  not,  because  he  does  not 
readily  conceive  how  he  shall  ever  reach  the  end 
of  it ;  for  he  knows,  that  by  the  simple  operation 
of  moving  one  foot  forward  first,  and  then  the 
other,  he  shall  be  sure  to  accompUsh  it.  So  it  is 
in  the  present  case,  and  so  it  is  in  every  similar 
case.  A  letter  is  written  as  a  conversation  is  main- 
tained, or  a  journey  performed,  not  by  preconcert- 
ed or  premeditated  means,  a  new  contrivance,  or  an 
invention  never  heard  of  before,  but  merely  by 
maintaining  a  progress,  and  resolving  as  a  postil- 
lion does,  having  once  set  out,  never  to  stop  till  we 
reach  the  appointed  end.  If  a  man  may  talk  with- 
out thinking,  why  may  he  not  write  upon  the  same 
terms  1  A  grave  gentleman  of  the  last  century, 
a  tie-wig,  square-toe,  Steinkirk  figure,  would  say, 


— '  My  good  sir,  a  man  has  no  right  to  do  either.' 
But  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  present  century  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  mouldy  opinions  of  the  last, 
and  so  good  Sir  Launcelot,  or  Sir  Paul,  or  what- 
ever be  your  name,  step  into  your  picture  frame 
again,  and  look  as  if  you  thought  for  another  cen- 
tury, and  leave  us  moderns  in  the  mean  time  to 
think  when  we  can,  and  to  write  whether  we  can 
or  not,  else  we  might  as  well  be  dead  as  you  are. 

When  we  look  back  upon  our  forefathers,  we 
seem  to  look  back  upon  the  people  of  another  na- 
tion, almost  upon  creatures  of  another  species. 
Their  vast  rambling  mansions,  spacious  halls,  and 
painted  casements,  the  gothic  porch  smothered  with 
honeysuckles,  their  little  gardens  and  high  walls, 
their  box -edgings,  balls  of  holly,  and  yew-tree  sta- 
tues, are  become  so  entirely  unfashionable  now, 
that  we  can  hardly  believe  it  possible,  that  a  peo- 
ple who  resembled  us  so  little  in  their  taste,  should 
resemble  us  in  any  thing  else.  But  in  every  thing 
else,  I  suppose,  they  were  our  counterparts  exact- 
ly ;  and  time,  that  has  sewed  up  the  slashed  sleeve, 
and  reduced  the  large  trunk  hose  to  a  neat  pair  of 
silk  stockings,  has  left  human  nature  just  where 
it  found  it.  The  inside  of  the  man  at  least  has 
undergone  no  change.  His  passions,  appetites, 
and  aims  are  just  what  they  ever  were.  They 
wear  perhaps  a  handsomer  disguise  than  they  did 
in  days  of  yore :  for  philosophy  and  literature  vdll 
have  their  effect  upon  the  exterior ;  but  in  every 
other  respect  a  modern  is  only  an  ancient  in  a  dif- 
ferent dress.  W.  C 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

August  21,  1780. 
The  foUowdng  occurrence  ought  not  to  be  pass^ 
ed  over  in  silence;  in  a  place  where  so  few  notable 
ones  are  to  be  met  with.  Last  Wednesday  night, 
while  we  were  at  supper,  between  the  hours  of 
eight  and  nine,  I  heard  an  unusual  noise  in  the 
back  parlour,  as  if  one  of  the  hares  was  entangled, 
and  endeavouring  to  disengage  herself.  1  was  just 
going  to  rise  from  table,  when  it  ceased.  In  about 
five  minutes,  a  voice  on  the  outside  of  the  parlour 
door  inquired  if  one  of  my  hares  had  got  away.  I 
immediately  rushed  into  the  next  room,  and  found 
that  my  poor  favourite  Puss  had  made  her  escape. 
She  had  gnawed  in  sunder  the  strings  of  a  lattice 
work,  with  which  I  thought  I  had  sufficiently  se- 
cured the  window,  and  which  I  preferred  to  any 
other  sort  of  blind,  because  it  admitted  plenty  of 
air.  From  thence  I  hastened  to  the  kitchen,  where 
I  saw  the  redoubtable  Thomas  Freeman,  who  told 
me,  that  having  seen  her,  just  after  she  had  drop- 
ped into  the  street,  he  attempted  to  cover  her  with 
his  hat,  but  she  screamed  out,  and  leaped  directly 
'  over  his  head.   I  then  desired  him  to  pursue  as  fast 


LETTERS. 


197 


as  possible,  and  added  Richard  Coleman  to  the 
chase,  as  being  nimbler,  and  carrying  less  weight 
than  Thomas ;  not  expecting  to  see  her  again,  but 
desirous  to  learn,  if  possible,  what  became  of  her. 
In  something  less  than  an  hour,  Richard  returned, 
almost  breathless,  with  the  following  account. 
That  soon  after  he  began  to  run,  he  left  Tom  be- 
hind him,  and  came  in  sight  of  a  most  numerous 
hunt,  of  men,  women,  children,  and  dogs ;  that  he 
did  his  best  to  keep  back  the  dogs,  and  presently 
outstripped  the  crowd,  so  that  the  race  was  at  last 
disputed  between  himself  and  Puss — she  ran  right 
through  the  town,  and  down  the  lane  that  leads  to 
Dropshort— a  little  before  she  came  to  the  house,  he 
got  the  start  and  turned  her ;  she  pushed  for  the 
town  again,  and  soon  after  slxe  entered  it  sought 
shelter  in  Mr.  WagstatF's  tan-yard,  adjoining  to 
old  Mj^  Drake's — Sturge's  harvest  men  were  at 
supper,  and  saw  her  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
way.    There  she  encountered  the  tan-pits  full  of 
water ;  and  while  she  was  struggling  out  of  one 
pit,  and  plunging  into  another,  and  almost  drown- 
ed, one  of  the  men  drew  her  out  by  the  ears  and 
secured  her.    She  was  then  well  washed  in  a  buck- 
et, to  get  the  Hme  out  of  her  coat,  and  brought 
home  in  a  sack  at  ten  o'clock. 

This  frolic  cost  us  four  shillings,  but  you  may 
believe  we  did  not  grudge  a  farthing  of  it.  The 
poor  creature  received  only  a  little  hurt  in  one  of 
her  claws,  and  in  one  of  her  ears,  and  is  now  al- 
most as  well  as  ever. 

I  do  not  call  this  an  answer  to  your  letter,  but 
such  as  it  is  I  send  it,  presuming  upon  that  interest 
which  I  know  you  take  in  my  minutest  concerns, 
which  I  can  not  express  better  than  in  the  words  of 
Terence  a  little  varied — Nihil  mei  a  te  alienum 
putas.  Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C 


TO  MRS.  COWPER. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN,  AugUSt  31,  1780. 

I  AM  obliged  to  you  for  your  lorig  letter,  which 
did  not  seem  so,  and  for  your  short  one,  which  was 
more  than  I  had  any  reason  to  expect.  Short  as 
It  was,  it  conveyed  to  me  two  interesting  articles 
of  intelligence.  An  account  of  your  recovering 
from  a  fever,  and  of  lady  Cowper's  death.  The 
latter  was,  I  suppose,  to  be  expected,  for  by  what 
remembrance  I  have  of  her  ladyship,  who  was  ne- 
ver much  acquainted  with  her,  she  had  reached 
those  years  that  are  always  found  upon  the  borders ' 
of  another  world.  As  for  you,  your  time  of  life! 
is  comparatively  of  a  youthful  date.  You  may! 
think  of  death  as  much  as  you  please  (you  can  not ' 
think  of  it  too  much),  but  I  hope  you  will  live  to ' 
think  of  it  many  years.  | 

It  costs  me  not  much  difficulty  to  suppose  that 
my  friends  who  were  already  grown  old,  when  I 


saw  them  last,  are  old  still;  but  it  costs  me  a  good 
deal  sometimes  to  think  of  those  who  were  at  that 
time  young,  as  being  older  than  they  were.  Not 
having  been  an  eyewitness  of  the  change  that  time 
has  made  in  them,  and  my  former  idea  of  them  not 
being  corrected  by  observation,  it  remains  the 
same;  my  memory  presents  me  with  this  image 
unimpaired,  and  while  it  retains  the  resemblance 
of  what  they  were,  forgets  that  by  this  time  the 
picture  may  have  lost  much  of  its  likeness,  through 
the  alteration  that  succeeding  years  have  made  in 
the  original.  I  know  not  what  impressions  Time 
may  have  made  upon  your  person,  for  while  his 
claws  (as  our  grannams  called  them)  strike  deep 
furrows  in  some  faces,  he  seems  to  sheathe  them 
with  much  tenderness,  as  if  fearful  of  doing  injury 
to  others.  But  though  an  enemy  to  the  person, 
he  is  a  friend  to  the  mind,  and  you  have  found 
him  so.  Though  even  in  this  respect  his  treat- 
ment of  us  depends  upon  what  he  meets  with  at 
our  hands;  if  we  use  him  well,  and  listen  to  his 
admonitions,  he  is  r^;  friend  indeed,  but  otherwise 
the  worst  of  enemies,  who  takes  from  us  daily 
something  that  we  valued,  and  gives  us  nothing 
better  in  its  stead.  It  is  well  with  them  who,  like 
you,  can  stand  a  tiptoe  on  the  mountain  top  of 
human  life,  look  down  with  pleasure  upon  the 
valley  they  have  passed,  and  sometimes  stretch 
their  wings  in  joyful  hope  of  a  happy  flight  into 
eternity.  Yet  a  little  while  and  your  hope  will  be 
accompUshed. 

When  you  can  favour  me  with  a  little  account 
of  your  own  family,  without  inconvenience,  I  shall 
be  glad  to  receive  it ;  for  though  separated  from 
my  kindred  by  little  more  than  half  a  century  of 
miles,  I  know  as  little  of  their  concerns  as  if  oceans 
and  continents  were  interposed  between  us. 

Yours,  my  dear  cousin,  W  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Sept.  3,  1780. 

I  AM  glad  you  are  so  provident,  and  that,  while 
you  are  young,  you  have  furnished  yourself  with 
the  means  of  comfort  in  old  age.  Your  crutch 
and  your  pipe  may  be  of  use  tp  you,  (and  may 
they  be  so)  should  your  years  be  extended  to  an 
antediluvian  date;  and  for  your  perfect  accommo- 
dation, you  seem  to  want  nothing  but  a  clerk  called 
Snuffle,  and  a  sexton  of  the  name  of  Skeleton,  to 
make  your  ministerial  equipage  complete. 

I  think  I  have  read  as  much  of  the  first  volume 
of  the  Biographia  as  I  shall  ever  read.  I  find  it 
very  amusing ;  more  so  perhaps  than  it  would 
have  been  had  they  sifted  their  characters  with 
more  exactness,  and  admitted  none  but  those  who 
had  in  some  way  or  other  entitled  themselves  to 
immortality,  by  deserving  well  of  the  public.  Such 


198 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  66. 


a  compilation  would  perhaps  have  been  more  ju- 
dicious, though  I  confess  it  would  have  afforded 
less  variety.  The  priests  and  monks  of  earlier, 
and  the  doctors  of  later  days,  who  have  signalized 
themselves  by  nothing  but  a  controversial  pam- 
phlet, long  since  thrown  by,  and  never  to  be  pe- 
rused again,  might  have  been  forgotten  without 
injury  or  loss  to  the  national  character  for  learning 
or  genius.  This  observation  suggested  to  me  the 
following  lines,  which  may  serve  to  illustrate  my 
meaning,  and  at  the  same  time  to  give  my  criti- 
cism a  sprightlier  air. 

Oh  fond  attempts,  &c.* 

Virgil  admits  none  but  worthies  into  the  Elysian 
Fields ;  I  can  not  recollect  the  Unes  in  which  he 
describes  them  all,  but  these  in  particular  I  well 
remember — 

Quique  sui  memores  alios  fecere  merendo, 
Inventas  aut  qui  vitam  excoluere  per  artes. 

A  chaste  and  scrupulous  conduct  like  his  would 
well  become  the  writer  of  national  biography. — 
But  enough  of  this. 

Our  respects  attend  Miss  Shuttleworth,  with 
many  thanks  for  her  intended  present.  Some 
purses  derive  all  their  value  from  their  contents, 
but  these  will  have  an  intrinsic  value  of  their  own: 
and  though  mine  should  be  often  empty,  which  is 
not  an  improbable  supposition,  I  shall  still  esteem 
it  highly  on  its  own  account. 

If  you  could  meet  with  a  second-hand  Virgil, 
ditto  Homer,  both  IKad  and  Odyssey,  together 
with  a  Clavis,  for  I  have  no  Lexicon,  and  all  tole- 
rably cheap,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  you  if  you  will 
make  the  purchase.  Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Sept.  7,  1780. 

As  many  gentlemen  as  there  are  in  the  world 
who  have  children,  and  heads  capable  of  reflecting 
on  the  important  subject  of  their  education,  so 
many  opinions  there  are  about  it;  many  of  them 
just  and  sensible,  though  almost  all  differing  from 
each  other.  With  respect  to  the  education  of  boys, 
I  think  they  are  generally  made  to  draw  in  Latin 
and  Greek  trammels  too  soon.  It  is  pleasing,  no 
doubt,  to  a  parent  to  see  his  child  already  in  some 
sort  a  proficient  in  those  languages,  at  an  age  when 
most  others  are  entirely  ignorant  of  them;  but 
hence  it  often  happens,  that  a  boy,  who  could  con- 
strue a  fable  of  iEsop  at  six  or  seven  years  of  age, 


*  "Verses  '  On  observing  some  Names  of  little  Note  recorded 
In  the  Biographia  Britannica.' 


having  exhausted  his  little  stock  of  attention  and 
diligence  in  making  that  noble  acquisition,  grows 
weary  of  his  task,  conceives  a  dislike  for  study, 
and  perhaps  makes  but  a  very  indifferent  progress 
afterwards.  The  mind  and  body  have  in  this  re- 
spect a  striking  resemblance  of  each  other.  In 
childhood,  they  are  both  nimble,  but  not  strong; 
they  can  skip  and  frisk  about  with  wonderful  agi- 
lity, but  hard  labour  spoils  them  both.  In  maturer 
years  they  become  less  active,  but  more  vigorous, 
more  capable  of  a  fixed  application,  and  can  make 
themselves  sport  with  that  which  a  little  earlier 
would  have  affected  them  with  intolerable  fatigue. 
I  should  recommend  it  to  you  therefore  (but  after 
all  you  must  judge  for  yourself)  to  allot  the  two 
next  years  of  little  John's  scholarship  to  writing 
and  arithmetic,  together  with  which,  for  variety's 
sake,  and  because  it  is  capable  of  being  formed  into 
an  amusement,  I  would  mingle  geography,  a  sci- 
ence (which,  if  not  attended  to  betimes,  is  seldom 
made  an  object  of  much  consideration)  essentially 
necessary  to  the  accomplishment  of  a  gentleman, 
yet  (as  I  know  by  sad  experience)  imperfectly,  if 
at  all,  inculcated  in  the  schools.  Lord  Spenser's 
son,  when  he  was  four  years  of  age,  knew  the 
situation  of  every  kingdom,  country,  city,  river, 
and  remarkable  mountain  in  the  world.  For  this 
attainment,  which  I  suppose  his  father  had  never 
made,  he  was  indebted  to  a  plaything;  having 
been  accustomed  to  amuse  himself  with  those  maps 
which  are  cut  into  several  compartments,  so  as  to 
be  thrown  into  a  heap  of  confusion,  that  they  may 
be  put  together  again  with  an  exact  coincidence 
of  all  their  angles  and  bearings,  so  as  to  form  a 
perfect  whole. 

If  he  begins  Latm  and  Greek  at  eight,  or  even 
at  nine  years  of  age,  it  is  surely  soon  enough. 
Seven  years,  the  usual  allowance  for  those  acquisi- 
tions, are  more  than  sufficient  for  the  purpose,  es- 
pecially with  his  readiness  in  learning;  for  you 
would  hardly  wish  to  have  him  qualified  for  the 
university  before  fifteen,  a  period,  in  my  mind, 
much  too  early  for  it,  and  when  he  could  hardly 
be  trusted  there  without  the  utmost  danger  to  his 
morals.  Upon  the  whole,  you  will  perceive  that 
in  my  judgment  the  difficulty,  as  well  as  the  wis- 
dom, consists  more  in  bridling  in,  and  keeping 
back,  a  boy  of  his  parts,  than  in  pushing  him  for- 
ward. If  therefore  at  the  end  of  the  two  next 
years,  instead  of  putting  a  grammar  into  his  hand, 
you  should  allow  him  to  amuse  himself  with  some 
agreeable  writers  upon  the  subject  of  natural  phi- 
losophy for  another  year,  I  think  it  would  answer 
well.  ,There  is  a  book  called  Cosmotheoria  Puerilis, 
there  are  Derham's  Physico,  and  Astrotheology, 
together  with  several  others  in  the  same  manner, 
very  intelligible  even  to  a  child,  and  full  of  useful 
instruction.  W,  C. 


Let.  67 


LETTERS. 


199 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Sept.  17,  1780. 

You  desire  my  further  thoughts  on  the  subject 
of  education.  I  send  you  such  as  had  for  the  most 
part  occurred  to  me  when  I  wrote  last,  but  could 
not  be  comprised  in  a  single  letter.  They  are  in- 
deed on  a  different  branch  of  this  interesting  theme, 
but  not  less  important  than  the  former. 

I  think  it  your  happiness,  and  wish  you  to  think 
it  so  yourself,  that  you  are  in  every  respect  quali- 
fied for  the  task  of  instructing  your  son,  and  pre- 
paring him  for  the  university,  without  committing 
him  to  the  care  of  a  stranger.  In  my  judgment, 
a  domestic  education  deserves  the  preference  to  a 
public  one  on  a  hundred  accounts,  which  I  have 
neither  time  nor  room  to  mention.  I  shall  only 
touch  upon  two  or  three  that  I  can  not  but  con- 
sider as  having  a  right  to  your  most  earnest  atten- 
tion. 

In  a  public  school,  or  indeed  in  any  school,  his 
morals  are  sure  to  be  but  little  attended  to,  and  his 
religion  not  at  all.  If  he  can  catch  the  love  of  vir- 
tue from  the  fine  things  that  are  spoken  of  it  in 
the  classics,  and  the  love  of  hohness  from  the  cus- 
tomary attendance  upon  such  preaching  as  he  is 
likely  to  hear,  it  will  be  well;  but  I  am  sure  you 
have  had  too  many  opportunities  to  observe  the 
inefficacy  of  such  means,  to  expect  any  such  ad- 
vantage from  them.  In  the  mean  time,  the  more 
powerful  influence  of  bad  example,  and  perhaps 
bad  company,  will  continually  counterwork  these 
only  preservatives  he  can  meet  with,  and  may  pos- 
sibly send  him  home  to  you,  at  the  end  of  five  or 
six  years,  such  as  you  will  be  sorry  to  see  him. 
You  escaped  indeed  the  contagion  yourself;  but  a 
few  instances  of  happy  exemption  from  a  general 
malady  are  not  sufficient  warrant  to  conclude,  that 
it  is  therefore  not  infectious,  or  may  be  encoun- 
tered without  danger. 

You  have  seen  too  much  of  the  world,  and  are 
a  raan  of  too  much  reflection,  not  to  have  ob- 
served that  in  proportion  as  the  sons  of  a  family 
approach  to  years  of  maturity,  they  lose  a  sense  of 
obligation  to  their  parents,  and  seem  at  last  almost 
divested  of  that  tender  affection  which  thfe  nearest 
of  all  relations  seems  to  demand  from  them.  I 
have  often  observed  it  myself,  and  have  always 
thought  I  could  sufficiently  account  for  it,  without 
laying  all  the  blame  upon  the  children.  While 
they  continue  in  their  parents'  house,  they  are 
every  day  obliged,  and  every  day  reminded  how 
much  it  is  their  interest,  as  well  as  duty,  to  be 
obliging  and  affectionate  in  return.  But  at  eight 
or  nine  years  of  age  the  boy  goes  to  school.  From 
that  moment  he  becomes  a  stranger  in  his  father's 
house.  The  course  of  parental  kindness  is  inter- 
rupted. The  smiles  of  his  mother,  those  tender 
11  s  2 


admonitions,  and  the  solicitous  care  of  both  hk 
parents,  are  no  longer  before  his  eyes— year  after 
year  he  feels  himself  more  and  more  detached  from 
them,  till  at  last  he  is  so  effectually  weaned  from 
the  connexion,  as  to  find  himself  happier,  any 
where  than  in  their  company. 

I  should  have  been  glad  of  a  frank  for  this  letter, 
for  I  have  said  but  little  of  what  I  could  say  upon 
this  subject,  and  perhaps  I  may  not  be  able  to 
catch  it  by  the  end  again.  If  I  can,  I  shall  add  to 
it  hereafter.  Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Oct.  5,  1780. 

Now  for  the  sequel— you  have  anticipated  one 
of  my  arguments  in  favour  of  a  private  education, 
therefore  I  need  say  but  little  about  it.  The  folly 
of  supposing  that  the  mother-tongue,  in  some  re- 
spects the  most  difficult  of  all  tongues,  may  be  ac- 
quired without  a  teacher,  is  predominant  in  all  the 
public  schools  that  I  have  ever  heard  of  To  pro- 
nounce it  well,  to  speak  and  to  write  it  with  fluency 
and  elegance,  are  no  easy  attainments;  not  one  in 
fifty  of  those  who  pass  through  Westminster  and 
Eton,  arrive  at  any  remarkable  proficiency  in  these 
accomplishments;  and  they  that  do  are  more  in- 
debted to  their  own  study  and  application  for  it, 
than  to  any  instruction  received  there.  In  general, 
there  is  nothing  so  pedantic  as  the  style  of  a  school- 
boy, if  he  aims  at  any  style  at  all;  and  if  he  does 
not,  he  is  of  course  inelegant,  and  perhaps  un- 
grammatical.  A  defect,  no  doubt,  in  great  measure 
owing  to  want  of  cultivation;  for  the  same  lad  that 
is  often  commended  for  his  Latin,  frequently  would 
deserve  to  be  whipped  for  his  English,  if  the  fault 
were  not  more  the  master's  than  his  own.  I  know 
not  where  this  evii  is  so  likely  to  be  prevented  as 
at  home— supposing  always,  nevertheless,  (which 
is  the  case  in  your  instance)  that  the  boy's  parents, 
and  their  acquaintance,  are  persons  of  elegance 
and  taste  themselves.  For  to  converse  with  those 
who  converse  with  propriety,  and  to  be  directed  to 
such  authors  as  have  refined  and  improved  the  lan- 
guage by  their  productions,  are  advantages  which 
he  can  not  elsewhere  enjoy  in  an  equal  degree. 
And  though  it  requires  some  time  to  regulate  the 
taste,  and  fix  the  judgment,  and  these  effects 
must  be  gradually  wrought  even  upon  the  best  un- 
derstanding, yet  I  suppose  much  less  time  will  be 
necessary  for  the  purpose  than  could  at  first  be 
imagined,  because  the  opportunities  of  improve- 
ment are  continual. 

A  public  education  is  often  recominended  as  the 
most  effectual  remedy  for  that  bashful  and  awk- 
ward restraint,  so  epidemical  among  the  youth  of 
our  country.  But  I  verily  believe  that  instead  of 
being  a  cure,  it  is  often  the  cause  of  it.   For  seven 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  69,  70. 


eight  years  of  his  Ufe,  the  boy  has  hardly  seen 
conversed  with  a  man,  or  a  woman,  except  the 
maids  at  his  boarding-house.  A  gentleman  or  a 
lady  are  consequently  such  novelties  to  him,  that 
he  is  perfectly  at  a  loss  to  know  what  sort  of  be- 
haviour he  should  preserve  before  them.  He  plays 
with  his  buttons,  or  the  strings  of  his  hat,  he 
blows  his  nose,  and  hangs  down  his  head,  is  con- 
scious of  his  own  deficiency  to  a  degree  that  makes 
him  quite  unhappy,  and  trembles  lest  any  one 
should  speak  to  him,  because  that  would  quite 
overwhelm  him.  Is  not  all  this  miserable  shyness 
the  effect  of  his  education  1  To  me  it  appears  to 
be  so.  If  he  saw  good  company  every  day,  he 
would  never  be  terrified  at  the  sight  of  it,  and  a 
room  full  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  would  alarm  him 
no  more  than  the  chairs  they  sit  on.  Such  is  the 
effect  of  custom. 

I  need  add  nothing  further  on  this  subject,  be- 
cause I  believe  little  John  is  as  likely  to  be  ex- 
empted from  this  weakness  as  most  young  gentle- 
men we  shall  meet  with.  He  seems  to  have  his 
father's  spirit  in  this  respect,  in  whom  I  could 
never  discern  the  least  trace  of  bashfulness,  though 
I  have  often  heard  him  complain  of  it.  Under 
your  management,  and  the  influence  of  your  ex- 
ample, I  think  he  can  hardly  fail  to  escape  it. 
If  he  does,  he  escapes  that  which  has  made  many 
a  man  uncomfortable  for  life;  and  ruined  not  a 
few,  by  forcing  them  into  mean  and  dishonourable 
company,  where  only  they  could  be  free  and 
cheerful. 

Connexions  formed  at  school  are  said  to  be  last- 
ing, and  often  beneficial.  There  are  two  or  three 
stories  of  this  kind  upon  record,  which  would  not 
be  so  constantly  cited  as  they  are,  whenever  this 
subject  happens  to  be  mentioned,  if  the  chronicle 
that  preserves  their  remembrance  had  many  be- 
sides to  boast  of.  For  my  own  part,  I  found  such 
friendships,  though  warm  enough  in  their  com- 
mencement, surprisingly  liable  to  extinction;  and 
of  seven  or  eight,  whom  I  had  selected  for  inti- 
mates out  of  about  three  hundred,  in  ten  years 
time  not  one  was  left  me.  The  truth  is,  that  there 
may  be,  and  often  is,  an  attachment  of  one  boy  to 
another,  that  looks  very  like  a  friendship;  and 
while  they  are  in  circumstances  that  enable  them 
mutually  to  oblige  and  to  assist  each  other,  pro- 
mises well,  and  bids  fair  to  be  lasting.  But  thifey 
are  no  sooner  separated  from  each  other,  by  enter- 
ing into  the  world  at  large,  than  other  connexions, 
and  new  employments,  in  which  they  no  longer 
share  together,  efface  the  remembrance  of  what 
passed  in  earlier  days,  and  they  become  strangers 
to  each  other  for  ever.  Add  to  this,  that  the  man 
frequently  differs  so  much  from  the  boy;  his  prin- 
ciples, manners,  temper,  and  conduct,  undergo  so 
great  an  alteration,  that  we  no  longer  recognise  in 
him  our  old  playfellow,  but  find  him  utterly  un- 


worthy and  unfit  for  the  place  he  once  held  in  our 
affections. 

To  close  this  article,  as  I  did  the  last,  by  apply- 
ing myself  immediately  to  the  present  concern  

little  John  is  happily  placed  above  all  occasion  for 
dependence  on  all  such  precarious  hopes,  and  need 
not  be  sent  to  school  in  quest  of  some  great  men 
in  embryo,  who  may  possibly  make  his  fortune. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend,        W.  C. 


TO  MRS.  NEWTON. 

DEAR  MADAM,  Oct.  5,  1780. 

When  a  lady  speaks,  it  is  not  civil  to  make  her 
wait  a  week  for  an  answer — I  received  your  letter 
within  this  hour,  and,  foreseeing  that  the  garden 
will  engross  much  of  my  time  for  some  days  to 
come,  have  seized  the  present  opportunity  to  ac- 
knowledge it.  I  congratiilate  you  on  Mr.  New- 
ton's safe  arrival  at  Ramsgate,  making  no  doubt 
but  that  he  reached  that  place  without  difficulty 
or  danger,  the  road  thither  from  Canterbury  being 
so  good  as  to  afford  room  for  neither.  He  has 
now  had  a  view  of  the  element,  with  which  he  was 
once  so  familiar,  but  which  I  think  he  has  not 
seen  for  many  years.  The  sight  of  his  old  ac- 
quaintance will  revive  in  his  mind  a  pleasing  re- 
collection of  past  deliverances,  and  when  he  looks  at 
him  from  the  beach,  he  may  say — '  You  have  for- 
merly given  me  trouble  enough,  but  I  have  cast 
anchor  now  where  your  billows  can  never  reach 
me.' — It  is  happy  for  him  that  he  can  say  so. 

Mrs.  Unwin  returns  you  many  thanks  for  your 
anxiety  on  her  account.  Her  health  is  consider- 
ably mended  upon  the  whole,  so  as  to  afford  us  a 
hope  that  it  will  be  established.  Our  love  attends 
you.  Yours,  dear  madam,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN 
Nov.  9,  1780. 

I  WROTE  the  following  last  summer.  The  tra- 
gical occasion  of  it  really  happened  at  the  next 
house  to  ours.  I  am  glad  when  I  can  find  a  sub- 
ject to  work  upon ;  a  lapidary  I  suppose  accounts 
it  a  laborious  part  of  the  business  to  rub  away  the 
roughness  of  the  stone ;  but  it  is  my  amusement, 
and  if  after  all  the  polishing  I  can  give  it,  it  dis- 
covers some  little  lustre,  I  think  myself  well  re- 
warded for  my  pains.* 

I  shall  charge  you  a  h&tfipenny  a-piece  for  every 
copy  I  send  you,  the  short  as  well  as  the  long. 
This  is  a  sort  of  afterclap  you  little  expected,  but 
I  can  not  possibly  afford  them  at  a  cheaper  rate. 
If  this  method  of  raising  money  had  occurred  to 
me  sooner,  I  should  have  made  the  bargain  sooner 


'  Verses  on  a  Goldfinch  starved  to  death  in  a  cage. 


Let.  71,  72,  73. 


LETTERS. 


201 


but  am  glad  I  have  hit  upon  it  at  last.  It  will  be 
a  considerable  encouragement  to  my  muse,  and 
act  as  a  powerful  stimulus  to  my  industry.  If  the 
American  war  should  last  much  longer,  I  may  be 
obliged  to  raise  my  price,  but  this  I  shall  not  do 
without  a  real  occasion  for  it — it  depends  much 
upon  lord  North's  conduct  in  the  article  of  sup 
plies — if  he  imposes  an  additional  tax  on  any  thing 
that  I  deal  in,  the  necessity  of  this  measure,  on  my 
part,  will  be  so  apparent,  that  I  dare  say  you  will 
not  dispute  it.  W.  C 

In  the  interval  between  this  and  the  following 
letter,  the  writer  commenced  the  First  Volume  of 
his  Poems. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  December  25,  1780, 

"Weary  with  rather  a  long  walk  in  the  snow,  I 
am  not  likely  to  write  a  very  sprightly  letter,  or  to 
produce  any  thing  that  may  cheer  this  gloomy 
season,  unless  I  have  recourse  to  my  pocket-book, 
where  perhaps  I  may  find  something  to  transcribe, 
something  that  was  written  before  the  sun  had 
taken  leave  of  our  hemisphere,  and  when  I  was 
less  fatigued  than  I  am  at  present. 

Happy  is  the  man  who  knows  just  so  much  of 
the  law,  as  to  make  himself  a  little  merry  now  and 
then  with  the  solemnity  of  juridical  proceedings. 
I  have  heard  of  common  law  judgments  before 
now,  indeed  have  been  present  at  the  delivery  of 
some,  that,  according  to  my  poor  apprehension, 
while  they  paid  the  utmost  respect  to  the  letter  of 
a  statute,  have  departed  widely  from  the  spirit  of 
it ;  and,  being  governed  entirely  by  the  point  of 
law,  have  left  equity,  reason,  and  common  sense, 
behind  them  at  an  infinite  distance.  You  will 
judge  whether  the  following  report  of  a  case, 
drawn  up  by  myself,  be  not  a  proof  and  illustra- 
tion of  this  satirical  assertion.* 

Yours  affectionately,       W.  C. 

TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  December^  1780. 

Poetical  reports  of  law  cases  are  not  very 
common,  yet  it  seems  to  me  desirable  that  they 
should  be  so.  Many  advantages  would  accrue 
from  such  a  measure.  They  would  in  the  first 
place  be  more  commodiously  deposited  in  the  me- 
mory, just  as  linen,  grocery,  or  other  such  matters, 
when  neatly  packed,  are  known  to  occupy  less 
room,  and  to  lie  more  conveniently  in  sLny  trunk, 
chest,  or  box,  to  which  they  may  be  committed. 
In  the  nfjxt  place,  being  divested  of  that  infinite 


circumlocution,  and  the  endless  embarrassment  in 
which  they  are  involved  by  it,  they  would  become 
surprisingly  intelligible,  in  comparison  with  their 
present  obscurity.  And  lastly,  they  would  by  this 
means  be  rendered  susceptible  of  musical  embel- 
Ushment,  and  instead  of  being  quoted  in  the  coun- 
try, with  that  dull  monotony,  which  is  so  weari- 
some to  by-standers,  and  firequently  lulls  even  the 
judges  themselves  to  sleep,  might  be  rehearsed  in 
recitation;  which  would  have  an  admirable  efifect, 
in  keeping  the  attention  fixed  and  lively,  and  could 
not  fail  to  disperse  that  heavy  atmosphere  of  sad- 
ness and  gravity,  which  hangs  over  the  jurispru- 
dence of  our  country.  I  remember  many  years 
ago  being  informed  by  a  relation  of  mine,  who  in 
his  youth  had  appUed  himself  to  the  study  of  the 
law,  that  one  of  his  fellow-students,  a  gentleman 
of  sprightly  parts,  and  very  respectable  talents  of 
the  poetical  kind,  did  actually  engage  in  the  pro- 
secution of  such  a  design ;  for  reasons  I  suppose 
somewhat  similar  to,  if  not  the  same  with  those  I 
have  now  suggested.  He  began  with  Coke's  In- 
stitutes; a  book  so  rugged  in  its  style,  that  an  at- 
tempt to  polish  it  seemed  an  Herculean  labour, 
and  not  less  arduous  and  diflnicult,  than  it  would 
be  to  give  the  smoothness  of  a  rabbit's  fur  to  the 
prickly  back  of  a  hedge-hog.  But  he  succeeded 
to  admiration,  as  you  will  perceive  by  the  follow- 
ing specimen,  which  is  all  that  my  said  relation 
could  recollect  of  the  performance. 

Tenant  in  fee 

Simple,  is  he, 
And  need  neither  quake  nor  quiver, 

Who  hath  his  lands, 

Free  from  demands, 
To  him,  and  his  heirs  for  ever. 

You  have  an  ear  for  music,  and  a  taste  for  verse, 
which  saves  me  the  trouble  of  pointing  out  with  a 
critical  nicety  the  advantages  of  such  a  version.  I 
proceed,  therefore,  to  what  I  at  first  intended,  and. 
to  transcribe  the  record  of  an  adjudged  case  thus 
managed,  to  which  indeed  what  I  premised  was 
intended  merely  as  an  introduction.* 


*  The  *  Report  of  an  adjudged  case,  not  to  be  found  m  any 
ofthe  books,' concluded  this  letter.  Vide  Poems. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Feb.  15,  1781. 

I  AM  glad  you  were  pleased  with  my  report  of 
so  extraordinary  a  case.  If  the  thought  of  versifying 
the  decisions  of  our  courts  of  justice  had  struck 
me,  while  I  had  the  honour  to  attend  them,  it 
would  perhaps  have  been  no  difficult  matter  to 
have  compiled  a  volume  of  such  amusing  and 
interesting  precedents ;  which,  if  they  wanted  the 
eloquence  of  the  Greek  or  Roman  oratory,  would 


*  This  letter  concludes  with  the  poetical  law  case  (rf  "Nose 
plaintiff— Eyes,  defendants,"  before  referred  to. 


202 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  74, 75. 


liave  amply  compensated  that  deficiency  by  the 
harmony  of  rhyme  and  metre. 

Your  account  of  my  uncle  and  your  mother 
gave  mc  great  pleasure.  I  have  long  been  afraid 
to  inquire  after  some  in  whose  w^elfare  I  always 
feel  myself  interested,  lest  the  question  should  pro- 
duce a  painful  answer.  Longevity  is  the  lot  of  so 
few,  and  is  so  seldom  rendered  comfortable  by  the 
associations  of  good  health  and  good  spirits,  that  I 
could  not  very  reasonably  suppose  either  your  re- 
lations or  mine  so  happy  in  those  respects,  as  it 
seems  they  are.  May  they  continue  to  enjoy  those 
blessings  so  long  as  the  date  of  life  shall  last.  I 
do  not  think  in  these  costermonger  days,  as  I  have 
a  notion  Falstaff"  calls  them,  an  antediluvian  age 
is  at  all  a  desirable  thing ;  but  to  live  comfortably, 
while  we  do  live,  is  a  great  matter  and  comprehends 
in  it  every  thing  that  can  be  wished  for  on  this 
side  the  curtain  that  hangs  between  Time  and 
Eternity. 

Farewell  my  better  friend  than  any  I  have  to 
boast  of  either  among  the  lords,  or  gentlemen  of 
the  house  of  commons.        Yours  ever,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  April  2,  1781. 

Fine  weather,  and  a  variety  of  extraforaneous 
occupations  (search  Johnson's  dictionary  for  that 
word,  and  if  not  found  there,  insert  it — for  it  saves 
a  deal  of  circumlocution,  and  is  very  lawfully  com- 
pounded) make  it  difficult  (excuse  the  length  of 
the  parenthesis,  which  I  did  not  foresee  the  length 
of  when  I  began  it,  and  which  may  perhaps  a  lit- 
tle perplex  the  sense  of  what  I  am  writing,  though, 
as  I  seldom  deal  in  that  figure  of  speech,  I  have 
the  less  need  to  make  an  apology  for  doing  it  at 
present)  make  it  difficult  (I  say)  for  me  to  find 
opportunities  for  writing.  My  morning  is  en- 
grossed by  the  garden ;  and  in  the  afternoon,  till  I 
have  drunk  tea,  I  am  fit  for  nothing.  At  five  we 
walk ;  and  when  the  walk  is  over,  lassitude  recom- 
mends rest,  and  again  I  become  fit  for  nothing.  The 
current  hour  therefore,  which  (I  need  not  tell  you)  is 
comprised  in  the  interval  between  four  and  five,  is 
devoted  to  your  service,  as  the  only  one  in  the 
twenty-four  which  is  not  otherwise  engaged. 

I  do  not  wonder  that  you  have  felt  a  great  deal 
upon  the  occasion  you  mention  in  your  last,  espe- 
cially on  account  of  the  asperity  you  have  met 
with  in  the  behaviour  of  your  friend.  Reflect, 
however,  that  as  it  is  natural  to  you  to  have  very 
fine  feelings,  it  is  equally  natural  to  some  other 
tempers,  to  leave  those  feelings  entirely  out  of  the 
question,  and  to  speak  to  you,  and  to  act  towards 
you,  just  as  they  do  towards  the  rest  of  mankind, 
without  the  least  attention  to  the  irritability  of 
your  system.    Men  of  a  rough  and  unsparing 


address  should  take  great  care,  that  they  be  always 
in  the  right :  the  justness  and  propriety  of  their 
sentiments  and  censures  being  the  only  tolerabUj 
apology  that  can  be  made  for  such  a  conduct,  espe- 
cially in  a  country  where  civility  of  behaviour  is 
inculcated  even  from  the  cradle.  But  in  the  in- 
stance now  under  our  contemplation,  I  think  you 
a  sufferer  under  the  weight  of  an  animadversion 
not  founded  in  truth,  and  which,  consequently,  you 
did  not  deserve.  I  account  him  faithful  in  the 
pulpit,  who  dissembles  nothing,  that  he  believes, 
for  fear  of  giving  offence.  To  accommodate  a  dis- 
course to  the  judgment  and  opinion  of  others,  for 
the  sake  of  pleasing  them,  though  by  doing  so 
we  are  obliged  to  depart  widely  from  our  own,  is 
to  be  unfaithful  to  ourselves  at  least,  and  can  not 
be  accounted  fidelity  to  him,  whom  we  profess  to 
serve.  But  there  are  few  men  who  do  not  stand 
in  need  of  the  exercise  of  charity  and  forbearance ; 
and  the  gentleman  in  question  has  afforded  you  an 
ample  opportunity  in  this  respect,  to  show  how 
readily,  though  differing  in  your  views,  you  can 
practise  all  that  he  could  possibly  expect  from  you, 
if  your  persuasion  corresponded  exactly  with  his 
own. 

With  respect  to  Monsieur  le  Cure,  I  think  you 
not  quite  excusable  for  suffering  such  a  man  to 
give  you  any  uneasiness  at  all.  The  grossness 
and  injustice  of  his  demand  ought  to  be  its  own 
antidote.  If  a  robber  should  miscall  you  a  pitiful 
fellow  for  not  carrying  a  purse  fiill  of  gold  about 
you,  would  his  brutality  give  you  any  concern  ? 
I  suppose  not.  Why  then  have  you  been  dis- 
tressed in  the  present  instance  % 

Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

May  1,  1781. 

Your  mother  says  I  must  write,  and  must  ad- 
mits of  no  apology ;  I  might  otherwise  plead  that 
I  have  nothing  to  say,  that  I  am  weary,  that  I  am 
dull,  that  it  would  be  more  convenient  therefore 
for  you,  as  well  as  for  myself,  that  I  should  let  it 
alone ;  but  all  these  pleas,  and  whatever  pleas  be- 
sides either  disinclination,  indolence,  or  necessity 
might  suggest,  are  overruled,  as  they  ought  to  be, 
the  moment  a  lady  adduces  her  irrefragable  argu- 
ment, you  must.  You  have  still  however  one  com- 
fort left,  that  what  I  must  write,  you  may,  or  may 
not  read,  just  as  it  shall  please  you,  unless  lady 
Anne  at  your  elbow  should  say,  you  must  read  it, 
and  then,  like  a  true  knight,  you  will  obey  with- 
out looking  for  a  remedy. 

In  the  press,  and  speedily  will  be  published,  in 
one  volume  octavo,  price  three  shillings.  Poems, 
by  William  Cowper,  of  the  Inner  Temple,  Esq. 
You  may  suppose,  by  the  size  of  the  publication, 


Let,  76,  77. 


LETTERS. 


203 


Ihat  the  greatest  part  of  them  have  been  long  kept 
secret,  because  you  yourself  have  never  seen  them 
but  the  truth  is,  that  they  are  most  of  them,  ex 
cept  what  you  have  in  your  possession,  the  pro 
duce  of  the  last  winter.    Two-thirds  of  the  com 
pilation  will  be  occupied  by  four  pieces,  the  first  of 
which  sprung  up  in  the  month  of  December,  and 
the  last  of  them  in  the  month  of  March.  They 
contain,  1  suppose,  in  all  about  two  thousand  and 
five  hundred  lines ;  are  known,  or  to  be  known  in 
due  time,  by  the  names  of  Table  Talk — The 
Progress  of  Error — Truth—Expostulation.  Mr. 
Newton  writes  a  Preface,  and  Johnson  is  the  pub- 
lisher.   The  principal,  I  may  say  the  only  reason 
why  I  never  mentioned  to  you,  till  now,  an  affair 
which  I  am  just  going  to  make  known  to  all  the 
world,  (if  that  Mr.  All-the-world  should  think  it 
worth  his  knowing)  has  been  this ;  that  till  vnth 
in  these  few  days,  I  had  not  the  honour  to  know  it 
myself    This  may  seem  strange,  but  it  is  true; 
for  not  knowing  where  to  find  underwriters  who 
would  choose  to  insure  them ;  and  not  finding  it 
convenient  to  a  purse  like  mine,  to  run  any  hazard, 
even  upon  the  credit  of  my  own  ingenuity,  I  was 
very  much  in  doubt  for  some  weeks,  whether  any 
bookseller  would  be  willing  to  subject  himself  to  an 
ambiguity,  that  might  prove  very  expensive  in  case 
of  a  bad  market.    But  Johnson  has  heroically  set 
all  peradventures  at  defiance,  and  takes  the  whole 
charge  upon  himself.    So  out  1  come.    I  shall  be 
glad  of  my  translations  from  Vincent  Bourne,  in 
your  next  frank .    My  Muse  will  lay  herself  at  your 
feet  immediately  on  her  first  public  appearance. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 


respect,  therefore,  I  and  my  contemporary  bards 
are  by  no  means  upon  a.  par.  They  write  when 
the  delightful  influences  of  fine  weather,  fine 
prospects,  and  a  brisk  motion  of  the  animal  spi- 
rits, make  poetry  almost  the  language  of  nature ; 
and  I,  when  icicles  depend  from  all  the  leaves  of 
the  Parnassian  laurel,  and  when  a  reasonable 
man  would  as  little  expect  to  succeed  in  verse,  as 
to  hear  a  blackbird  whistle.  This  must  be  my 
apology  to  you  for  whatever  want  of  fire  and  ani- 
mation you  may  observe  in  what  you  will  shortly 
have  the  perusal  of.  As  to  the  public,  if  they  like 
me  not,  there  is  no  remedy.  A  friend  will  weigh 
and  consider  all  disadvantages,  and  make  as  large 
allowances  as  an  author  can  wish,  and  larger  per- 
haps than  he  has  any  right  to  expect;  but  not  so 
the  world  at  large;  whatever  they  do  not  like,  they 
will  not  by  any  apology  be  persuaded  to  forgive, 
and  it  would  be  in  vain  to  tell  them,  that  1  wrote 
my  verses  in  January,  for  they  would  immedi- 
ately reply,  "Why  did  not  you  write  them  in 
May?'  A  question  that  might  puzzle  a  wiser 
head  than  we  poets  are  generally  blessed  with. 

W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  May  10,  1781. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  May  9,  1781. 

I  AM  in  the  press,  and  it  is  in  vain  to  deny  it. 
But  how  mysterious  is  the  conveyance  of  intelli- 
gence from  one  end  to  the  other  of  your  great 
city ! — Not  many  days  since,  except  one  man,  and 
he  but  little  taller  than  yourself,  all  London  was 
ignorant  of  it ;  for  I  do^ot  suppose  that  the  public 
prints  have  yet  announced  the  most  agreeable 
tidings,  the  title  page,  which  is  the  basis  of  the 
advertisement,  having  so  lately  reached  the  pub- 
lisher ;  and  now  it  is  known  to  you,  who  live  at 
least  two  miles  distant  from  my  confidant  upon 
the  occasion. 

My  labours  are  principally  the  production  of 
the  last  winter;  all  indeed,  except  a  few  of  the 
minor  pieces.  When  I  can  find  no  other  occupa- 
tion, I  think,  and  when  I  think,  I  am  very  apt  to 
do  it  in  rhyme.  Hence  it  comes  to  pass  that  the 
season  of  the  year  which  generally  pinches  ofif  the 
flowers  of  poetry,  unfolds  mine,  such  as  they  are, 
and  crowns  me  with  a  winter  garland.    In  this 


Tt  is  Friday;  I  have  just  drank  tea,  and  just 
perused  your  letter:  and  though  this  answer  can 
not  set  off  till  Sunday,  I  obey  the  warm  impulse 
I  feel,  which  will  not  permit  me  to  postpone  the 
business  till  the  regular  time  of  writing. 

I  expected  you  would  be  grieved;  if  you  had 
not  been  so,  those  sensibilities  which  attend  you 
upon  every  other  occasion,  must  have  left  you 
upon  this.    I  am  sorry  that  I  have  given  you  pain, 
but  not  sorry  that  you  have  felt  it.    A  concern  of 
that  sort  would  be  absurd,  because  it  would  be  to 
regret  your  friendship  for  me  and  to  be  dissatisfied 
with  the  effect  of  it.    Allow  yourself  however 
three  minutes  only  for  reflection,  and  your  pene- 
tration must  necessarily  dive  into  the  motives  of 
my  conduct.    In  the  first  place,  and  by  way  of 
preface,  remember  that  I  do  not  (whatever  your 
partiality  may  incline  you  to  do)  account  it  of 
much  consequence  to  any  friend  of  mine,  whether 
he  is,  or  is  not  employed  by  me  upon  such  an  oc- 
casion.   But  all  affected  renunciations  of  poetical 
merit  apart,  (and  all  unaffected  expressions  of  the 
sense  I  have  of  my  own  littleness  in  the  poetical 
character  too)  the  obvious  and  only  reason  why  I 
resorted  to  Mr.  Newton,  and  not  to  my  friend 
Unwin,  was  this — that  the  former  lived  in  Lon- 
don, the  latter  at  Stock;  the  former  was  upon  the 
spot  to  correct  the  press,  to  give  instructions  re- 
specting any  sudden  alterations,  and  to  settle  with 
the  publisher  every  thing  that  might  possibly  occui 


m 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  78! 


in  the  course  of  such  a  business:  the  latter  could 
not  be  apphed  to,  for  those  purposes,  witfiout  what 
would  be  a  manifest  encroachment  on  his  kind- 
ness; because  it  might  happen,  that  the  trouble- 
some office  might  cost  him  now  and  then  a  jour- 
ney, which  it  was  absolutely  impossible  for  me  to 
endure  the  thought  of. 

When  I  wrote  to  you  for  the  copies  you  have 
sent  me,  I  told  you  1  was  making  a  collection,  but 
not  with  a  design  to  publish.  There  is  nothing 
truer,  than  that  at  that  time  1  had  not  the  smallest 
expectation  of  sending  a  volume  of  Poems  to  the 
press.  I  had  several  small  pieces  that  might 
amuse,  but  1  would  not,  when  1  publish,  make  the 
amusement  of  the  reader  my  only  object.  When 
the  winter  deprived  me  of  other  employments,  I 
began  to  compose,  and  seeing  six  or  seven  months 
before  me,  which  would  naturally  afford  me  much 
leisure  for  such  a  purpose,  I  undertook  a  piece  of 
some  length;  that  finished,  another;  and  so  on, 
till  1  had  amassed  the  number  of  lines  I  mentioned 
in  my  last. 

Believe  of  me  what  you  please,  but  not  that  I 
am  indifferent  to  you,  or  your  friendship  for  me, 
on  any  occasion. 

Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  May  23,  178L 

If  a  writer's  friends  have  need  of  patience,  how 
much  more  the  writer!    Your  desire  to  see  my 
muse  in  public,  and  mine  to  gratify  you,  must 
both  suffer  the  mortification  of  delay — I  expected 
that  my  trumpeter  would  have  informed  the  world 
by  this  time  of  all  that  is  needful  for  them  to  know 
upon  such  an  occasion;  and  that  an  advertising 
blast,  blown  through  every  newspaper,  would  have 
said — '  The  poet  is  coming.' — But  man,  especially 
man  that  writes  verse,  is  born  to  diappointments 
as  surely  as  printers  and  booksellers  are  born  to  be 
the  most  dilatory  and  tedious  of  all  creatures.  The 
plain  English  of  this  magnificent  preamble  is,  that 
the  season  of  publication  is  just  elapsed,  that  the 
town  is  going  into  the  country  every  day,  and 
that  my  book  can  not  appear  till  they  return,  that 
is  to  say  not  till  next  winter.    This  misfortune 
however  comes  not  without  its  attendant  advan- 
tage; I  shall  now  have,  what  I  should  not  other- 
wise have  had,  an  opportunity  to  correct  the  press 
myself;  no  small  advantage  upon  any  occasion 
but  especially  important,  where  poetry  is  concern- 
ed !  A  single  erratum  may  knock  out  the  brains 
of  a  whole  passage,  and  that  perhaps,  which  of  all 
others  the  unfortunate  poet  is  the  most  proud  of 
Add  to  this,  that  now  and  then  there  is  to  be  found 
in  a  printing  house  a  presumptuous  intermeddler, 
who  will  fancy  himself  a  poet  too,  and  what  is 


still  worse,  a  better  than  he  that  employs  him 
The  consequence  is,  that  with  cobbling,  and  tin- 
kering, and  patching  on  here  and  there  a  shred  of 
his  own,  he  makes  such  a  difference  between  the 
original  and  the  copy,  that  an  author  can  not 
know  his  own  work  again.  Now  as  I  choose  to 
be  responsible  for  nobody's  dulness  but  my  ownj 
I  am  a  little  comforted,  when  I  reflect  that  it  wili 
be  in  my  power  to  prevent  all  such  impertinence, 
and  yet  not  without  your  assistance.  I't  will  bo 
quite  necessary,  that  the  correspondence  between 
me  and  Johnson  should  be  carried  on  without  the 
expense  of  postage,  because  proof  sheets  would 
make  double  or  treble  letters,  which  expense,  as  in 
every  instance  it  must  occur  twice,  first  when  the 
packet  is  sent,  and  again  when  it  is  returned, 
would  be  rather  inconvenient  to  me,  who,  as  you 
perceive,  am  forced  to  live  by  my  wits,  and  to  him, 
who  hopes  to  get  a  little  matter  no  doubt  by  the 
same  means.  Half  a  dozen  franks  therefore  to 
me,  and  totidem  to  him,  will  be  singularly  accept- 
able, if  you  can,  without  feehng  it  in  any  respect 
a  trouble,  procure  them  for  me. 

I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  offer  to  sup- 
port me  in  a  translation  of  Bourne.    It  is  but 
seldom,  however,  and  never  except  for  my  amuse- 
ment, that  I  translate;  because  I  find  it  disagreea- 
ble to  work  by  another  man's  pattern;  I  should  at 
least  be  sure  to  find  it  so  in  a  business  of  any 
length.    Again,  that  is  epigrammatic  and  witty 
in  Latin,  which  would  be  perfectly  insipid  in  Eng- 
lish; and  a  translator  of  Bourne  would  frequently 
find  himself  obliged  to  supply  what  is  called  the 
turn,  whidh  is  in  fact  the  most  difficult,  and  the 
most  expensive  part  of  the  whole  composition,  and 
could  not  perhaps,  in  many  instances,  be  done 
with  any  tolerable  success.    If  a  Latin  poem  is 
neat,  elegant,  and  musical,  it  is  enough — but  Eng- 
lish readers  are  not  so  easily  satisfied.    To  quote 
myself,  you  will  find,  in  comparing  the  Jack-daw 
with  the  original,  that  I  was  obliged  to  sharpen  a 
point  which,  though  smart  enough  in  the  Latin, 
would,  in  English,  have  appeared  as  plain,  and 
as  blunt  as  the  tag  of  a  lace.    I  love  the  memory 
of  Vinny  Bourne.    I  think  him  a  better  Latin 
poet  than  TibuUus,  Propertius,  Ausonius,  or  any 
of  the  writers  in  his  way,  except  Ovid,  and  not  at 
all  inferior  to  him.    I  love  him  too  with  a  love  of 
partiality,  because  he  was  usher  of  the  fifth  form 
at  Westminster,  when  I  passed  through  it.  He 
was  so  good-natured,,  and  so  indolent,  that  I  lost 
more  than  I  got  by  him;  for  he  made  me  as  idle  as 
himself    He  was  such  a  sloven,  as  if  he  had 
trusted  to  his  genius  as  a  cloak  for  every  thing 
that  could  disgust  you  in  his  person;  and  indeed 
in  his  writings  he  has  almost  made  amends  for 
all.    His  humour  is  entirely  original — he  can 
speak  of  a  magpie  or  a  cat  in  terms  so  exclusively 
appropriated  to  the  character  he  draws,  that  one 


Let.  79,  80. 


LETTERS. 


205 


would  suppose  him  animated  by  the  spirit  of  the 
creature  he  describes.    And  with  all  his  drollery 
there  is  a  mixture  of  rational,  and  even  religious 
reflection,  at  times:  and  always  an  air  of  plea- 
santry, good-nature,  and  humanity,  that  makes 
him,  in  my  mind,  one  of  the  most  amiable  writers 
in  the  world.    It  is  not  common  to  meet  with  an 
author  who  can  make  you  smile,  and  yet  at  no- 
body's expense:  who  is  always  entertaining,  and 
yet  always  harmless;  and  who,  though  always 
elegant,  and  classical  to  a  degree  not  always  found 
in  the  classics  themselves,  charms  more  by  the  sim- 
plicity and  playfulness  of  his  ideas,  than  by  the  neat- 
ness and  the  purity  of  his  verse ;  yet  such  was  poor 
Vinny.  I  remember  seeing  the  Duke  of  Richmond 
set  fire  to  his  greasy  locks,  and  box  his  ears  to  put 
it  out  again.   Since  I  began  to  write  long  poems,  I 
seem  to  turn  up  my  nose  at  the  idea  of  a  short 
one.    I  have  lately  entered  upoH  one,  which,  if 
ever  finished,  can  not  easily  be  comprised  in 
much  less  than  a  thousand  lines  !    But  this  must 
make  part  of  a  second  publication,  and  be  accom- 
panied, in  due  time,  by  others  not  yet  thought  of; 
for  it  seems  (what  I  did  not  know  till  the  booksel- 
ler had  occasion  to  tell  me  so)  that  single  pieces 
stand  no  chance,  and  that  nothing  less  than  a 
volume  will  go  down.    You  yourself  afford  me  a 
proof  of  the  certainty  of  this  intelligence,  by  send- 
ing me  franks  which  nothing  less  than  a  volume 
can  fill.    I  have  accordingly  sent  you  one,  but  am 
obliged  to  add,  that  had  the  wind  been  in  any 
other  point  of  the  compass,  or,  blowing  as  it  does 
from  the  east,  had  it  been  less  boisterous,  you 
must  have  been  contented  with  a  much  shorter 
letter,  but  the  abridgment  of  every  other  occupa- 
tion is  very  favourable  to  that  of  writing. 

I  am  glad  I  did  not  expect  to  hear  from  you  by 
this  post,  for  the  boy  has  lost  the  bag  in  which  your 
letter  must  have  been  enclosed— another  reason 
for  my  prolixity !    Yours  affectionately,  W.  C. 


you  will  oblige  me  by  a  speedy  answer  upon  tlus 
subject,  because  it  is  expedient  that  the  printer 
should  know  to  whom  he  is  to  send  his  copy ;  and 
when  the  press  is  once  set,  thdse  humble  servants 
of  the  poets  are  rather  impatient  of  any  delay,  be- 
cause the  types  are  wanted  for  other  authors,  who 
are  equally  impatient  to  be  born. 

This  fine  weather  I  suppose  sets  you  on  horse- 
back, and  allures  the  ladies  into  the  garden.  If  J 
was  at  Stock,  I  should  be  of  their  party ;  and  while 
they  sat  knotting  or  netting  in  the  shade,  should 
comfort  myself  with  the  thought,  that  I  had  not  a 
beast  under  me,  whose  Avalk  would  seem  tedious, 
B  trot  would  jumble  me,  and  whose  gallop 
might  throw  me  into  a  ditch.  What  nature  ex- 
pressly designed  me  for  I  have  never  been  able  to 
conjecture;  I  seem  to  myself  so  universally  dis- 
qualified for  the  common  and  customary  occupa- 
tions and  amusements  of  mankind.  When  I  was 
a  boy,  I  excelled  at  cricket  and  foot-ball,  but  the 
fame  I  acquired  by  achievements  that  way  is  long 
since  forgotten,  and  I  do  not  know  that  I  have 
made  a  figure  in  any  thing  else.  I  am  sure,  how- 
ever, that  she  did  not  design  me  for  a  horseman; 
and  that,  if  all  men  were  of  my  mind,  there  would 
be  an  end  of  all  jockeyship  for  ever.  I  am  rather 
straitened  for  time,  and  not  very  rich  in  materials 
therefore,  with  our  joint  love  to  you  all,  conclude 
myself,  Yours  ever,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  May,  1781. 

I  BELIEVE  I  never  give  you  trouble  without  feel- 
ing more  than  I  give ;  so  much  by  way  of  preface 
and  apology. 

Thus  stands  the  case — Johnson  has  begun  to 
print,  ai^d  Mr.  Newton  has  already  corrected  the 
first  sheet.  This  unexpected  despatch  makes  it 
necessary  for  me  to  furnish  myself  with  the  means 
of  communication,  viz.  the  franks,  as  soon  as  may 
be.  There  are  reasons  (I  believe  I  mentioned  them 
in  my  last)  why  I  choose  to  revise  the  proofs  my- 
self:—nevertheless,  if  your  delicacy  must  suffer 
the  puncture  of  a  pin's  point  in  procuring  the  franks 
for  me,  I  release  you  entirely  from  the  task :  you 
axe  as  free  as  if  I  had  never  mentioned  them.  But 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  June  5,  1781. 

If  the  old  adage  be  true,  that '  he  gives  twice, 
who  gives  speedily,' it  is  equally  true  that  he  who 
not  only  uses  expedition  in  giving,  but,  gives  more 
than  was  asked,  gives  thrice  at  least.    Such  is  the 

style  in  wb.ch  Mr..          confers  a  favour.  He 

has  not  only  sent  me  franks  to  Johnson,  but  under 
another  cover,  has  added  six  to  you.    These  last 
for  aught  that  appears  by  your  letter,  he  threw  in 
of  his  own  mere  bounty.    I  beg  that  my  share  of 
thanks  may  not  be  wanting  on  this  occasion,  and 
that  when  you  write  to  him  next  you  will  assure 
him  of  the  sense  I  have  of  the  obligation,  which  is 
the  more  flattering,  as  it  includes  a  proof  of  his 
predilection  in  favour  of  the  poems  his  franks  are 
destined  to  enclose.    May  they  not  forfeit  his  good 
opinion  hereafter,  nor  yours,  to  whom  I  hold  my- 
self indebted  in  the  first  place,  and  who  have  equal- 
ly given  me  credit  for  their  deservings!  Your 
mother  says,  that  although  there  are  passages  in 
them  containing  opinions  which  will  not  be  uni- 
versally subscribed  to,  the  world  will  at  least  allow 
what  my  great  modesty  will  not  permit  me  to  sub- 
join,   I  have  the  highest  opinion  of  her  judgment, 
and  know,  by  having  experienced  the  soundness 
of  them,  that  her  observations  are  always  worthy 


20" 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Llt.  81. 


of  attention  and  regard.  Yet,  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  I  do  not  feel  the  vanity  of  an  author,  when 
she  commends  me— but  I  feel  sometliing  better,  a 
spur  to  my  diligence,  and  a  cordial  to  my  spirits, 
both  together  animating  me  to  deserve,  at  least  not 
to  fall  short  of  her  expectations.  For  I  verily  be- 
lieve, if  my  dulness  should  earn  me  the  character 
of  a  dunce,  the  censure  would  affect  her  more  than 
me ;  not  that  I  am  insensible  of  the  value  of  a 
good  name,  either  as  a  man  or  an  author.  "With- 
out an  ambition  to  attain  it,  it  is  absolutely  unattaina- 
ble under  either  of  those  descriptions.  But  my 
life  having  been  in  many  respects  a  series  of  mor- 
tifications and  disappointments,  I  am  become  less 
apprehensive  and  impressible  perhaps  in  some  points 
than  I  should  otherwise  have  been ;  and  though  I 
fihould  be  exquisitely  sorry  to  disgrace  my  friends, 
could  endure  my  own  share  of  the  affliction  with 
a  reasonable  measure  of  tranquillity. 

These  seasonable  showers  have  poured  floods 
upon  all  the  neighbouring  parishes,  but  have  pass- 
ed us  by.  My  garden  languishes,  and,  what  is 
worse,  the  fields  too  languish,  and  the  upland  grass 
is  burnt.  These  discriminations  are  not  fortuitous. 
But  if  they  are  providential,  what  do  they  import  1 
I  can  only  answer,  as  a  friend  of  mine  once  an- 
swered a  mathematical  question  in  the  schools— 
"  Prorsus  nescio."  Perhaps  it  is,  that  men,  who 
will  not  believe  what  they  can  not  understand,  may 
learn  the  folly  of  their  conduct,  whfle  their  very 
senses  are  made  to  witness  against  them ;  and  them- 
selves in  the  course  of  Providence  become  the  sub- 
jects of  a  thousand  dispensations  they  can  not  ex- 
plain. But  the  end  is  never  answered.  The  les- 
son is  inculcated  indeed  frequently  enough,  but 
nobody  learns  it.  Well.  Instruction  vouchsafed 
in  vain  is,  I  suppose,  a  debt  to  be  accounted  for 
hereafter.  You  must  understand  this  to  be  a  soli- 
loquy. I  wrote  my  thoughts  without  recoUecting 
that  I  was  writing  a  letter,  and  to  you.    W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UN  WIN. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  June  24,  1781. 

The  letter  you  withheld  so  long,  lest  it  should 
give  me  pain,  gave  me  pleasure.  Horace  says,  the 
poets  are  a  waspish  race ;  and  from  my  own  expe- 
rience of  the  temper  of  two  or  three,  with  whom 
I  was  formerly  connected,  I  can  readily  subscribe 
to  the  character  he  gives  them.  But  for  my  own 
part,  I  have  never  yet  felt  that  excessive  irritability , 
which  some  writers  discover,  when  a  friend,  in  the 
words  of  Pope, 

"  Just  hints  a  fault,  or  hesitates  dislike." 
Least  of  all  would  I  give  way  to  such  an  unsea- 
sonable ebullition,  merely  because  a  civil  question 
IS  proposed  to  me  with  such  gentleness,  and  by  a 
man  whose  concern  for  my  credit  and  character  1 


verily  believe  to  be  sincere.  I  reply,  therefore,  not 
peevishly,  but  with  a  sense  of  the  kindness  of  your 
intentions,  that  I  hope  you  may  make  yourself 
very  easy  on  a  subj  ect,  that  I  can  perceive  has  oc- 
casioned you  some  solicitude.  When  I  wrote  the 
poem  called  Truth,  it  was  indispensably  necessary 
that  I  should  set  forth  that  doctrine  which  I  know 
to  be  true,  and  that  I  should  pass  what  I  under- 
stood to  be  a  just  censure  upon  opinions  and  per- 
suasions that  differ  from,  or  stand  in  direct  oppo- 
sition to  it ;  because,  though  some  errors  may  be 
innocent,  and  even  religious  errors  are  not  always 
pernicious,  yet  in  a  case  where  the  faith  and  hope 
of  a  Christian  are  concerned,  they  must  necessa- 
rily be  destructive ;  and  because,  neglecting  this, 
I  should  have  betrayed  my  subject;  either  sup- 
pressing what,  in  my  judgment,  is  of  the  last  im- 
portance, or  giving  countenance  by  a  timid  silence, 
to  the  very  evils  it  was  my  design  to  combat.  That 
you  may  understand  me  better,  I  wiU  subjoin — 
that  I  wrote  that  poem  on  purpose  to  inculcate  the 
eleemosynary  character  of  the  gospel,  as  a  dispen- 
sation of  mercy,  in  the  most  absolute  sense  of  the 
word,  to  the  exclusion  of  afl  claims  of  merit  on  the 
part  of  the  receiver ;  consequently  to  set  the  brand 
of  invalidity  upon  the  plea  of  works,  and  to  dis- 
cover, upon  spiritual  ground,  the  absurdity  of  that 
notion,  which  includes  a  solecism  in  the  very  terms 
of  it,  that  man,  by  repentance  and  good  works, 
may  deserve  the  mercy  of  his  ^aker :  I  call  it  a 
solecism,  because  mercy  deserved  ceases  to  be  mer- 
cy, and  must  take  the  name  of  justice.  This  is 
the  opinion  which  I  said  in  my  last  the  world 
would  not  acquiesce  in ;  but  except  this,  I  do  not 
recollect  that  I  have  introduced  a  syllable  into  any 
of  my  pieces,  that  they  can  possibly  object  to ;  and 
even  this  I  have  endeavoured  to  deliver  from  doc- 
trinal dryness,  by  as  many  pretty  things,  in  the 
way  of  trinket  and  plaything,  as  I  could  muster 
upon  the  subject.  So  that  if  I  have  rubbed  their 
gums,  I  have  taken  care  to  do  it  with  a  coral,  and 
even  that  coral  embeflished  by  the  ribbon  to  which 
it  is  tied,  and  recommended  by  the  tinkling  of  all 
the  bells  I  could  contrive  to  annex  to  it. 

You  need  not  trouble  yourself  to  call  on  John- 
son; being  perfectly  acquainted  with  the  progress 
of  the  business,  I  am  able  to  satisfy  your  curiosity 
myself— the  post  before  the  last  I  returned  to  him 
the  second  sheet  of  Table  Talk,  which  he  had 
sent  me  for  correction,  and  which  stands  foremost 
in  the  volume.  The  delay  has  enabled  me  to  add 
a  piece  of  considerable  length,  which,  but  for  tlie 
delay,  would  not  have  made  its  appearance  upon 
this  occasion ;  it  answers  to  the  name  of  Hope. 

I  remember  a  line  in  the  Odyssey,  which,  Uto- 
rally  translated,  imports  that  there  is  nothing  in 
the  world  more  impudent  than  the  belly.  But  had 
Homer  met  with  an  instance  of  modesty  like  yours, 
he  would  either  have  suppressed  that  observation, 


Let.  82,  S3. 


LETTERS. 


207 


cr  at  least  have  qualified  it  with  an  exception.  I 
hope  that,  for  the  future,  Mrs.  Unwin  will  never 
suffer  you  to  go  to  London  without  putting 
some  victuals  in  your  pocket;  for  what  a  strange 
article  would  it  make  in  a  newspaper,  that  a  tall, 
well-dressed  gentleman,  by  his  appearance  a  cler- 
gyman, and  with  a  purse  of  gold  in  his  pocket, 
was  found  starved  to  death  in  the  street.  How 
would  it  puzzle  conjecture  to  account  for  such  a 
phenomenon !    Some  would  suppose  that  you  had 
been  kidnapped,  like  Betty  Canning,  of  hungry 
memory:  others  would  say,  the  gentleman  was  a 
methodist,  and  had  practised  a  rigorous  self-denial, 
which  had  unhappily  proved  too  hard  for  his  con- 
stitution; but  I  will  venture  to  say  that  nobody 
would  divine  the  real  cause,  or  suspect  for  a  mo- 
ment, that  your  modesty  had  occasioned  the  tragedy 
in  question.    By  the  way,  is  it  not  possible,  that 
the  spareness  and  slenderness  of  your  person  may 
be  owing  to  the  same  caused  for  surely  it  is  rea- 
sonable to  suspect  that  the  bashfulness  which  could 
prevail  against  you,  on  so  trying  an  occasion,  may 
be  equally  prevalent  on  others.  I  remember  having 
been  told  by  Colman,  that  when  he  once  dined 
with  Garrick,  he  repeatedly  pressed  him  to  eat 
more  of  a  certain  dish,  that  he  was  known  to  be 
particularly  fond  of;  Colman  as  often  refused,  and 
at  last  declared  he  could  not :  "  But  could  not  you," 
says  Garrick,  "if  you  was  in  a  dark  closet  by 
yourself?"    The  same  question  might  perhaps  be 
put  to  you  with  as  much,  or  more  propriety,  and 
therefore  I  recommend  it  to  you,  either  to  furnish 
yourself  with  a  little  more  assurance  or  always  to 
eat  in  the  dark. 

We  sympathize  with  Mrs.  Unwin;  and  if  it 
will  be  any  comfort  to  her  to  know  it,  can  assure 
her,  that  a  lady  in  our  neighbourhood  is  always, 
on  such  occasions,  the  most  miserable  of  all  things, 
and  yet  escapes  with  great  facility  through  all  the 
dangers  of  her  state.  Yours,  ut  semper.  W.C. 


does  so  much  good  to  others !— You  can  no  where 
find  objects  more  entitled  to  your  pity  than  where 
your  pity  seeks  them.  A  man,  whose  vices  and 
irregularities  have  brought  his  liberty  and  life  into 
danger,  will  always  be  viewed  with  an  eye  of  com- 
passion by  those  who  understand  what  human 
nature  is  made  of;  and  while  we  acknowledge  the 
severities  of  the  law  to  be  founded  upon  principles 
of  necessity  and  justice,  and  are  glad  that  there  is 
such  a  barrier  provided  for  the  peace  of  society,  if 
we  consider  that  the  difference  between  ourselves 
and  the  culprit  is  not  of  our  own  making,  we  shall 
be,  as  you  are,  tenderly  affected  by  the  view  of  his 
misery;  and  not  the  less  so  because  he  has  brought 
it  upon  himself 

I  give  you  joy  of  your  own  hair,  no  doubt  you 
are  considerably  a  gainer  in  your  appearance  by 
being  disperiwiged.  The  best  wig  is  that  which 
most  resembles  the  natural  hair.  Why  then  should 
he,  who  has  hair  enough  of  his  own,  have  recourse 
to  imitation  %  I  have  little  doubt  but  that  if  an 
arm  or  leg  could  have  been  taken  off  with  as  little 
pain  as  attends  the  amputation  of  a  curl  or  a  lock 
of  hair,  the  natural  limb  would  have  been  thought 
less  becoming,  or  less  convenient,  by  some  men, 
than  a  wooden  one,  and  have  been  disposed  of  ac- 
cordingly. 

Having  begun  my  letter  with  a  miserable  pen, 
I  was  unwilling  to  change  it  for  a  better,  lest  my 
writing  should  not  be  all  of  a  piece.  But  it  has 
worn  me  and  my  patience  quite  out.  Yours  ever, 

W.C. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

July  6,  1781. 
We  are  obliged  to  you  for  the  rugs,  a  commo- 
dity that  can  never  come  to  such  a  place  as  this 
at  an  unseasonable  time.  We  have  given  one  to 
an  industrious  poor  widow,  with  four  children, 
whose  sister  overheard  her  shivering  in  the  night, 
and  with  some  difficulty  brought  her  to  confess 
the  next  morning,  that  she  was  half  perished  for 
want  of  sufficient  covering.  Her  said  sister  bor- 
rowed a  rug  for  her  at  a  neighbour's  immediately, 
which  she  had  used  only  one  night  when  yours 
arrived :  and  I  doubt  not  but  we  shall  meet  with 
others,  equally  indigent  and  deserving  of  your 
Dounty. 

Much  good  may  your  humanity  do  you,  as  it 

T 


MY  VERY  DEAR  FRIEND,  July  12,  1781. 

I  AM  going  to  send,  what  when  you  have  read^ 
you  may  scratch  your  head,  and  say,  I  suppose, 
there's  nobody  knows,  whether  what  I  have  got, 
be  verse  or  not — by  the  tune  and  the  time,  it 
ought  to  be  rhyme;  but  if  it  be,  did  you  ever  see, 
of  late  or  of  yore,  such  a  ditty  before? 

I  have  writ  Charity,  not  for  popularity,  but  as 
well  as  I  could,  in  hopes  to  do  good;  and  if  the 
reviewer  should  say  "  to  be  sure,  the  gentleman's 
muse  wears  methodist  shoes,  you  may  know  by 
her  pace,  and  talk  about  grace,  that  she  and  her 
bard  have  little  regard,  for  the  taste  and  fashions, 
and  ruling  passions,  and  hoidening  play,  of  the 
modern  day ;  and  though  she  assume  a  borrowed 
plume,  and  now  and  then  wear  a  tittering  air,  'tis 
only  her  plan,  to  catch  if  she  can,  the  giddy  and 
gay,  as  they  go  that  way,  by  a  production,  on  a 
new  construction ;  she  has  baited  her  trap,  in  hopes 
to  snap  all  that  may  come,  with  a  sugar-plum." 

-His  opinion  in  this  will  not  be  amiss ;  'tis  what 
I  intend  my  principal  end;  and  if  I  succeed,  and 
folks  should  read,  till  a  few  are  brought  to  a  se- 


208 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  84. 


rhyming  fit,  what  will  make  you  dance,  and  as  you 
advance,  will  keep  you  still,  though  against  your 
will,  dancing  away,  alert  and  gay,  till  you  come 
to  an  end  of  what  I  have  penn'd;  which  that  you 
may  do,  ere  Madam  and  you  are  quite  worn  out 
with  jigging  about,  I  take  my  leave,  and  here  you 
receive,  a  bow  profound,  down  to  the  ground,  from 
your  humble  me —  W.  C. 


nous  thought,  I  should  think  I  am  paid,  for  all  I  to,  that  the  most  harmless  members  of  society 
have  said,  and  all  1  have  done,  though  I  have  run,  should  receive  no  advantage  of  its  laws,  or  should 
many  a  time,  after  a  rhyme,  as  far  as  from  hence, ;  be  the  only  persons  in  the  world  who  should  de- 
to  the  end  of  my  sense,  and  by  hook  or  crook,  [  rive  no  benefit  from  those  institutions,  without 
write  another  book,  if  I  live  and  am  here,  another  !  which  society  can  not  subsist.  Neither  of  them 
ygg^j.  I  could  mean  to  throw  down  the  pale  of  property, 

I  have  heard  before,  of  a  room  with  a  floor,  laid  and  to  lay  the  Christian  part  of  the  world  open, 
upon  springs,  and  such  like  things,  with  so  much  throughout  all  ages,  to  the  incursions  of  unlimited 
art,  in  every  part,  that  when  you  went  in,  you  was  ,  violence  and  wrong. 

forced  to  begin  a  minuet  pace,  with  an  air  and  a  |  By  this  time  you  are  sufficiently  aware,  that  I 
grace,  swimming  about,  now  in  and  now  out,  with  '  think  you  have  an  undisputable  right  to  recover 
a  deal  of  state,  in  a  figure  of  eight,  without  pipe  or  j  at  law  what  is  so  dishonestly  withheld  from  you, 
string,  or  any  such  thing;  and  now  I  have  writ,  in  a  |  The  fellow,  I  suppose,  has  discernment  enough 
°  'to  see  a  difference  between  you  and  the  generality 

of  the  clergy;  and  cunning  enough  to  conceive 
the  purpose  of  turning  your  meekness  and  for- 
bearance to  good  account,  and  of  coining  them 
into  hard  cash,  which  he  means  to  put  in  his 
pocket.  But  1  would  disappoint  him,  and  show 
him,  that  though  a  Christian  is  not  to  be  quarrel- 
some, he  is  not  to  be  crushed — and  that  though 
he  is  but  a  worm  before  God,  he  is  not  such  a 
worm,  as  every  selfish  unprincipled  wretch  may 
tread  upon  at  his  pleasure, 

I  lately  heard  a  story  from  a  lady,  who  has  spent 
many  years  of  Ker  life  in  France,  somewhat  to  the 
present  purpose.  An  Abbe,  universally  esteemed 
for  his  piety,  and  especially  for  the  meekness  of 
his  manners,  had,  yet  undesignedly,  given  some 
offence  to  a  shabby  fellow  in  his  parish.  The  man, 
concluding  he  might  do  as  he  pleased  with  so  for- 
giving and  gentle  a  character,  struck  him  on  one 
cheek,  and  bade  him  turn  the  other.  The  good 
man  did  so,  and  when  he  had  received  the  two 
slaps,  which  he  thought  himself  obliged  to  submit 
to,  turned  again,  and  beat  him  soundly.  I  do  not 
wish  to  see  you  follow  the  French  gentleman's 
example,  but  I  believe  nobody  that  has  heard  tlje 
story  condemns  him  much  for  the  spirit  he  showed 
upon  the  occasion. 

I  had  the  relation  from  Lady  Austen,*  sister  to 
Mrs.  Jones,  wife  of  the  minister  at  Clifton.  She 
is  a  most  agreeable  woman,  and  has  fallen  in  love 
with  your  mother  and  me;  insomuch,  that  I  do 
not  know  but  she  may  settle  at  OIney.  Yester- 
day se'ennight  we  all  dined  together  in  the  Spin- 
nic— a  most  deUghtful  retirement,  belonging  to 
Mrs.  Throckmorton  of  Weston.  Lady  Austen's 
lackey,  and  a  lad  that  waits  on  me  in  the  garden, 
drove  a  wheelbarrow  full  of  eatables  and  drinka- 
bles to  the  scene  of  our  Fete  Champetre.  A  board 
laid  over  the  top  of  the  wheelbarrow  served  us  for 
a  table;  our  dining-room  was  a  root-house  lined 
with  moss  and  ivy.  At  six  o'clock,  the  servants, 
who  had  dined  under  a  great  elm  upon  the  ground, 
at  a  little  distance,  boiled  the  kettle,  and  the  said 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  -^uly  29,  178L 

Having  given  the  case  you  laid  before  me  in 
your  last  all  due  consideration,  I  proceed  to  an- 
swer it ;  and  in  order  to  clear  my  way,  shall,  in 
the  first  place,  set  down  my  sense  of  those  passages 
in  Scripture  which,  on  a  hasty  perusal,  seem  to 
clash  with  the  opinion  I  am  going  to  give—"  if  a 
man  smite  one  cheek,  turn  the  other."—"  If  he 
take  thy  cloak,  let  him  take  thy  coat  also."— That 
is,  1  suppose,  rather  than  on  a  vindictive  principle 
avail  yourself  of  that  remedy  the  law  allows  you, 
in  the  way  of  retaliation,  for  that  was  the  subject 
immediately  under  the  discussion  of  the  speaker. 
Nothing  is  so  contrary  to  the  genius  of  the  Gospel, 
as  the  gratification  of  resentment  and  revenge ; 
but  I  can  not  easily  persuade  myself  to  think,  that 
i,he  author  of  that  dispensation  could  possibly  ad- 
vise his  followers  to  consult  their  own  peace  at  the 
expense  of  the  peace  of  society,  or  inculcate  an 
universal  abstinence  from  the  use  of  lawful  reme- 
dies, to  the  encouragement  of  injury  and  oppres- 
sion. 

St.  Paul  again  seems  to  condemn  the  practice 
of  going  to  law,  "  Why  do  ye  not  rather  suffer 
wrong  1  &c."  But  if  we  look  again,  we  shall  find 
that  a  litigious  temper  had  obtained,  and  was  pre- 
valent among  the  professors  of  the  day.  This  he 
condemned,  and  with  good  reason;  it  was  un- 
seemly to  the  last  degree,  that  the  disciples  of  the 
Prince  of  Peace  should  worry  and  vex  each  other 
with  injurious  treatment,  and  unnecessary  dis- 
putes, to  the  scandal  of  their  religion  in  the  eyes 
of  the  heathen.  But  surely  he  did  not  mean  any 
more  than  his  Master,  in  the  place  above  alluded 


'  Widow  of  Sir  Robert  Austen,  Bart,  and  tl.<;  larly  alluded 
to  in  the  advertisement  prefixed  to  the  Task. 


Let.  85,  86. 


LETTERS. 


209 


wheelbarrow  served  us  for  a  tea-table.  We  then 
took  a  walk  into  the  wilderness,  about  half  a  mile 
off,  and  were  at  home  again  a  little  after  eight, 
having  spent  the  day  together  from  noon  till  eve- 
ning, without  one  cross  occurrence,  or  the  least 
weariness  of  each  other.  A  happiness  few  parties 
of  pleasure  can  boast  of 

Yours,  with  our  joint  love,  W,  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Augtist  25,  1781. 

We  rejoice  with  you  sincerely  in  the  birth  of 
another  son,  and  in  the  prospect  you  have  of  Mrs. 
Unwin's  recovery;  may  your  three  children,  and 
the  next  three,  when  they  shall  make  their  ap- 
pearance, prove  so  many  blessings  to  their  parents 
and  make  you  wish  that  you  had  twice  the  num- 
ber. But  what  made  you  expect  daily  that  you 
should  hear  from  me  1  Letter  for  letter  is  the  law 
of  all  correspondence  whatsoever,  and  because  I 
wrote  last,  I  have  indulged  myself  for  some  time 
in  expectation  of  a  sheet  from  you. — Not  that  I 
govern  myself  entirely  by  the  punctilio  of  recipro- 
cation, but  having  been  pretty  much  occupied  of 
late,  I  was  not  sorry  to  find  myself  at  liberty  to 
exercise  my  discretion,  and  furnished  with  a  good 
excuse  if  I  choose  to  be  silent. 

I  expected,  as  you  remember,  to  have  been  pub- 
lished last  spring,  and  was  disappointed.  The 
delay  has  afforded  me  an  opportunity  to  increase 
the  quantity  of  my  publication  by  about  a  third ; 
and  if  my  muse  has  not  forsaken  me,  which  I 
rather  suspect  to  be  the  case,  may  possibly  yet  add 
to  it.  I  have  a  subject  in  hand,  which  promises 
me  a  great  abundance  of  poetical  matter,  but 
which,  for  want  of  a  something  I  am  not  able  to 
describe,  I  can  not  at  present  proceed  with.  The 
name  of  it  is  Retirement,  and  my  purpose,  to  re- 
commend the  proper  improvement  of  it,  to  set  forth 
the  requisites  for  that  end,  and  to  enlarge  upon 
the  happiness  of  that  state  of  life,  when  managed 
as  it  ought  to  be.  In  the  course  of  my  journey 
through  this  ample  theme,  I  should  wish  to  touch 
upon  the  characters,  the  deficiencies,  and  the  mis- 
takes of  thousands,  who  enter  on  a  scene  of  retire- 
ment, unqualified  for  it  in  every  respect,  and  with 
such  designs  as  to  have  no  tendency  to  promote 
either  their  own,  happiness  or  that  of  others.  But 
as  I  have  told  you  before,  there  are  times  when  I 
am  no  moie  a  poet  than  I  am  a  mathematician; 
and  when  such  a  time  occurs,  I  always  think  it 
better  to  give  up  the  point,  than  to  labour  it  in 
vain.  I  shall  yet  again  be  obliged  to  trouble  you 
for  franks;  the  addition  of  three  thousand  lines, 
or  near  that  number,  having  occasioned  a  demand 
which  I  did  not  always  foresee;  but  your  obliging j 


friend,  and  your  obliging  self,  having  aUowed  me  the 
liberty  of  application,  I  make  it  without  apology. 

The  solitude,  or  rather  the  duaHty  of  our  con- 
dition at  Olney,  seems  drawing  to  a  conclusion. 
You  have  not  forgot,  perhaps,  that  the  building 
we  inhabit  consists  of  two  mansions.    And  be- 
cause you  have  only  seen  the  inside  of  that  part 
of  it  which  is  in  our  occupation,  I  therefore,  in- 
form you,  that  the  other  end  of  it  is  by  far  the 
most  superb,  as  well  as  the  most  commodious. 
Lady  Austen  has  seen  it,  has  set  her  heart  upon 
it,  is  going  to  fit  it  up  and  furnish  it,  and  if  she 
can  get  rid  of  the  remaining  two  years  of  the  lease 
of  her  London  house,  will  probably  enter  upon  it  in 
a  twelve-month.    You  will  be  pleased  with  this 
intelligence,  because  I  have  already  told  you,  that 
she  is  a  woman  perfectly  well-bred,  sensible,  and 
in  every  respect  agreeable ;  and  above  all,  because 
she  loves  your  mother  dearly.    It  has  in  my  eyes 
(and  I  doubt  not  it  will  have  the  same  in  yours) 
strong  marks  of  providential  interposition.    A  fe- 
male friend,  and  one  who  bids  fair  to  prove  her- 
self worthy  of  the  appellation,  comes,  recommended 
by  a  variety  of  considerations,  to  such  a  place  as 
Olney.    Since  Mr,  Newton  went,  and  till  this 
lady  came,  there  was  not  in  the  kingdom  a  retire- 
ment more  absolutely  such  than  ours.    We  did 
not  want  company,  but  when  it  came,  we  found 
it  agreeable.    A  person  that  has  seen  much  of  the 
world,  and  understands  it  well,  has  high  spirits, 
a  lively  fancy,  and  great  readiness  of  conversation, 
introduces  a  sprightUness  into  such  a  scene  as  this, 
which  if  it  was  peaceful  before,  is  not  the  worse 
for  being  a  little  enlivened.    In  case  of  illness  too, 
to  which  all  are  liable,  it  was  rather  a  gloomy  pros- 
pect, if  we  allowed  ourselves  to  advert  to  it,  that 
there  was  hardly  a  woman  in  the  place  from  whom 
it  would  have  been  reasonable  to  have  expected 
either  comfort  or  assistance.  The  present  curate's 
wife  is  a  valuable  person,  but  has  a  family  of  her 
own,  and  though  a  neighbour,  is  not  a  very  near 
one.    But  if  this  plan  is  effected,  we  shall  be  in  a 
manner  one  family,  and  I  suppose  never  pass  a 
day  without  some  intercourse  with  each  other. 

Your  mother  sends  her  warm  affections,  and 
welcomes  into  the  world  the  new-born  WilUam. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  October  6,  1781. 

What  a  world  are  you  daily  conversant  with, 
which  I  have  not  seen  these  twenty  years,  and 
shall  never  see  again !  The  arts  of  dissipation  (I 
suppose)  are  no  where  practised  with  more  refine- 
ment or  success,  than  at  the  place  of  your  present 
residence.    By  your  account  of  it,  it  seems  to  be 


210 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  8f7, 


just  what  it  was  when  I  visited  it,  a  scene  of  idle- 
ness and  luxury,  music,  dancing,  cards,  walking, 
riding,  bathing,  eating,  drinking,  coffee,  tea,  scan- 
dal, dressing,  yawning,  sleeping,  the  rooms  per- 
haps more  magnificent,  because  the  proprietors  are 
<Trown  richer,  but  the  manners  and  occupations 
of  the  company  just  the  same.  Though  my  life 
has  long  been  like  that  of  a  recluse,  I  have  not  the 
temper  of  one,  nor  am  I  in  the  least  an  enemy  to 
cheerfulness  and  good  humour;  but  I  can  not  envy 
you  your  situation;  I  even  feel  myself  constrained 
to  prefer  the  silence  of  this  nook,  and  the  snug  fire- 
side in  our  own  diminutive  parlour,  to  all  the  splen- 
dour and  gaiety  of  Brighton. 

You  ask  me,  how  I  feel  on  the  occasion  of  my 
approaching  publication'?    Perfectly  at  my  ease. 
If  I  had  not  been  pretty  well  assured  before  hand 
that  my  tranquillity  woilld  be  but  little  endangered 
by  such  a  measure,  I  would  never  have  engaged  in 
it;  for  I  can  not  bear  disturbance.    I  have  had  in 
view  two  principal  objects;  first  to  amuse  myself; 
and  secondly,  to  compass  that  point  in  such  a  man- 
ner, that  others  might  possibly  be  the  better  for 
my  amusement.    If  I  have  succeeded,  it  will  give 
me  pleasure;  but  if  I  have  failed,  I  shall  not  be 
mortified  to  the  degree  that  might  perhaps  be  ex- 
pected.   I  remember  an  old  adage  (though  not 
where  it  is  to  be  found),  bene  vixit,  qui  bene  latuit, 
and  if  I  had  recollected  it  at  the  right  time,  it 
should  have  been  the  motto  to  my  book.    By  the 
way,  it  will  make  an  excellent  one  for  Retire- 
ment, if  you  can  but  tell  me  whom  to  quote  for  it. 
The  critics  can  not  deprive  me  of  the  pleasure  I 
have  in  reflecting,  that  so  far  as  my  leisure  has 
been  employed  in  writing  for  the  public,  it  has 
been  conscientiously  employed,  and  with  a  view 
to  their  advantage.    There  is  nothing  agreeable, 
to  be  sure,  in  being  chronicled  for  a  dunce ;  but  I 
believe  there  lives  not  a  man  upon  earth,  who 
would  be  less  affected  by  it  than  myself  With 
all  this  indifference  to  fame,  which  you  know  me 
too  well  to  suppose  me  capable  of  affecting,  I  have 
taken  the  utmost  pains  to  deserve  it.    This  may 
appear  a  mystery  or  a  paradox  in  practice,  but  it 
is  true.    I  considered  that  the  taste  of  the  day  is 
refined,  and  delicate  to  excess,  and  that  to  disgust 
that  delicacy  of  taste,  by  a  slovenly  inattention  to 
it,  would  be  to  forfeit  at  once  all  hope  of  being 
useful;  and  for  this  reason,  though  I  have  written 
more  verse  this  last  year,  than  perhaps  any  man 
in  England,  I  have  finished,  and  polished,  and 
touched,  and  retouched,  with  the  utmost  care. 
If  after  all  I  should  be  converted  into  waste  paper, 
it  may  be  my  misfortune,  but  it  will  not  be  my 
fault.    I  shall  bear  it  with  the  most  perfect  se- 
renity. . 
I  do  not  mean  to  give  a  copy;  he  is  a 


cock,  but  knows  no  more  of  verse  than  the  cock 
1  imitates. 

Whoever  supposes  that  Lady  Austen's  fortune 
is  precarious,  is  mistaken.  I  can  assure  you,  upon 
the  ground  of  the  most  circumstantial  and  authen- 
tic information,  that  it  is  both  genteel  and  per- 
fectly safe.  Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  MRS.  COWPER. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN,  Oct.  19,  1781 

Your  fear  lest  I  should  think  you  unworthy 


good-natured  little  man,  and  crows  exactly  like  a 


of  my  correspondence,  on  account  of  your  delay  to 
answer,  may  change  sides  now,  and  more  properly 
belongs  to  me.    It  is  long  since  I  received  your 
last,  and  yet  I  believe  I  can  say  truly,  that  not  a 
post  has  gone  by  me  since  the  receipt  of  it,  that 
has  not  reminded  me  of  the  debt  I  owe  you,  for 
your  obliging  and  unreserved  communications  both 
in  prose  and  verse,  especially  for  the  latter,  because 
I  consider  them  as  marks  of  your  peculiar  confi- 
dence.   The  truth  is,  I  have  been  such  a.verse- 
maker  myself,  and  so  busy  in  preparing  a  volume 
for  the  press,  which  I  imagine  will  make  its  ap- 
pearance in  the  course  of  the  winter,  that  I  hardly 
had  leisure  to  listen  to  the  calls  of  any  other  en- 
gagement.   It  is  however  finished,  and  gone  to 
the  printer's,  and  I  have  nothing  now  to  do  with 
it,  but  to  correct  the  sheets  as  they  are  sent  to 
me,  and  consign  it  over  to  the  judgment  of  the  pub- 
lic.   It  is  a  bold  undertaking  at  this  time  of  day, 
when  so  many  writers  of  the  greatest  abilities  have 
gone  before,  who  seem  to  have  anticipated  every 
valuable  subject,  as  well  as  all  the  graces  of  poetic 
cal  embellishment,  to  step  forth  into  the  world  in 
the  character  of  a  bard,  especially  when  it  is  con- 
sidered, that  luxury,  idleness,  and  vice,  have  de- 
bauched the  public  taste,  and  that  nothing  hardly 
is  welcome  but  childish  fiction,  or  what  has  at  least 
a  tendency  to  excite  a  laugh.    I  thought,  however, 
that  I  had  stumbled  upon  some  subjects,  that  had 
never  before  been  poetically  treated,  and  upon 
some  others,  to  which  I  imagined  it  would  not  be 
difficult  to  give  an  air  of  novelty  by  the  manner 
of  treating  them.    My  sole  drift  is  to  be  useful; 
a  point  which  however  I  knew  I  should  in  vain 
aim  at,  unless  I  could  be  likewise  entertaining.  I 
have  therefore  fixed  these  two  strings  upon  my 
bow,  and  by  the  help  of  both  have  done  my  best 
to  send  my  arrow  to  the  mark.    My  readers  will 
hardly  have  begun  to  laugh,  before  they  will  be 
called  upon  to  correct  that  levity  and  peruse  me 
with  a  more  serious  air.    As  to  the  effect,  I  leave 
it  alone  in  His  hands,  who  can  alone  produce  it: 
neither  prose  nor  verse  can  reform  the  manners 
of  a  dissolute  age,  much  less  can  they  inspire  a 
sense  of  rehgious  obligation,  unless  assisted  and 


Let.  88,  89. 


LETTERS. 


211 


made  efficacious  by  the  power  who  superintends  to  turn  his  affections  toward  their  proper  centre 
the  truth  he  has  vouchsafed  to  impart.  But  when  I  see  or  hear  of  a  crowd  of  voluptuaries, 

You  made  my  heart  ache  with  a  sympathetic  who  have  no  ears  but  for  music,  no  eyes  but  for 
sorrow,  when  you  described  the  state  of  your  mind  splendour,  and  no  tongue  but  for  impertinence  and 
on  occasion  of  your  late  visit  into  Hertfordshire,  folly-l  say,  or  at  least  I  see  occasion  to  say- 
Had  I  been  previously  mformed  of  your  journey  This  is  madness-This  persisted  in  must  have  a 
before  you  made  it,  I  should  have  been  able  to  tragical  conclusion- It  will  condemn  you,  not  only 
have  foretoia  all  your  feehng  with  the  most  un-|as  christians  unworthy  of  the  name,  but  as  intelh- 
emng  certainty  of  prediction.    You  will  never  I  gent  creatures-You  know  by  the  light  of  nature 


cease  to  feel  upon  that  subject;  but  with  your  prin 
ciples  of  resignation,  and  acquiescence  in  the  di- 
vine will,  you  will  always  feel  as  becomes  a  chris- 
tian. We  are  forbidden  to  murmur,  but  we  are 
not  forbidden  to  regret;  and  whom  we  loved  ten- 
derly while  hving,  we  may  still  pursue  with  an  af- 
fectionate remembrance,  without  having  any  oc- 
casion to  charge  ourselves  with  rebellion  against 
the  sovereignty  that  appointed  a  separation.  A 
day  is  coming,  when  I  am  confident  you  will  see 
and  know,  that  mercy  to  both  parties  was  the  prin- 
cipal agent  in  .a  scene,  the  recollection  of  which  is 
still  painful.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Nov.  5,  1781. 

1  GIVE  you  joy  of  your  safe  return  from  the  lips 
of  the  great  deep.  You  did  not  indeed  discern 
many  signs  of  sobriety,  or  true  wisdom,  among  the 
people  of  Brighthelmstone,  but  it  is  not  possible  to 
observe  the  manners  of  a  multitude,  of  whatever 
rank,  without  learning  something;  I  mean,  if  a 
man  has  a  mind  like  yours,  capable  of  reflection. 
If  he  sees  nothing  to  imitate,  he  is  sure  to  see, 
something  to  avoid;  if  nothing  to  congratulate  his 
fellow  creatures  upon,  at  least  much  to  excite  his 
compassion.  There  is  not,  I  think,  so  melancholy 
a  sight  in  the  world  (an  hospital  is  not  to  be  com- 
pared with  it)  as  that  of  a  thousand  persons  dis- 
tinguished by  the  name  of  gentry,  who,  gentle 
perhaps  by  nature,  and  made  more  gentle  by  edu- 
cation, have  the  appearance  of  being  innocent  and 
inoffensive,  yet  being  destitute  of  all  religion,  or 
not  at  all  governed  by  the  religion  they  profess, 
are  none  of  them  at  any  great  distance  from  an 
eternal  state,  where  self-deception  will  be  impossi- 
ble, and  where  amusements  can  not  enter.  Some 
of  them,  we  may  say,  will  be  reclaimed — it  is  most 
probable  indeed  that  some  of  them  will,  because 
mercy,  if  one  may  be  allowed  the  expression,  is 
fond  of  distinguishing  itself  by  seeking  its  objects 
among  the  most  desperate  class;  but  the  Scripture 
gives  no  encouragement  to  the  warmest  charity  (o 
hope  for  deliverance  for  them  all.  When  I  see  an 
afflicted  and  an  unhappy  man,  I  say  to  myself, 
there  is  perhaps  a  man  whom  the  world  would 
envy,  if  they  knew  the  value  of  his  sorrows,  which 
arc  possibly  intended  only  to  soften  his  heart,  and 

T  2 


if  you  have  not  quenched  it,  that  there  is  a  God, 
and  that  a  Ufe  like  yours  can  not  be  according  to 
his  will. 

I  ask  no  pardon  of  you  for  the  gravity  and  gloomi- 
ness of  these  reflections,  which  I  stumbled  on  when 
I  least  expected  it ;  though,  to  say  the  truth,  these 
or  others  of  a  like  complexion  are  sure  to  occur  to 
me  when  I  think  of  a  scene  of  public  diversion 
like  that  you  have  lately  left. 

I  am  inclined  to  hope  that  Johnson  told  you  the 
truth,  when  he  said  he  should  pubUsh  me  soon  af- 
ter Christmas.  His  press  has  been  rather  more 
punctual  in  its  remittances,  than  it  used  to  be ;  we 
have  now  but  little  more  than  two  of  the  longest 
pieces,  and  the  small  ones  that  are  to  follow,  by 
way  of  epilogue,  to  print  off,  and  then  the  affair 
is  finished.  But  once  more  I  am  obliged  to  gape 
for  franks ;  only  these,  which  I  hope  will  be  the 
last  I  shall  want,  at  yours  and  Mr.  's  conve- 
nient leisure. 

We  rejoice  that  you  have  so  much  reason  to  be 
satisfied  with  John's  proficiency.  The  more  spi- 
rit he  has,  the  better,  if  his  spirit  is  but  managea- 
ble, and  put  under  such  management  as  your  pru- 
dence and  Mrs.  Unwin's  will  suggest.  I  need  not 
guard  you  against  severity,  of  which  I  conclude 
there  is  no  need,  and  which  I  am  sure  you  are  not 
at  all  inclined  to  practise  without  it ;  but  perhaps 
if  I  was  to  whisper  beware  of  too  n^uch  indulgence 
— I  should  only  give  a  hint  that  the  fondness  of  a 
father  for  a  fine  boy  might  seem  to  justify.  I  have 
no  particular  reason  for  the  caution,  at  this  dis- 
tance it  is  not  possible  I  should,  but  in  a  case  like 
yours,  an  admonition  of  that  sort  seldom  wants 
propriety.  Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  NoV.  26,  1781, 

I  WROTE  to  you  by  the  last  post,  supposing  you 
at  Stock ;  but  lest  that  letter  should  not  follow  you 
to  Laytonstone,  and  you  should  suspect  me  of  un- 
reasonable delay,  and  lest  the  frank  you  have  sent 
me  should  degenerate  into  waste  paper,  and  perish 
upon  my  hands,  I  write  again.  The  former  let- 
ter, however,  containing  all  my  present  stock  of 
intelligence,  it  is  more  than  possible  that  this  may 
prove  a  blank,  or  but  little  worthy  your  acceptance. 
You  wdll  do  me  the  justice  to  suppose,  that  if  I 


2153 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  90. 


could  Iw?  very  entertaining,  I  would  be  so,  because, 
by  giving  me  credit  for  sucii  a  willingness  to  please, 
you'^only'allow  me  a  share  of  that  universal  vani- 
ty, which  incUnes  every  man,  upon  all  occasions, 
to  exhibit  himself  to  the  best  advantage.    To  say 
the  truth,  however,  when  I  write,  as  I  do  to  you, 
not  about  business,  nor  on  any  subject  that  ap- 
proaches to  that  description,  I  mean  much  less  my 
correspondent's  amusement,  which  my  modesty 
will  not  always  permit  me  to  hope  for,  than  my 
own.    There  is  a  pleasure  annexed  to  the  commu- 
nication of  one's  ideas,  whether  by  word  of  mouth, 
or  by  letter,  which  nothing  earthly  can  supply  the 
place  of,  and  it  is  the  delight  we  find  in  this  mu- 
tual intercourse,  that  not  only  proves  us  to  be  crea- 
tures intended  for  social  life,  but  more  than  any 
thing  else  perhaps  fits  us  for  it.    I  have  no  patience 
with  philosophers— they,  one  and  all,  suppose  (at 
least  I  understand  it  to  be  a  prevaiUng  opinion 
among  them)  that  man's  weakness,  his  necessities, 
his  inability  to  stand  alone,  have  furnished  the  pre- 
vailing motive,  under  the  influence  of  which  he 
renounced  at  first  a  life  of  solitude,  and  became  a 
gregarious  creature.   It  seems  to  me  more  reasona- 
ble, as  well  as  more  honourable  to  my  species,  to 
suppose,  that  generosity  of  soul,  and  a  brotherly 
attachment  to  our  own  kind,  drew  us,  as  it  were, 
to  one  common  centre,  taught  us  to  build  cities, 
and  inhabit  them,  and  welcome  every  stranger, 
that  would  cast  in  his  lot  amongst  us,  that  we 
might  enjoy  fellowship  with  each  other,  and  the 
luxury  of  reciprocal  endearments,  without  which 
a  paradise  could  afford  no  comfort.    There  are  in- 
deed all  sorts  of  characters  in  the  world ;  there  are 
some  whose  understandings  are  so  sluggish,  and 
whose  hearts  are  such  mere  clods,  that  they  live  in 
society  without  either  contributing  to  the  sweets 
of  it,  or  having  any  relish  for  them.    A  man  of 
this  stamp  passes  by  our  window  continually— I 
never  saw  him  conversing  with  a  neighbour  but 
once  in  my  life,  though  I  have  known  him  by  sight 
'these  twelve  years;  he  is  of  a  very  sturdy  make, 
and  has  a  round  belly,  extremely  protuberant, 
which  he  evidently  considers  as  his  best  friend,  be- 
cause it  is  his  only  companion,  and  it  is  the  labour 
of  his  life  to  fill  it.    I  can  easily  conceive,  that  it 
is  merely  the  love  of  good  eating  and  drinking, 
and  now  and  then  the  want  of  a  new  pair  of  shoes, 
that  attaches  this  man  so  much  to  the  neighbour- 
hood of  his  fellow  mortals ;  for  suppose  these  exi- 
gencies, and  others  of  a  like  kind,  to  subsist  no 
longer,  and  what  is  there  that  could  possibly  give 
society  the  preference  in  his  esteem'?    He  might 
strut  about  with  his  two  thumbs  upon  his  hips  in 
the  wilderness,  he  could  hardly  be  more  silent  than 
he  is  at  Olney,  and  for  any  advantage,  or  comfort, 
or  friendship,  or  brotherly  affection,  he  could  not 
be  more  destitute  of  such  blessings  there,  than  in 
his  present  situation.    But  other  men  have  some- 


thing more  than  guts  to  satisfy ;  there  are  the  yearn- 
ings of  the  heart,  which,  let  philosophers  say  what 
they  will,  are  more  importunate  than  all  the  neces- 
sities of  the  body,  that  will  not  suffer  a  creature, 
worthy  to  be  called  human,  to  be  contented  with 
an  insulated  life,  or  to  look  for  his  friends  among 
the  beasts  of  the  forest.  Yourself,  for  instance ! 
It  is  not  because  there  are  no  tailors  or  pastry-cooks 
to  be  found  upon  SaUsbury  plain,  that  you  do  not 
choose  it  for  your  abode,  but  because  you  are 
a  philanthropist- because  you  are  suscepti.ble 
of  social  impressions,  and  have  a  pleasure  in  doing 
a  kindness  when  you  can.  Now  upon  the  word 
of  a  poor  creature,  I  have  said  all  that  I  have  said, 
without  the  least  intention  to  say  one  word  of  it 
when  I  began.  But  thus  it  is  with  my  thoughts 
-^when  you  shake  a  crab-tree  the  fruit  falls ;  good 
for  nothing  indeed  when  you  have  got  it,  but  still 
the  best  that  is  to  be  expected  from  a  crab-tree. 
You  are  welcome  to  them,  such  as  they  are,  and 
if  you  approve  my  sentiments,  tell  the  philosophers 
of  the  day,  that  I  have  outshot  them  all,  and  have 
discovered  the  true  origin  of  society,  when  I  least 
looked  for  it. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  "^^.n.  5,  1782. 

Did  I  allow  myself  to  plead  the  common  excuse 
of  idle  correspondents,  and  esteem  it  a  sufficient 
reason  for  not  writing,  that  I  have  nothing  to  write 
about,  I  certainly  should  not  write  now.  But  1 
have  so  often  found,  on  similar  occasions,  when  a 
great  penury  of  matter  has  seemed  to  threaten  me 
with  an  utter  impossibility  of  hatching  a  letter,' 
that  nothing  is  necessary  but  to  put  pen  to  paper, 
and  go  on,  in  order  to  conquer  all  difficulties ;  that, 
availing  myself  of  past  experience,  I  now  begin 
with  a  most  assured  persuasion,  that  sooner  or  later, 
one  idea  naturally  suggesting  another,  I  shall  come 
to  a  most  prosperous  conclusion. 

In  the  last  Review,  I  mean  in  the  last  but  one, 
I  saw  Johnson's  critique  upon  Prior  and  Pope.  I 
am  bound  to  acquiesce  in  his  opinion  of  the  latter, 
because  it  has  always  been  my  own.  I  could  never 
agree  with  those  who  preferred  him  to  Dryden ; 
nor  with  others  (I  have  known  such,  and  persons 
of  taste  and  discernment  too)  who  could  not  allow 
him  to  be  a  poet  at  all.  He  was  certainly  a  me- 
chanical maker  of  verses,  and  in  every  line  he  ever 
wrote,  we  see  indubitable  marks  of  most  indefati- 
gable industry  and  labour.  Writers  who .  find  it 
necessary  to  make  such  strenuous  and  painful  ex- 
ertions, are  generally  as  phlegmatic  as  they  are 
correct ;  but  Pope  was,  in  this  respect,  exempted 
from  the  common  lot  of  authors  of  that  class. 
With  the  unwearied  application  of  a  plodding  Fle- 
mish painter,  who  draws  a  shrimp  with  the  most 


Let.  91. 


LETTERS. 


21.^ 


minute  exactness,  he  had  all  the  genius  of  one  of 
the  first  masters.  Never  I  believe  w^ere  such  ta- 
lents and  such  drudgery  united.  But  I  admire 
Dryden  most,  who  has  succeeded  by  mere  dint  of 
genius,  and  in  spite  of  a  laziness  and  carelessness 
almost  peculiar  to  himself  His  faults  are  num- 
berless, and  so  are  his  beauties.  His  faults  are 
those  of  a  great  man,  and  his  beauties  are  such  (at 
least  sometimes)  as  Pope,  with  all  his  touching, 
and  retouching,  could  never  equal.  So  far,  there- 
fore, I  have  no  quarrel  with  Johnson.  But  I  can 
not  subscribe  to  what  he  says  of  Prior.  In  the 
first  place,  though  my  memory  may  fail  me,  I  do 
not  recollect  that  he  takes  any  notice  of  his  Solo- 
mon ;  in  my  mind  the  best  poem,  whether  we  con- 
sider the  subject  of  it,  or  the  execution,  that  he 
ever  wrote.  In  the  next  place,  he  condemns  him 
for  introducing  Venus  and  Cupid  into  his  love- 
verses,  and  concludes  it  impossible  his  passion 
could  be  sincere,  because  when  he  would  express 
it  he  has  recourse  to  fables.  But  when  Prior  wrote, 
those  deities  were  not  so  obsolete  as  they  are  at 
present.  His  contemporary  writers,  and  some 
that  succeeded  him,  did  not  think  them  beneath 
their  notice.  Tibullus,  in  reality,  disbelieved  their 
existence  as  much  as  we  do ;  yet  Tibullus  is  al- 
lowed to  be  the  prince  of  all  poetical  inamoratos, 
though  he  mentions  them  in  almost  every  page.. 
There  is  a  fashion  in  these  things,  which  the  Doc- 
tor seems  to  have  forgotten.  But  what  shall  we 
say  of  his  fusty-rusty  remarks  upon  Henry  and 
Emma  1  I  agree  with  him,  that  morally  consider- 
ed, both  the  knight  and  his  lady  are  bad  charac- 
ters, and  that  each  exhibits  an  example  which 
ought  not  to  be  followed.  The  man  dissembles  in 
a  way  that  would  have  justified  the  woman  had 
she  renounced  him ;  and  the  woman  resolves  to 
follow  him  at  the  expense  of  delicacy,  propriety, 
and  even  modesty  itself  But  when  the  critic  calls 
it  a  dull  dialogue,  who  but  a  critic  will  beUeve  him  1 
There  are  few  readers  of  poetry  of  either  sex,  in 
this  country,  who  can  not  remember  how  that  en- 
chanting piece  has  bewitched  them,  who  do  not 
know,  that  instead  of  finding  it  tedious,  they  have 
been  so  delighted  with  the  romantic  turn  of  it,  as 
to  have  overlooked  all  its  defects,  and  to  have  giv- 
en it  a  consecrated  place  in  their  memories,  with- 
out ever  feeling  it  a  burthen.  I  wonder  almost, 
that  as  the  Bacchanals  served  Orpheus,  the  boys 
and  girls  do  not  tear  this  husky,  dry,  commentator, 
limb  from  limb,  in  resentment  of  such  an  injury  done 
to  their  darling  poet.  I  admire  Johnson  as  a  man  of 
great  erudition  and  sense ;  but  when  he  sets  him- 
self up  for  a  judge  of  writers  upon  the  subject  of 
love,  a  passion  which  I  suppose  he  never  felt  in  his 
life,  he  might  as  well  think  himself  qualified  to 
pronounce  upon  a  treatise  on  horsemanship,  or  the 
art  of  fortification. 

The  next  packet  I  receive  will  bring  me,  I  im- 


agine, the  last  proof  sheet  of  my  volume,  which 
will  consist  of  about  three  hundred  and  fifty  pages 
honestly  printed.  My  public  entree  therefore  is 
not  far  distant.  Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

/ 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  Jan.  17,  1782.' 

I  AM  glad  we  agree  in  our  opinion  of  king  critic, 
and  the  writers  on  whom  he  has  bestowed  his  an- 
imadversions. It  is  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me 
whether  I  think  with  the  world  at  large  or  not, 
but  I  wish  my  friends  to  be  of  my  mind.  The 
same  work  will  wear  a  diflferent  appearance  in  the 
eyes  of  the  same  man,  according  to  the  different 
views  with  which  he  reads  it ;  if  merely  for  his 
amusement,  his  candour  being  in  less  danger  of  a 
twist  from  interest  or  prejudice,  he  is  pleased  with 
what  is  really  pleasing,  and  is  not  over  curious  to 
discover  a  blemish,  because  the  exercise  of  a  mi- 
nute exactness  is  not  consistent  with  his  purpose. 
But  if  he  once  becomes  a  critic  by  trade,  the  case  is 
altered.  He  must  then  at  any  rate  establish,  it 
he  can,  an  opinion  in  every  mind,  of  his  uncom- 
mon discernment,  and  his  exquisite  taste.  This 
great  end  he  can  never  accomplish  by  thinking  in 
the  track  that  has  been  beaten  under  the  hoof  of 
public  judgment.  He  must  endeavour  to  con- 
vince the  world,  that  their  favourite  authors  have 
more  faults  than  they  are  aware  of.  and  sucli  as 
they  have  never  suspected.  Having  marked  out 
a  writer,  universally  esteemed,  whom  he  finds  it 
for  that  very  reason  convenient  to  depreciate 
and  traduce,  he  will  overlook  some  of  his  beau- 
ties, he  will  faintly  praise  others,  and  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  make  thousands,  more  modest,  though 
quite  as  judicious  as  himself,  question  whether 
they  are  beauties  at  all.  Can  there  be  a  stronger 
illustration  of  all  that  1  have  said,  than  the  severity 
of  Johnson's  remarks  upon  Prior,  I  might  have 
said  the  injustice?  His  reputation  as  an  author 
who,  with  much  labour  indeed  but  with  admira- 
ble success,  has  embellished  all  his  poems  Xvith  the 
most  charming  ease,  stood  unshaken  till  Johnson 
thrust  his  head  against  it.  And  how  does  he  at- 
tack him  in  this  his  principal  forf?  I  can  not  re- 
collect his  very  words,  but  I  am  much  mistaken, 
indeed,  if  my  memory  fails  me  with  respect  to  the 
purport  of  them.  "  His  words,"  he  says,  "  appear 
to  be  forced  into  their  proper  places ;  there  indeed 
we  find  them,  but  find  likewise  that  their  arrange- 
ment has  been  the  effect  of  constraint,  and  that 
without  violence  they  would  certainly  have  stood 
in  a  different  order."  By  your  leave,  most  learned 
Doctor,  this  is  the  most  disingenuous  remark  I  ever 
met  with,  and  would  have  come  with  a  better  grace 
from  Curl,  or  Dennis.  Every  man  conversant 
with  verse-writing  knows,  and  knows  by  painful 


214 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  92. 


experience,  tliat  the  familiar  style  is  of  all  styles 
the  most  difficult  to  succeed  in.  To  make  verse 
speak  the  language  of  prose,  without  being  prosaic, 
to  marshall  the  words  of  it  in  such  an  order,  as 
they  might  naturally  take  in  falling  from  the  lips 
of  an  extemporary  speaker,  yet  without  meanness ; 
harmoniously,  elegantly,  and  without  seeming  to 
displace  a  syllable  for  the  sake  of  the  rhyme,  is  one 
of  the  most  arduous  tasks  a  poet  can  undertake. 
He  that  could  accomplish  this  task  was  Prior; 
many  have  imitated  his  excellence  in  this  particu- 
lar, but  the  best  copies  have  fallen  far  short  of  the 
original.  And  now  to  tell  us,  after  we  and  our 
fathers  have  admired  him  for  it  so  long,  hat  he  is 
an  easy  writer  indeed,  but  that  his  ease  has  an  air 
of  stiffness  in  it,  in  short,  that  his  ease  is  not  ease, 
but  only  something  like  it,  what  is  it  but  a  self- 
contradiction,  an  observation  that  grants  what  it  is 
just  going  to  deny,  and  denies  what  it  has  just 
granted,  in  the  same  sentence,  and  in  the  same 
breath  1 — But  I  have  filled  the  greatest  part  of  my 
sheet  with  a  very  uninteresting  subject.  I  will 
only  say,  that  as  a  nation  we  are  not  much  indebt- 
ed, in  point  of  poetical  credit,  to  this  too  sagacious 
and  unmerciful  judge  ;  and  that  for  myself  in  par- 
ticular, I  have  reason  to  rejoice  that  he  entered 
upon  and  exhausted  the  labours  of  his  office,  be- 
fore my  poor  volume  could  possibly  become  an  ob- 
ject of  them.  By  the  way,  you  can  not  have  a  book 
at  the  time  you  mention;  I  have  lived  a  fortnight 
or  more  in  expectation  of  the  last  sheet,  which  is 
not  yet  arrived. 

You  have  already  furnished  John's  memory 
with  by  far  the  greatest  part  of  what  a  parent  could 
wish  to  store  it  with.  If  all  that  is  merely  trivial, 
and  all  that  has  an  immoral  tendency,  were  ex- 
punged from  our  English  poets,  how  would  they 
shrink,  and  how  would  some  of  them  completely 
vanish.  I  believe  there  are  some  of  Dryden's  Fa- 
bles, which  he  would  find  very  entertaining ;  they 
are  for  the  most  part  fine  compositions,  and  not 
above  his  apprehension ;  but  Dryden  has  written 
few  things,  that  are  not  blotted  here  and  there 
with  an  unchaste  allusion,  so  that  you  must  pick 
his  way  tor  him,  lest  he  should  tread  in  the  dirt. 
You  did  not  mention  Milton's  Allegro  and  Pense- 
roso,  which  I  remember  being  so  charmed  with 
when  I  was  a  boy  that  I  was  never  weary  of  them. 
There  are  even  passages  in  the  paradisiacal  part 
of  the  Paradise  Lost,  which  he  might  study  with 
advantage.  And  to  teach  him,  as  you  can,  to  de- 
liver some  of  the  fine  orations  made  in  the  Pan- 
dsemonium,  and  those  between  Satan,  Ithuriel, 
and  Zephon,  with  emphasis,  dignity,  and  proprie- 
ty, might  be  of  great  use  to  him  hereafter.  The 
sooner  the  ear  is  formed,  and  the  organs  of  speech 
are  accustomed  to  the  various  inflections  of  the 
voice,  which  the  rehearsal  of  those  passages  de- 
mands, the  better.    I  should  think  too,  that  Thom- 


son's Seasons  might  afford  him  some  useful  les- 
sons. At  least  they  would  have  a  tendency  to 
give  his  mind  an  observing  and  a  philosophical 
turn.  I  do  not  forget  that  he  is  but  a  child.  But 
I  remember,  that  he  is  a  child  favoured  with  tal- 
ents superior  to  his  years.  We  were  much  pleas- 
ed with  his  remarks  on  your  almsgiving,  and  doubt 
not  but  it  will  be  verified  with  respect  to  the  two  gui- 
neas you  sent  us,  which  have  made  four  Christian 
people  happy.  Ships  I  have  none,  nor  have 
touched  a  pencil  these  three  years ;  if  ever  I  take 
it  up  again,  which  I  rather  suspect  I  shall  not  (the 
employment  requiring  stronger  eyes  than  mine), 
it  shall  be  at  John's  service. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

\ 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Feb.  2,  1782. 

Though  I  value  your  correspondence  highly 
on  its  own  account,  I  certainly  value  it  the  more 
in  consideration  of  the  many  difficulties  under 
which  you  carry  it  on.  Having  so  many  other 
engagements,  and  engagements  so  much  more 
worthy  your  attention,  I  ought  to  esteem  it,  as  I 
do,  a  singular  proof  of  your  friendship,  that  you 
so  often  make  an  opportunity  to  bestow  a  letter 
upon  me;  and  this,  not  only  because  mine,  which 
I  write  in  a  state  of  mind  not  very  favourable  to 
religious  contemplations,  are  never  worth  your 
reading,  but  especially  because  while  you  consult 
my  gratification  and  endeavour  to  amuse  my  me- 
lancholy, your  thoughts  are  forced  out  of  the  only 
channel  in  which  they  delight  to  flow,  and  con- 
strained into  another  so  different  and  so  little  in- 
teresting to  a  mind  Uke  yours,  that  but  for  me, 
and  for  my  sake,  they  would  perhaps  never  visit 
it.  Though  I  should  be  glad  therefore  to  hear 
from  you  every  week,  I  do  not  complain  that  I 
enjoy  that  privilege  but  once  in  a  fortnight,  but 
am  rather  happy  to  be  indulged  in  it  so  often. 

I  thank  you  for  the  jog  you  gave  Johnson's 
elbow ;  coipmunicated  from  him  to  the  printer  it 
has  produced  me  two  more  sheets,  and  two  more 
will  bring  the  business,  I  suppose,  to  a  conclusion. 
I  sometimes  feel  such  a  perfect  indifference  with 
respect  to  the  public  opinion  of  my  book,  that  I 
am  ready  to  flatter  myself  no  censure  of  review- 
ers, or  other  critical  readers,  would  occasion  me 
the  smallest  disturbance.  But  not  feeling  myselt 
constantly  possessed  of  this  desirable  apathy,  1  am 
sometimes  apt  to  suspect,  that  it  is  not  altogether 
sincere,  or  at  least  that.  I  may  lose  just  in  the  mo- 
ment when  I  may  happen  most  to  want  it.  Be 
it  however  as  it  may,  I  am  still  persuaded  that  it 
is  not  in  their  power  to  mortify  me  much.  I  have 
intended  well,  and  performed  to  the  best  of  my 
ability — so  far  was  right,  and  this  is  a  boast  of 


Let.  93. 


LETTERS. 


215 


which  they  can  not  rob  me.  If  they  condemn  my 
poetry,  I  must  even  say  with  Cervantes,  "Let 
them  do  better  if  they  can!" — if  my  doctrine,  they 
judge  that  which  they  do  not  understand;  I  shall 
except  to  the  jurisdiction  of  the  court,  and  plead, 
Coram  non  judice.  Even  Horace  could  say,  he 
should  neither  be  the  plumper  for  the  praise,  nor 
the  leaner  for  the  condemnation  of  his  readers; 
and  it  will  prove  me  wanting  to  myself  indeed,  if, 
supported  by  so  many  sublimer  considerations 
than  he  was  master  of,  I  can  not  sit  loose  to  po- 
pularity, which,  like  the  wind,  bloweth  where  it 
listeth,  and  is  equally  out  of  our  command.  If 
you,  and  two  or  three  more  such  as  you,  say, 
well  done ,  it  ought  to  give  me  more  contentment 
than  if  I  could  earn  Churchill's  laurels,  and  by 
the  same  means.  < 

I  wrote  to  Lord  Dartmouth  to  apprise  him  of 
my  intended  present,  and  have  received  a  most 
affectionate  and  obliging  answer. 

I  am  rather  pleased  that  you  have  adopted  other 
sentiments  respecting  our  intended  present  to  the 
critical  Doctor.  I  allow  him  to  be  a  man  of  gi- 
gantic talents,  and  most  profound  learning,  nor 
have  I  any  doubts  about  tR'e  universality  of  his 
knowledge.  But  by  what  I  have  seen  of  his  ani- 
madversions on  the  poets,  1  feel  myself  much  dis- 
posed to  question,  in  many  instances,  either  his 
candour  or  his  taste.  He  finds  fault  too  often, 
like  a  man  that,  having  sought  it  very  industrious- 
ly, is  at  last  obliged  to  stick  it  on  a  pin's  point, 
and  look  at  it  through  a  microscope ;  and  I  am ' 
sure  I  could  easily  convict  him  of  having  denied 
many  beauties,  and  overlooked  more.  Whether 
his  judgment  be  in  itself  defective,  or  whether  it 
be  warped  by  collateral  considerations,  a  writer 
upon  such  subjects  as  I  have  chosen  would  pro- . 
bably  find  but  little  mercy  at  his  hands. 

No  winter  since  we  knew  Olney  has  kept  us 
more  confined  than  the  present.  We  have  not 
more  than  three  times  escaped  into  the  fields,' 
since  last  autumn.  Man,  a  changeable  creature  j 
in  himself,  seems  to  subsist  best  in  a  state  of  va- 
riety, as  his  proper  element — a  melancholy  man  at 
least  is  apt  to  grow  sadly  weary  of  the  same  walks, 
and  the  same  pales,  and  to  find  that  the  same 
scene  will  suggest  the  same  thoughts  perpetually. 

Though  I  have  spoken  of  the  utility  of  changes, 
we  neither  feel  nor  wish  for  any  in  our  friend- 
ships, and  consequently  stand  just  where  we  did 
with  respect  to  your  whole  self 

Yours,  my  dear  sir,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Feb.  9,  1782. 

I  THANK  you  for  Mr.  Lowth's  verses.  The} 
are  so  good,  that  had  I  been  present  when  he 
15 


spoke  them,  I  should  have  trembled  for  the  boy, 
lest  the  man  should  disappoint  the  hopes  such 
early  genius  had  given  birth  to.  It  is  not  com- 
mon to  see  so  lively  a  fancy  so  correctly  managed, 
and  so  free  from  irregular  exuberance,  at  so  un- 
experienced an  age;  fruitful,  yet  not  wanton,  and 
gay  without  being  tawdry.  When  schoolboys 
write  verse,  if  they  have  any  fire  at  all,  it  general- 
ly spends  itself  in  flashes,  and  transient  sparks, 
which  may  indeed  suggest  an  expectation  of 
something  better  hereafter,  but  deserve  not  to  be 
much  commended  for  any  real  merit  of  their  own. 
Their  wit  is  generally  forced  and  false,  and  their 
subhmity,  if  they  affect  any,  bombast.  I  remem- 
ber well  when  it  was  thus  with  me,  and  when  a 
turgid,  noisy,  unmeaning  speech  in  a  tragedy, 
which  I  should  now  laugh  at,  afforded  me  rap- 
tures, and  filled  me  with  wonder.  It  is  not  in 
general  till  reading  and  observation  have  settled 
the  taste,  that  we  can  give  the  prize  to  the  best 
writing,  in  preference  to  the  worst.  Much  less 
are  we  able  to  execute  what  is  good  ourselves. 
But  Lowth  seems  to  have  stepped  into  excellence 
at  once,  and  to  have  gained  by  intuition  what  we 
little  folks  are  happy  if  we  can  learn  at  last,  after 
much  labour  of  our  own,  and  instruction  of  others. 
The  compliments  he  pays  to  the  memory  of  King 
Charles,  he  would  probably  now  retract,  though 
he  be  a  bishop,  and  his  majesty's  zeal  for  episco- 
pacy was  one  of  the  causes  of  his  ruin.  An  age 
or  two  must  pass,  before  some  characters  can  be 
properly  understood.  The  spirit  of  party  em- 
ploys itself  in  veiling  their  faults,  and  ascribing 
to  them  virtues  which  they  never  possessed.  See 
Charles's  face  drawn  by  Clarendon,  and  it  is  a 
handsome  portrait.  See  it  more  justly  exhibited 
by  Mrs.  M  acauley,  and  it  is  deformed  to  a  degree 
that  shocks  us.  Every  feature  expresses  cunning, 
employing  itself  in  the  maintaining  of  tyranny — 
and  dissimulation,  pretending  itself  an  advocate 
for  truth. 

My  letters  have  already  apprized  you  of  that 
close  and  intimate  connexion  that  took  place  be- 
tween the  lady  you  visited  in  Q,ueen  Ann-street, 
and  us.  Nothing  could  be  more  promising,  though 
sudden  in  the  commencement.  She  treated  us 
with  as  much  unreservedness  of  communication, 
as  if  we  had  been  born  in  the  same  house,  and 
educated  together.  At  her  departure,  she  herself 
proposed  a  correspondence,  and  because  writing 
does  not  agree  with  your  mother,  proposed  a  cor- 
respondence with  me.  By  her  own  desire  I  wrote 
to  her  under  the  assumed  relation  of  a  brother,  and 
she  to  me  as  my  sister. 

I  thank  you  for  the  search  you  have  made  after 
my  intended  motto,  but  I  no  longer  need  it. — Our 
love  is  always  with  yourself  and  family. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 


916 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  94 


the  contcm{)l  at  ion  of  his  own  faculties  and  powers 
as  a  never-failing  spring  of  comfort  and  content 
lie  speaks  even  of  the  natural  man  as  made  in 
the  image  of  God,  and  supposes  a  resemblance 
of  God  to  consist  in  a  sort  of  independent  self- 
sufTicing  and  s(;lf-complaccnt  felicity,  which  can 
hardly  be  enjoyed  without  the  forfeiture  of  all  hu- 
mility, and  a  flat  denial  of  some  of  the  most  im- 
portant truths  in  Scripture. 

"  As  a  philosopher  he  refines  to  an  excess,  and 
his  arguments,  instead  of  convincing  others,  if 
pushed  as  far  as  they  would  go,  would  convict  him 
of  absurdity  himself.  When  for  instance  he  would 
depreciate  earthly  riches  by  telling  us  that  gold 
and  diamonds  are  only  matter  modified  in  a  parti- 
cular Vv^ay,  and  thence  concludes  them  not  more 
valuable  in  themselves  than  the  dust  under  our 
feet,  his  consequence  is  false,  and  his  cause  is  hurt 
by  the  assertion.  It  is  that  very  modification  that 
gives  them  both  a  beauty  and  a  value — a  value 
and  a  beauty  recognised  in  Scripture,  and  by  the 
universal  consent  ol"  all  well  informed  and/^ivilized 
nations.  It  is  in  vain  to  tell  mankind,  that  gold 
and  dirt  are  equal,  so  long  as  their  experience  con- 
vinces them  of  the  contrary.  It  is  necessary  there- 
fore to  distinguish  between  the  thing  itself  and  the 
abuse  of  it.  Wealth  is  in  fact  a  blessing,  when 
honestly  acquired,  and  conscientiously  employed  j 
and  when  otherwise,  the  man  is  to  be  blamed  and 
not  his  treasure.  How  does  the  Scripture  combat 
the  vice  of  covetousness'?  not  by  asserting  that 
gold  is  only  earth  exhibiting  itself  to  us  under  a 
particular  modification,  and  therefore  not  worth 
seeking;  but  by  telling  us  that  covetousness  is 
idolatry,  that  the  love  of  money  is  the  root  of  all 
evil,  that  it  has  occasioned  in  some  even  the  ship- 
wreck of  their  faith,  and  is  always,  in  whomsoever 
it  obtains,  an  abomination. 

"  A  man  might  have  said  to  Caraccioli,  Give  me 
your  purse  full  of  ducats,  and  I  will  give  you  my 
old  wig ;  they  are  both  composed  of  the  same  mat- 
ter under  different  modifications.  What  could 
the  philosopher  have  replied'?  he  must  have  made 
the  exchange,  or  have  denied  his  own  principles, 

"  Again,  when  speaking  of  sumptuous  edifices, 
he  calls  a  palace  an  assemblage  of  sticks  and 
stones,  which  a  puflf  of  wind  may  demolish,  or  a 
spark  of  fire  consume;  and  thinks  he  has  reduced 
a  magnificent  building  and  a  cottage  to  the  same 
level,  when  he  has  told  us  that  the  latter  viewed 
through  an  optic  glass  may  be  made  to  appear  as 
large  as  the  former,  and  that  the  former  seen 
through  the  same  glass  inverted  may  be  reduced 
to  the  pitiful  dimensions  of  the  latter;  has  he  in- 
*  These  cursory  remarks  of  Cowper  appear  highjy  worthy  deed  carried  his  point '?  is  he  not  rather  imposing 
of  preservation.   They  were  written  on  several  scraps  of  pa-  judgment  of  his  readers,  just  as  the  glass 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

Feb.  1(5,  1782. 
Caiuccioli  says, — "  There  is  something  very 
bewitching  in  authorship,  and  that  he  who  has 
once  written  will  write  again."  It  may  be  so — I 
can  sul)scribe  to  the  former  part  of  his  assertion 
from  my  own  experience,  having  never  found  an 
amusement,  among  the  many  I  have  been  obliged 
to  have  recourse  to,  that  so  well  answered  the 
purpose  for  which  I  used  it.  The  quieting  and 
composing  effect  of  it  was  such,  and  so  totally  ab- 
sorbed have  I  sometimes  been  in  my  rhyming  oc- 
cupation, that  neither  the  past'  nor  the  future 
(those  themes  which  to  me  are  so  fruitful  in  re- 
gret at  other  times),  had  any  longer  a  share  in  my 
contemplation.  For  this  reason  I  wish,  and  have 
often  wished,  since  the  fit  left  me,  that  it  would 
seize  me  again;  but  hitherto  I  have  wished  it  in 
vain.  I  see  no  want  of  subjects,  but  I  feel  a  total 
disability  to  discuss  them..  Whether  it  is  thus  with 
other  writers  or  not,  I  am  ignorant,  but  I  should 
suppose  my  case  in  this  respect  a  little  peculiar. 
The  voluminous  writers  at  least,  whose  vein  of 
fancy  seems  always  to  have  been  rich  in  propor- 
tion to  their  occasions,  can  not  have  been  so  unlike, 
and  so  unequal  to  themselves.  There  is  this  dif- 
ference between  my  poetship  and  the  generality 
of  them — ^they  have  been  ignorant  how  much  they 
have  stood  indebted  to  an  Almighty  power  for  the 
exercise  of  those  talents  they  have  supposed  their 
own.  Whereas  I  know,  and  know  most  perfectly, 
and  am  perhaps  to  be  taught  it  to  the  last,  that  my 
power  to  think,  whatever  it  be,  and  consequently 
my  power  to  compose,  is,  as  much  as  my  outward 
form,  afforded  to  me  by  the  same  hand  that  makes 
me,  in  any  respect,  to  differ  from  a  brute.  This 
lesson,  if  not  constantly  inculcated,  might  perhaps 
be  forgotten,  or  at  least  too  slightly  remembered. 

W.  C. 


"  Caraccioli*  appears  to  me  to  have  been  a  wise 
man,  and  I  believe  he  was  a  good  man  in  a  reli- 
gious sense.  But  his  wisdom  and  his  goodness 
both  savour  more  of  the  philosopher  than  the 
Christian.  In  the  latter  of  these  characters  he 
seems  defective  principally  in  this — that  instead 
of  sending  his  reader  to  God  as  an  inexhaustible 
source  of  happiness  to  his  intelligent  creatures,  and 
exhorting  him  to  cultivate  communion  with  his 
Maker,  he  directs  him  to  his  own  heart,  and  to. 


per,  without  any  title,  and  find  perhaps  their  most  suitable 
place  as  a  sequel  to  the  letter  in  which  he  quoted  the  writer, 
whose  character  he  has  here  sketched  at  full  length,  and  with 
a  masterly  hand.  , 


would  impose  upon  their  senses'?  How  is  it  pos- 
I  sible  to  deduce  a  substantial  argument  in  this  case? 
j  from  an  acknowledged  deception  of  the  sight  1  The 


Let.  95,  90. 


LETTERS. 


217 


objects  continue  what  they  were,  the  palace  is 
still  a  palace,  and  the  cottage  is  not  at  all  ennobled 
in  reality,  though  we  contemplate  them  ever  so 
long  through  an  illusive  medium.  There  is  in 
fact  a  real  difference  between  them,  and  such  a 
one  as  the  Scripture  itself  takes  very  emphatical 
notice  of,  assuring  us  that  in  the  last  day,  much 
shall  be  required  of  him  to  whom  much  was  given ; 
that  every  man  shall  be  then  considered  as  a  stew- 
ard, and  render  a  strict  account  of  the  things  with 
which  he  was  intrusted.  This  consideration  in- 
deed may  make  the  dwellers  in  palaces  tremble, 
who,  living  for  the  most  part  in  the  continued 
abuse  of  their  talents,  squandering  and  wasting 
and  spending  upon  themselves  their  Master's  trea- 
sure, will  have  reason  enough  to  envy  the  cottager, 
whose  accounts  will  be  more  easily  settled.  But 
to  tell  mankind,  that  a  palace  and  a  hovel  are  the 
same  thing,  is  to  affront  their  senses,  to  contradict 
their  knowledge,  and  to  disgust  their  understand- 
ings. 

"  Herein  seems  to  consist  one  of  the  principal 
differences  between  Philosophy  and  Scripture,  or 
the  Wisdom  of  Man  and  the  Wisdom  of  God. 
The  former  endeavours  indeed  to  convince  the 
judgment,  but  it  frequently  is  obliged  to  have  re- 
course to  unlawful  means,  such  as  misrepresenta- 
tion and  the  play  of  fancy.  The  latter  addresses 
itself  to  the  judgment  likewise,  but  it  carries  its 
point  by  awakening  the  conscience,  by  enlighten- 
ing the  understanding,  and  by  appealing  to  our 
own  experience.  As  Philosophy  therefore  can  not 
make  a  Christian,  so  a  Christian  ought  to  take 
care  that  he  be  not  too  much  a  Philosopher.  It  is 
mere  folly  instead  of  wisdom,  to  forego  those  ar- 
guments, and  to  shut  our  eyes  upon  those  motives 
which  Truth  itself  has  pointed  out  to  us,  and 
which  alone  are  adequate  to  the  purpose ,  and  to 
busy  ourselves  in  making  vain  experiments  on  the 
strength  of  others  of  our  own  invention.  In  fact, 
the  world  which,  however  it  has  dared  to  contro- 
vert the  authenticity  of  Scripture,  has  never  been 
able  to  impeach  the  wisdom  of  its  precepts,  or  the 
reasonableness  of  its  exhortations,  has  sagacity 
enough  to  see  through  the  fallacy  of  such  reason- 
ings, and  will  rather  laugh  at  the  sage,  who  de- 
clares war  against  matter  of  fact,  than  become  pro- 
selytes to  his  opinion." 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Feb.  24,  1782. 

If  I  should  receive  a  letter  from  you  to-morrow, 
you  must  still  remember  that  I  am  not  in  your 
debt,  having  paid  you  by  anticipation — Knowing 
that  you  take  an  interest  in  my  publication,  and 
that  you  have  waited  for  it  with  some  impatience, 
I  write  to  inform  you  that,  if  it  is  possible  for  a 


printer  to  be  punctual,  I  shall  come  forth  on  the 
first  of  March.  I  have  ordered  two  copies  to 
Stock;  one  for  Mr.  John  Unwin.  It  is  possible, 
after  all,  that  my  book  may  come  forth  without  a 
Preface.  Mr.  Newton  has  written  (he  could  in- 
deed write  no  other)  a  very  sensible  as  well  as  a 
very  friendly  one;  and  it  is  printed.  But  the  book- 
seller, who  knows  him  well,  and  esteems  him  high- 
ly, is  anxious  to  have  it  cancelled,  and,  with  mj 
consent  first  obtained,  has  offered  to  negociate  that 
matter  with  the  author. — He  judges,  that  though 
it  would  serve  to  recommend  the  volume  to  the 
religious,  it  would  disgust  the  profane,  and  that 
there  is  in  reality  no  need  of  any  Preface  at  all.  I 
have  found  Johnson  a  very  judicious  man  on  other 
occasions,  and  am  therefore  willing  that  he  should 
determine  for  me  upon  this. 

There  are  but  few  persons  to  whom  I  present 
my  book.  The  lord  chancellor  is  one.  I  enclose 
in  a  packet  I  send  by  this  post  to  Johnson  a  letter 
to  his  lordship  which  will  accompany  the  \olume; 
and  to  you  I  enclose  a  copy  of  it,  because  I  know 
you  will  have  a  friendly  curiosity  to  see  it.  An 
author  is  an  important  character.  Whatever  his 
merits  may  be,  the  mere  circumstance  of  author- 
ship warrants  his  approach  to  persons,  whom 
otherwise  perhaps  he  could  hardly  address  with- 
out being  deemed  impertinent.  He  can  do  me 
no  good.  If  I  should  happen  to  do  him  a  little,  I 
shall  be  a  greater  man  than  he.  I  have  ordered  a 
copy  likewise  to  Mr.  S. 

I  hope  John  continues  to  be  pleased,  and  to  give 
pleasure.  If  he  loves  instruction,  he  has  a  tutor 
who  can  give  him  plentifully  of  what  he  loves; 
and  with  his  natural  abilities  his  progress  must  be 
such  as  you  would  wish.       Yours,       W.  C. 


TO  LORD  THURLOW. 

(enclosed  to  MR.  UNWIN.) 

MY  LORD,  Olney,  Bucks,  Feb.  25,  1782. 

I  MAKE  no  apology  for  what  I  account  a  duty. 
I  should  offend  against  the  cordiality  of  our  for- 
mer friendship  should  I  send  a  volume  into  the 
world,  and  forget  how  much  I  am  bound  to  pay 
my  particular  respects  to  your  lordship  upon  that 
occasion.  When  we  parted,  you  little  thought  of 
hearing  from  me  again;  and  I  as  little  that  I 
should  live  to  write  to  you,  still  less,  that  I  should 
wait  on  you  in  the  capacity  of  an  author. 

Among  the  pieces  I  have  the  honour  to  send, 
there  is  one  for  which  I  must  entreat  your  pardon. 
I  mean  that  of  which  your  lordship  is  the  subject. 
The  best  excuse  1  can  make  is,  that  it  flowed  al- 
most spontaneously  from  the  affectionate  remem- 
brance of  a  connexion  that  did  me  so  much  honour 

As  to  the  rest,  their  merits,  if  they  have  any, 
and  their  defects,  which  are  probably  more  than 


218 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Lkt.  97,  98. 


I  am  aware  of,  will  neither  of  them  escape  your 
notic(;.  But  where  there  is  much  discernment, 
there  is  generally  much  candour;  and  I  commit 
myself  into  your  lordship's  hands  with  the  less 
anxiety,  being  well  acquainted  with  yours. 

If  my  first  visit,  after  so  long  an  interval,  should 
prove  neither  a  troublesome,  nor  a  dull  one,  but 
especially,  if  not  altogether  an  unprofitable  one, 
07nne  tuli  punctum. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be,  though  with  very  dif 
ferent  impressions  of  some  subjects,  yet  with  the 
same  sentiments  of  affection  and  esteem  as  ever 
Your  lordship's  faithful,  and  most  obedient,  hum- 
ble  servant,  vv  . 


TO  THE  REV.  J.  NEWTON. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  ■F'^^-  ^'^82 

I  ENCLOSE  Johnson's  letter  upon  the  subject  of 
the  Preface,  and  would  send  jou  my  reply  to  it, 
if  I  had  kept  a  copy.  This  however  was  the  pur- 
port of  it.  That  Mr.  ,  whom  I  described  as  you 

described  him  to  me,  had  made  a  similar  objection, 
but  that  being  willing  to  hope,  that  two  or  three 
pages  of  sensible  matter,  well  expressed,  might 
possibly  go  down,  though  of  a  religious  cast,  I 
was  resolved  to  believe  him  mistaken,  and  to  pay 
no  regard  to  it.  That  his  judgment,  however, 
who  by  his  occupation  is  bound  to  understand 
what  will  promote  the  sale  of  a  book,  and  what 
will  hinder  it,  seemed  to  deserve  more  attention. 
That  therefore,  according  to  his  own  offer  written 
on  a  small  slip  of  paper  now  lost,  I  should  be 
obliged  to  him  if  he  would  state  his  difficulties  to 
you;  adding,  that  I  need  not  inform  him,  who  is 
so  well  acquainted  with  you,  that  he  would  find 
you  easy  to  be  persuaded  to  sacrifice,  if  necessary, 
what  you  had  written,  to  the  interests  of  the  book. 
I  find  he  has  had  an  interview  with  you  upon  the 
occasion,  and  your  behaviour  has  verified  my  pre- 
diction. What  course  he  determines  upon  I  do 
not  know,  nor  am  I  at  all  anxious  about  it.  It  is 
impossible  for  me  however  to  be  so  insensible  of 
your  kindness  in  writing  the  preface,  as  not  to  be 
desirous  of  defying  all  contingencies  rather  than 
entertain  a  wish  to  suppress  it.  It  will  do  me 
honour  in  the  eyes  of  those  whose  good  opinion  is 
indeed  an  honour,  and  if  it  hurts  me  in  the  esti- 
mation of  others,  I  can  not  help  it;  the  fault  is 
neither  yours  nor  mine ,  but  theirs.  If  a  minister's 
is  a  more  splendid  character  than  a  poet's,  and  I 
think  nobody  that  understands  their  value  can 


is  a  strong  resemblance  between  the  two  pieces  in 
point  of  matter,  and  sometimes  the  very  same  ex- 
pressions are  to  be  met  with,  yet  I  soon  recollected 
that,  on  such  a  theme,  a  striking  coincidence  of 
both  might  happen  without  a  wonder.  I  doubt 
not  that  it  is  the  production  of  an  honest  man,  it 
carries  with  it  an  air  of  sincerity  and  zeal,  that  is 
not  easily  counterfeited.  But  though  I  can  see 
no  reason  why  kings  should  not  sometimes  hear 
of  their  faults,  as  well  as  other  men,  I  think  I  see 
many  good  ones  why  they  should  not  be  reproved 
so  publicly.  It  can  hardly  be  done  with  that  re- 
spect which  is  due  to  their  office,  on  the  part  of 
the  author,  or  without  encouraging  a  spirit  of  un- 
mannerly censure  in  his  readers.  His  majesty 
too  perhaps  might  answer — my  own  personal  feel- 
ings and  offences  I  am  ready  to  confess ;  but  were 
I  to  follow  your  advice,  and  cashier  the  profligate 
from  my  service,  where  must  I  seek  men  of  faith, 
and  true  christian  piety,  qualified  by  nature  and 
by  education  to  succeed  them'?  Business  must  be 
done,  men  of  business  alone  can  do  it,  and  good 
men  are  rarely  found  under  that  description. 
When  Nathan  reproved  David,  he  did  not  em- 
ploy a  herald,  or  accompany  his  charge  with  the 
sound  of  the  trumpet;  nor  can  I  think  the  writer 
of  this  sermon  quite  justifiable  in  exposing  the 
king's  faults  in  the  sight  of  the  people. 

Your  answer  respecting  ^tna  is  quite  satisfac- 
tory, and  gives  me  much  pleasure.  I  hate  alter- 
ing, though  I  never  refuse  the  task  when  propriety 
seems  to  enjoin  it;  and  an  alteration  in  this  in- 
stance, if  I  am  not  mistaken,  would  have  been  sin- 
gularly difficult.  Indeed,  when  a  piece  has  been 
finished  two  or  three  years,  and  an  author  finds 
occasion  to  amend,  or  make  an  addition  to  it,  it  is 
not  easy  to  fall  upon  the  very  vein  from  which  he 
drew  his  ideas  in  the  first  instance;  but  either  a 
different  turn  of  thought,  or  expression,  will  be- 
tray the  patch,  and  convince  a  reader  of  discern- 
ment that  it  has  been  cobbled  and  varnished. 

Our  love  to  you  both,  and  to  the  young  Euphro- 
syne,  the  old  lady  of  that  name  being  long  since 
dead';  if  she  pleases  she  shall  fill  her  vacant  office, 
and  be  my  muse  hereafter. 

Yours,  my  dear  sir,    W.  C 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

March  6,  1782. 
Is  peace  the  nearer  because  our  patriots  have 
resolved  that  it  is  desirable  1  Will  the  victory  they 


think  nobody  that  understanas  meir  vaiutj  ,.au  ^^^^-^^^^  ^^^•^y-  -  -  —  ,Kootfl,.,W 
hesitate  m  deciding  that  question,  then  undoubted-  have  gamed  m  the  House  of  Commons  be  attended 
rtradvlacre  of  halg  our  names  united  in  1  with  a^^  Do  they  expect  the  same  success 

the  same  volume  is  all  on  my  side.  !  on  other  occasions,  and  havmg  once  g^nedj  ,na- 

We  thank  you  for  the  Fast-sermon.    I  had  not  jority  are  they  to  be  the  majon  y       cvcr  l— 

read  two  pages  before  I  exclaimed  the  ]  These  are  the  questions  we  agitate  by  the  f  reside 

man  has  read  Expostulation.    But  though  there  in  an  evening,  without  being  able  to  come  to  anv 


Let.  99,  100. 


LETTERS. 


219 


certain  conclusion,  partly  I  suppose  because  the 
subject  is  in  itself  uncertain,  and  partly  because  we 
are  not  furnished  with  the  means  of  understand- 
ing it.    I  find  the  politics  of  times  past  far  more 
inteUigible  than  those  of  the  present.    Time  has 
thrown  light  upon  what  was  obscure,  and  decided 
what  was  ambiguous.    The  characters  of  great 
men,  which  are  always  mysterious  while  they 
live,  are  ascertained  by  the  faithful  historian,  and 
sooner  or  later  receive  their  wages  of  fame  or  in- 
famy, according  to  their  true  deserts.  How  have  I 
seen  sensible  and  learned  men  burn  incense  to  the 
memory  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  ascribing  to  him,  as 
the  greatest  hero  in  the  world,  the  dignity  of  the 
British  empire  during  the  interregnum.    A  cen- 
tury passed  before  that  idol,  which  seemed  to  be 
of  gold,  was  proved  to  be  a  wooden  one.  The 
fallacy  however  was  at  length  detected,  and  the 
honour  of  that  detection  has  fallen  to  the  share 
of  a  woman.    I  do  not  know  whether  you  have 
read  Mrs.  Macaulay's  history  of  that  period.  She 
has  handled  him  more  roughly  than  the  Scots  did 
at  the  battle  of  Dunbar.    He  would  have  thought 
it  little  worth  his  while  to  have  broken  through  all 
obligations  divine  and  human,  to  have  wept  croco- 
dile tears,  and  wrapped  himself  up  in  the  obscu- 
rity of  speeches  that  nobody  could  understand, 
could  he  have  foreseen  that  in  the  ensuing  centu- 
tury  a  lady's  scissars  would  clip  his  laurels  close, 
and  expose  his  naked  villany  to  the  scorn  of  all 
posterity.    This  however  has  been  accomplished, 
and  so  effectually,  that  I  suppose  it  is  not  in  the 
power  of  the  most  artificial  management  to  make 
them  grow  again.    Even  the  sagacious  of  man- 
kind are  blind  when  Providence  leaves  them  to  be 
deluded;  so  blind,  that  a  tyrant  shall  be  mistaken 
for  a  true  patriot,  true  patriots  (such  were  the 
Long  Parliament)  shall  be  abhorred  as  tyrants, 
and  almost  a  whole  nation  shall  dream,  that  they 
have  the  full  enjoyment  of  liberty,  for  years  after 
such  a  complete  knave  as  Oliver  shall  have  stolen 
it  completely  from  them.    I  am  indebted  for  all 
this  show  of  historical  knowledge  to  Mr.  Bull 
who  has  lent  me  five  volumes  of  the  work  I  men- 
tion.   I  was  willing  to  display  it  while  I  have  it; 
in  a  twelve-month's  time  I  shall  remember  almost 
nothing  of  the  matter.  C. 


ter  delays  so  long  to  gratify  your  expectation.  It 
is  a  state  of  mind  that  is  apt  to  tire  and  disconcert 
us;  and  there  are  but  few  pleasures  that  make 
us  amends  for  the  pain  of  repeated  disappointment. 
I  take  it  for  granted  you  have  not  received 
the  volume,  not  having  received  it  myself,  nor 
indeed  heard  from  Johnson,  since  he  fixed  the 
first  of  the  month  for  its  publication. 

What  a  medley  are  our  pubhc  prints,  half  the 
page  filled  with  the  ruin  of  the  country,  and  the 
other  half  filled  with  the  vices  and  pleasures  of 
it— here  an  island  taken,  and  there  a  new  comedy 
—here  an  empire  lost,  and  there  an  Italian  opera, 
or  a  Lord's  rout  on  a  Sunday  !  ' 

"  May  it  please  your  lordship !  I  am  an  English- 
man, and  must  stand  or  fall  with  the  nation.  Re- 
ligion, its  true  palladium,  has  been  stolen  away ; 
and  it  is  crumbling  into  dust.  Sin  ruins  us,  the 
sms  of  the  great  especially,  and  of  their  sins  espe- 
cially the  violation  of  the  Sabbath,  because  it  is 
naturally  productive  of  all  the  rest.  If  you  wish 
well  to  our  arms,  and  would  be  glad  to  see  the 
kingdom  emerging  again  from  her  ruins,  pay  more 
respect  to  an  ordinance  that  deserves  the  deepest ! 

I  do  not  say  pardon  this  short  remonstrance !  '. 

The  concern  I  feel  for  my  country,  and  the  in- 
terest I  have  in  its  prosperity,  give  me  a  right  to 
make  it.    I  am,  &c." 

Thus  one  might  write  to  his  lordship,  and  (I 
suppose)  might  be  as  profitably  employed  in  whist- 
ling the  tune  of  an  old  ballad. 

I  have  no  copy  of  the  preface,  nor  do  I  know 
at  present  how  Johnson  and  Mr.  Newton  have 
settled  it.  In  the  matter  of  it  there  was  nothing 
offensively  peculiar;  but  it  was  thought  too  pious. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C* 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  March  7,  1782. 

We  have  great  pleasure  in  the  contemplation  of 
your  Northern  journey,  as  it  promises  us  a  sight 
of  you  and  yours  by  the  way,  and  are  only  sorry 
Miss  Shuttleworth  can  not  be  of  the  party.  A  line 
to  ascertain  the  hour  when  we  may  expect  you, 
by  the  next  preceding  post,  will  be  welcome. 

It  is  not  much  for  my  advantage  that  the  prin- 
U 


MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  March  14,  1783. 

I  CAN  only  repeat  what  I  said  sometime  since, 
that  the  world  is  grown  more  foolish  and  careless 
than  it  was  when  I  had  the  honour  of  knowing  it. 
Though  your  preface  was  of  a  serious  cast,  it  was 
yet  free  from  every  thing  that  might,  with  pro- 
priety,  expose  it  to  the  charge  of  Methodism,  be- 
ing guilty  of  no  offensive  peculiarities,  nor  contain- 
ing any  of  those  obnoxious  doctrines  at  which  the 
world  is  so  apt  to  be  angry,  and  which  we  must 
give  her  leave  to  be  angry  at,  because  we  know  she 
can  not  help  it.  It  asserted  nothing  more  than 
every  rational  creature  must  admit  to  be  true— 
"that  divine  and  earthly  things  can  no  longe* 
stand  in  competition  with  each  other,  in  the  judg- 
ment of  any  man,  than  while  he  continues  igno- 


*  At  thia  period,  the  first  volume  of  the  writer's  poems 
issued  from  the  press. 


220 


COWPER'S  WORKS, 


Let.  101. 


rant  of  their  respective  value;  and  that  the  mo- 
ment the  eyes  are  opened,  the  latter  are  always 
cheerfully  relinquished  for  the  sake  of  the  former." 
jXow  I  do  most  certainly  remember  the  time  when 
such  a  proposition  as  this  would  have  been  at  least 
supportable,  and  when  it  would  not  have  spoilfed 
the  market  of  any  volume,  to  which  it  had  been 

prefixed,  ergo  the  times  are  altered  for  the 

worse. 

I  have  reason  to  be  very  much  satisfied  with  my 
publisher— he  marked  such  lines  as  did  not  please 
him,  and  as  often  as  I  could,  T  paid  all  possible 
respect  to  his  animadversions.  You  will  accord- 
ingly find,  at  least  if  you  recollect  how  they  stood 
in  the  MS.,  that  several  passages  are  better  for 
having  undergone  his  critical  notice.  Indeed  I  do 
not  know  where  I  could  have  found  a  bookseller 
who  could  have  pointed  out  to  me  my  defects  with 
more  discernment ;  and  as  I  find  it  is  a  fashion  for 
modern  bards  to  publish  the  names  of  the  literati, 
who  have  favoured  their  works  with  a  revisal, 
•would  myself  most  willingly  have  acknowledged 
my  obligations  to  Johnson,  and  so  I  told  him.  I 
am  to  thank  you  likewise,  and  ought  to  have  done 
it  in  the  first  place,  for  having  recommended  to 
me  the  suppression  of  some  hues,  which  I  am  now 
more  than  ever  convinced  would  at  least  have  done 
me  no  honour.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UN  WIN. 


MY  DEAR  WILLIAM, 

The  modest  terms  in  which  you  express  your- 
self on  the  subject  of  lady  Austen's  commendation 
embolden  me  to  add  my  suffrage  to  hers,  and  to 
confirm  it  by  assuring  you  I  think  her  just  and 
well  founded  in  her  opinion  of  you.  The  compli- 
ment indeed  glances  at  myself;  for  were  you  less 
than  she  accounts  you,  I  ought  not  to  afford  you 
that  place  in  my  esteem  which  you  have  held  so 
long.  My  own  sagacity  therefore  and  discern- 
ment are  not  a  little  concerned  upon  the  occasion, 
for  either  you  resemble  the  picture,  or  I  have 
strangely  mistaken  my  man,  and  formed  an  erro- 
neous judgment  of  his  character.  With  respect  to 
your  face  and  figure  indeed,  there  I  leave  the  ladies 
to  determine,  as  being  naturally  best  qualified  to 
decide  the  point ;  but  whether  you  are  perfectly  the 
man  of  sense,  and  the  gentleman,  is  a  question  in 
which  I  am  as  much  interested  as  they,  and  which, 
you  being  my  friend,  1  am  of  course  prepared  to 
settle  in  your  favour.  The  lady  (whom,  when 
you  know  her  as  well,  you  will  love  as  much  as 
we  do)  is,  and  has  been  during  the  last  fortnight, 
a  part  of  our  family.  Before  she  was  perfectly 
restored  to  health,  she  returned  to  CUfton.  Soon 
after  she  came  back,  Mr.  Jones  had  occasion  to  go 


to  London.  No  sooner  was  he  gone,  than  the 
Chateau,  being  left  without  a  garrison,  was  be- 
sieged as  regularly  as  the  night  came  on.  Vil- 
lains were  both  heard  and  seen  in  the  garden,  and 
at  the  doors  and  windows.  The  kitchen  window 
in  particular  was  attempted,  from  which  they  took 
a  complete  pane  of  glass,  exactly  opposite  to  the 
iron  by  which  it  was  fastened  ;  but  providentially 
the  window  had  been  nailed  to  the  woodwork,  in 
order  to  keep  it  close,  and  that  the  air  might  be 
excluded  ;  thus  they  were  disappointed,  and  being 
discovered  by  the  maid,  withdrew.  The  ladies 
being  worn  out  with  continual  watching,  and 
repeated  alarms,  were  at  last  prevailed  upon  to 
take  refuge  with  us.  Men  furnished  with  fire- 
arms were  put  into  the  house,  and  the  rascals, 
having  intelligence  of  this  circumstance,  beat  a 
retreat.  Mr.  Jones  returned;  Mrs.  Jones  ana 
Miss  Green,  her  daughter,  left  us,  but  Lady  Aus- 
ten's spirits  having  been  too  much  disturbed,  to  be 
able  to  repose  in  a  place  where  she  had  been  so 
much  terrified,  she  was  left  behind.  She  remains 
with  us  till  her  lodgings  at  the  vicarage  can  be 
made  ready  for  her  reception.  I  have  now  sent 
you  what  has  occurred  of  moment  in  our  history 
since  my  last. 

I  say  amen,  with  all  my  heart,  to  your  obser- 
vation on  religious  characters.  Men  who  profess 
themselves  adepts  in  mathematical  knowledge,  in 
astronomy,  or  jurisprudence,  are  generally  as  well 
qualified  as  they  would  appear.  The  reason  may 
be,  that  they  are  always  liable  to  detection,  should 
they  attempt  to  impose  upon  mankind,  and  there- 
fore take  care  to  be  what  they  pretend.  In  reli- 
gion alone,  a  profession  is  often  shghtly  taken  up, 
and  slovenly  carried  on,  because  forsooth  candor 
and  charity  require  us  to  hope  the  best,  and  to 
judge  favourably  of  our  neighbour,  and  because 
it  is  easy  to  deceive  the  ignorant,  who  are  a  great 
majority,  upon  this  subject.  Let  a  man  attach 
himself  to  a  particular  party,  contend  furiously 
for  what  are  properly  called  evangeUcal  doctrines, 
and  enhst  himself  under  the  banner  of  some  po- 
pular preacher,  and  the  business  is  done.  Behold 
a  Christian!  a  Saint!  a  Phoenix!— In  the  mean 
time  perhaps  his  heart,  and  his  temper,  and  even 
his  conduct,  are  unsanctified;  possibly  less  exem- 
plary than  those  of  some  avowed  infidels.  No 
matter— he  can  talk— he  has  the  Shibboleth  of  the 
true  church— the  Bible  in  his  pocket,  and  a 
head  well  stored  with  notions.  But  the  quiet, 
humble,  modest,  and  peaceable  person,  who  is  in 
his  practice  what  the  other  is  only  in  his  profes- 
sion, who  hates  a  noise,  and  therefore  makes 
none,  who  knowing  the  snares  that  are  in  the 
world,  keeps  himself  as  much  out  of  it  as  he  can, 
and  never  enters  it,  but  when  duty  calls,  and  even 
then  with  fear  and  trembling— is  the  Christian 


Let.  103,  103. 


LETTERS. 


that  will  always  stand  highest  in  the  estimation 
of  those,  who  bring  all  characters  to  the  test  of 
true  wisdom,  and  judge  of  the  tree  by  its  fruit. 

You  are  desirous  of  visiting  the  prisoners ;  you 
wish  to  administer  to  their  necessities,  and  to  give 
them  instruction.  This  task  you  will  undertake, 
though  you  expect  to  encounter  many  things  in 
the  performance  of  it,  that  will  give  you  pain. 
Now  this  I  can  understand — you  will  not  hsten 
to  the  sensibilities  that  distress  yourself,  but  to 
the  distresses  of  others.  Therefore,  when  I  meet 
with  one  of  the  specious  praters  above-mentioned, 
I  will  send  him  to  Stock,  that  by  your  diffidence 
he  may  be  taught  a  lesson  of  modesty;  by  your 
generosity,  a  Uttle  feeling  for  others;  and  by  your 
general  conduct,  in  short,  to  chatter  less,  and  to 
do  more. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend. 


W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  March  18,  1782. 

Nothing  has  given  me  so  much  pleasure,  since 
the  publication  of  my  volume,  as  your  favourable 
opinion  of  it.  It  may  possibly  meet  with  accept- 
ance from  hundreds,  whose  commendation  would 
afford  me  no  other  satisfaction  than  what  I  should 
find  in  the  hope  that  it  might  do  them  good.  I 
have  some  neighbours  in  this  place,  who  say  they 
like  it— doubtless  I  had  rather  they  should  than 
that  they  should  not— but  I  know  them  to  be  per- 
sons of  no  more  taste  in  poetry,  than  skill  in  the 
mathematics;  their  applause  therefore  is  a  sound 
that  has  no  music  in  it  for  me.  But  my  vanity 
was  not  so  entirely  quiescent  when  I  read  your 
friendly  account  of  the  manner  it  had  affected 
you.  It  was  tickled,  and  pleased,  and  told  me  in 
a  pretty  loud  whisper,  that  others  perhaps  of 
whose  taste  and  judgment  I  had  a  high  opinion, 
would  approve  it  too.  As  a  giver  of  good  coun- 
sels, I  wish  to  please  all — as  an  author,  I  am  per- 
fectly indifferent  to  the  judgment  of  all,  except 
the  few  who  are  indeed  judicious.  The  circum- 
stance however  in  your  letter  which  pleased  me 
most  was,  that  you  wrote  in  high  spirits,  and 
though  you  said  much,  suppressed  more,  lest  you 
should  hurt  my  delicacy— my  delicacy  is  obliged 
to  you — ^but  you  observe  it  is  not  so  squeamish, 
but  that  after  it  has  feasted  upon  praise  expressed, 
it  can  find  a  comfortable  dessert  in  the  contem- 
plation of  praise  implied,  I  now  feel  as  if  I  should 
be  glad  to  begin  another  volume,  but  from  the  will 
to  the  power  is  a  step  too  wide  for  me  to  take  at 
at  present,  and  the  season  of  the  year  brings  with 
it  so  many  avocations  into  the  garden,  where 
I  am  my  own /ac  totum,  that  I  have  little  or  no 
leisure  for  the  quill.    I  should  do  myself  much 


wrong,  were  I  to  omit  mentioning  the  great  com- 
placency with  which  I  read  your  narrative  of  Mrs. 
Unmn's  smiles  and  tears;  persons  of  much  sen- 
sibility are  always  persons  of  taste,  and  a  taste  for 
poetry  depends  indeed  upon  that  very  article  more 
than  upon  any  other.  If  she  had  Aristotle  by 
heart,  I  should  not  esteem  her  judgment  so  highly, 
were  she  defective  in  point  oi  feeling,  as  I  do,  and 
rnust  esteem  it^  knowing  her  to  have  such  feelings 
as  Aristotle  could  not  communicate,  and  as  half 
the  readers  in  the  world  are  destitute  of  This  it 
is  that  makes  me  set  so  high  a  price  upon  your 
mother's  opinion.  She  is  a  critic  by  nature,  and 
not  by  rule,  and  has  a  perception  of  what  is  good 
or  bad  in  composition,  that  I  never  knew  deceive 
her;  insomuch,  that  when  two  sorts  of  expression 
have  pleaded  equally  for  the  precedence,  in  my 
own  esteem,  and  I  have  referred,  as  in  such  cases 
I  always  did,  the  decision  of  the  point  to  her,  1 
neyer  knew  her  at  a  loss  for  a  just  one. 

Whether  I  shall  receive  any  answer  from  his 
Chancellorship  or  not,  is  at  present  in  ambiguo, 
and  will  probably  continue  in  the  same  state  of 
ambiguity  much  longer.  He  is  so  busy  a  man, 
and  at  this  time,  if  the  papers  may  be  credited,  so 
particularly  busy,  that  I  am  forced  to  mortify  my- 
self with  the  thought,  that  both  my  book  and  my 
letter  may  be  thrown  into  a  corner  as  too  insignifi- 
cant for  a  statesman's  notice,  and  never  found  till 
his  executor  finds  them.  This  afl^'air  however 
is  neither  at  my  libitum  nor  his.  I  have  sent  him 
the  truth.  He  that  put  it  into  the  heart  of  a  cer- 
tain eastern  monarch,  to  amuse  himself  one  sleep- 
less night  with  listening  to  the  records  of  his  king- 
dom, is  able  to  give  birth  to  such  another  occasion, 
and  inspire  his  lordship  with  a  curiosity  to  know 
what  he  has  received  from  a  friend  he  once  loved 
and  valued.  If  an  answer  comes,  however,  you 
shall  not  long  be  a  stranger  to  the  contents  of  it. 

I  have  read  your  letter  to  their  worships,  and 
much  approve  of  it.  May  it  have  the  effect  it 
ought !  If  not,  still  you  have  acted  a  humane  and 
becoming  part,  and  the  poor  aching  toes  and  fin- 
gers of  the  prisoners  will  not  appear  in  judgment 
against  you.  I  have  made  a  slight  alteration  in 
the  last  sentence,  which  perhaps  you  wUl  not  dis- 
approve. 

Yours  ever,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  BULL. 

March.  24,  1782. 
Your  letter  gave  me  great  pleasure,  both  as  a 
testimony  of  your  approbation,  and  of  your  re- 
gard. I  wrote  in  hopes  of  pleasing  you,  and  such 
as  you;  and  though  I  must  confess  that,  at  the 
same  time,  I  cast  a  side-long  glance  at  the  good 


222 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  104,  105, 


liking  of  the  world  at  large,  I  believe  I  can  say 
it  was  more  for  the  sake  of  their  advantage  and 
instruction  than  their  praise.  They  are  children; 
if  we  give  them  physic,  we  must  sweeten  the  rim 
of  the  cup  with  honey — if  my  book  is  so  far  ho- 
noured as  to  be  made  the  vehicle  of  true  know- 
ledge to  any  that  are  ignorant,  I  shall  rejoice;  and 
do  already  rejoice  that  it  has  procured  me  a  proof 
of  your  esteem. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  April  1,  1782. 

I  COULD  not  have  found  a  better  trumpeter, 
Your  zeal  to  serve  the  interest  of  my  volume,  to- 
gether with  your  extensive  acquaintance,  qualify 
you  perfectly  for  that  most  useful  office.  Me- 
thinks  I  see  you  with  the  long  tube  at  your  mouth, 
proclaiming  to  your  numerous  connexions  my 
poetical  merits,  and  at  proper  intervals  levelling  it 
at  Olney,  and  pouring  into  my  eat  the  welcome 
sound  of  their  approbation.  I  need  not  encourage 
you  to  proceed,  your  breath  will  never  fail  in  such 
a  cause;  and  thus  encouraged,  I  myself  perhaps 
may  proceed  also,  and  when  the  versifying  fit  re- 
turns, produce  another  volume.  Alas !  we  shall 
never  receive  such  commendations  from  him  on 
the  woolsack,  as  your  good  friend  has  lavished 
upon  us.  Whence  I  learn,  that  however  impor- 
tant I  may  be  in  my  own  eyes,  I  am  very  insig- 
nificant in  his.  To  make  me  amends  however 
for  this  mortification,  Mr.  Newton  tells  me,  that 
my  book  is  likely  to  run,  spread,  and  prosper;  that 
the  grave  can  not  help  smiUng,  and  .the  gay  are 
struck  with  the  truth  of  it;  and  that  it  is  likely 
to  find  its  way  into  his  Majesty's  hands,  being  put 
into  a  proper  course  for  that  purpose.  Now  if  the 
King  should  fall  in  love  with  my  Muse,  and  with 
you  for  her  sake,  such  an  event  would  make  us 
ample  amends  for  the  Chancellor's  indifference, 
and  you  might  be  the  first  divine  that  ever  reached 
a  mitre  from  the  shoulders  of  a  poet.  But  (I  be- 
lieve) we  must  be  content,  I  with  my  gains,  if  I 
gain  any  thing,  and  you  with  the  pleasare  of 
knowing  that  I  am  a  gainer. 

We  laughed  heartily  at  your  answer  to  little 
John's  question;  and  yet  I  think  you  might  have 
given  him  a  direct  answer—"  There  are  various 
sorts  of  cleverness,  my  dear — 1  do  not  know  that 
mine  lies  in  the  poetical  way,  but  I  can  do  ten 
times  more  towards  the  entertainment  of  company 
in  the  way  of  conversation  than  our  friend  at 
Olney.  He  can  rhyme,  and  I  can  rattle.  If  he 
had  my  talent,  or  I  had  his,  we  should  be  too 
charming,  and  the  world  would  almost  adore  us." 

Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  April  27,  1783. 

A  PART  of  Lord  Harrington's  new-raised  corp« 
have  taken  up  their  quarters  at  Olney,  since  yon 
left  us.  They  have  the  regimental  music  with 
them.  The  men  have  been  drawn  up  this  morn- 
ing upon  the  Market-hill,  and  a  concert  such  as 
we  have  not  heard  these  many  years,  has  been 
performed  at  no  great  distance  from  our  window. 
Your  mother  and  I  both  thrust  our  heads  into  the 
coldest  east-wind  that  ever  blew  in  April,  that  we 
might  hear  them  to  greater  advantage.  The  band 
acquitted  themselves  with  taste  and  propriety,  not 
blairing,  like  trumpeters  at  a  fair,  but,  producing 
gentle  and  elegant  symphony,  such  as  charmed 
our  ears,  and  convinced  us  that  no  length  of  time 
can  wear  out  a  taste  for  harmony;  and  that  though 
plays,  balls,  and  masquerades  have  lost  all  their 
power  to  please  us,  and  we  should  find  them  not 
only  insipid  but  insupportable,  yet  sweet  music  is 
sure  to  find  a  corresponding  faculty  in  the  soul,  a 
sensibility  that  lives  to  the  last,  which  even  reli- 
gion itself  does  not  extinguish. 

When  we  objected  to  your  coming  for  a  single 
night,  it  was  only  in  the  way  of  sirgument,  and  in 
hopes  to  prevail  on  you  to  contrive  a  longer  abode 
with  us.  But  rather  than  not  see  you  at  all,  we 
should  be  glad  of  you  though  but  for  an  hour. 
If  the  paths  should  be  clean  enough,  and  we  are 
able  to  walk  (for  you  know  we  can  not  ride),  we 
will  endeavour  to  meet  you  in  Weston-park.  But 
I  mention  no  particular  hour,  that  I  may  not  lay 
you  under  a  supposed  obligation  to  be  punctual, 
which  might  be  difficult  at  the  end  of  so  long  a 
journey.  Only  if  the  weather  be  favourable,  you 
shall  find  us  there  in  the  evening.  It  is  winter  in 
the  south,  perhaps  therefore  it  may  be  spring  at 
least,  if  not  summer,  in  the  north.  For  I  have 
read  that  it  is  warmest  in  Greenland  when  it  is 
coldest  here.  Be  that  as  it  may,  we  may  hope  at 
the  latter  end  of  such  an  April  that  the  first  change 
of  wind  will  improve  the  season. 

The  curate's  simile  Latinized-  

Sors  adversa  gerit  stimulum,  sed  tendit  et  alas : 
Pungit,  api  similis,  sed,  velut  ista,  fugit. 
What  a  dignity  there  is  in  the  Roman  language! 
and  what  an  idea  it  gives  us  of  the  good  sense  and 
mascuUne  mind  of  the  people  that  spoke  it!  The 
same  thought  which  clothed  in  English  seems 
childish,  and  even  foolish,  assumes  a  different  air 
in  Latin,  and  makes  at  least  as  good  an  epigram 
as  some  of  Martial's. 

I  remember  your  making  an  observation,  when 
here,  on  the  subject  of  parenthesis,  to  which  I  ac- 
u  led  without  limitation;  but  a  little  attention  will 
convince  us  both,  that  they  are  not  to  be  univer- 
sally condemned.    When  they  abound,  and  when 


Let.  lOS. 


LETTERS. 


223 


they  are  long,  they  both  embarrass  the  sense,  and  nish  yourself  with  a  better  taste,  if  you  know 
are  a  proof  that  the  writer's  head  is  cloudy,  that  he  where  to  find  it.' 

has  not  properly  arranged  his  matter,  or  is  not  We  are  glad  that  you  are  safe  at  home  again, 
well  skilled  in  the  graces  of  expression.  But  as  Could  we  see  at  one  glance  of  the  eye  what  is  pass- 
parenthesis  is  ranked  by  grammarians  among  the  ing  every  day  upon  all  the  roads  in  the  kingdom, 
figures  of  rhetoric,  we  may  suppose  they  hud  a  how  many  are  terrified  and  hurt,  how  many  plun- 
reason  for  conferring  that  honour  upon  it.  Ac-  dered  and  abused,  we  should  indeed  find  reason 
cordingly  we  shall  find  that  in  the  use  of  some  enough  to  be  thankful  for  journeys  performed  in 
of  our  finest  writers,  as  well  as  in  the  hands  of  the  safety,  and  for  deliverance  from  dangers  we  are 


ancient  poets  and  orators,  it  has  a  peculiar  ele- 
gance, and  imparts  a  beauty  which  the  period 
would  want  without  it. 

'Hoc  nemus,  hunc,'  inquit,  'frondoso  vertice  collem 
(Quis  deus  incertum  est)  habitat  deus.'     Vir.  JEn.  8. 


not  perhaps  even  permitted  to  see.  "When  in  some 
of  the  high  southern  latitudes  and  in  a  dark  tem- 
pestuous night,  a  flash  of  lightning  discovered  to 
Captain  Cook  a  vessel,  which  glanced  along  close 
by  his  side,  and  which,  but  for  the  lightning  he 
must  have  run  foul  of,  both  the  danger,  and  the 
transient  light  that  showed  it,  were  undoubtedly 


In  this  instance,  the  first  that  occurred,  it  is 
graceful.    I  have  not  time  to  seek  for  more,  nor  designed  to°convey  to  him  this  wholesome  instruc- 


room  to  insert  them.  But  your  own  observation  I 
believe  will  confirm  my  opinion. 

Yours  ever,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UN  WIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  May  21,  1782. 

Rather  ashamed  of  having  been  at  all  dejected 
by  the  censure  of  the  Critical  Reviewers,  who  cer- 
tainly could  not  read  without  prejudice  a  book  re- 
plete with  opinions  and  doctrines  to  which  they 
can  not  subscribe,  I  have  at  present  no  little  occa- 
sion to  keep  a  strict  guard  upon  my  vanity,  lest  it 
should  be  too  much  flattered  by  the  following 
eulogium.  I  send  it  you  for  the  reasons  I  gave 
when  I  imparted  to  you  some  other  anecdotes  of  a 
similar  kind,  while  we  were  together.  Our  inter- 
ests in  the  success  of  this  same  volume  are  so 
closely  united,  that  you  must  share  with  me  in  the 
praise  or  blame  that  attends  it;  and  sympathizing 
with  me  under  the  burthen  of  injurious  treatment, 
have  a  right  to  enjoy  with  me  the  cordials  I  now 
and  then  receive,  as  I  happen  to  meet  with  more 
favourable  and  candid  judges. 

A  merchant,  a  friend  of  ours,  (you  will  soon 
guess  him)  sent  my  Poems  to  one  of  the  first  phi- 
losophers, one  of  the  most  eminent  literary  charac- 
ters, as  well  as  one  of  the  most  important  in  the 
political  world,  that  the  present  age  can  boast  of 
Now  perhaps  your  conjuring  faculties  are  puzzled, 
and  you  begin  to  ask  '  who,  where,  and  what  is 
he'?  speak  out,  for  I  am  all  impatience.'    1  will  not 


tion,  that  a  particular  Providence  attended  him, 
and  that  he  was  not  only  preserved  from  evils, 
of  which  he  had  notice,  but  from  many  more  of 
which  he  had  no  information,  or  even  the  least  sus- 
picion. What  unlikely  contingencies  may  never- 
theless take  place  !  How  improbable  that  two  ships 
should  dash  against  each  other,  in  the  midst  of  the 
vast  Pacific  Ocean,  and  that  steering  contrary 
courses,  from  parts  of  the  world  so  immensely  dis- 
tant from  each  other,  they  should  yet  move  so 
exactly  in  a  line  as  to  clash,  fill,  and  go  to  the  bot- 
tom, in  a  sea  where  all  the  ships  in  the  world  might 
be  so  dispersed  as  that  none  should  see  another ! 
Yet  this  must  have  happened  but  for  the  remarka- 
ble interference,  which  he  has  recorded.  The  same 
Providence  indeed  might  as  easily  have  conducted 
them  so  wide  of  each  other,  that  they  should  never 
have  met  at  all,  but  then  this  lesson  would  have 
been  lost ;  at  least,  the  heroic  voyager  would  have 
encompassed  the  globe  without  having  hetd  occa- 
sion to  relate  an  incident  that  so  naturally  sug- 
gests it. 

I  am  no  more  delighted  with  the  season  tlian 
you  are.  The  absence  of  the  sun,  which  has 
graced  the  spring  with  much  less  of  his  presence 
than  he  vouchsafed  to  the  winter,  has  a  very  un- 
comfortable eflfect  upon  my  frame.  I  feel  an  in- 
vincible aversion  to  employment,  which  I  am  yet 
constrained  to  fly  to  as  my  only  remedy  against 
something  worse.  If  I  do  nothing,  I  am  dejected ; 
if  I  do  anything,  I  am  weary;  and  that  weariness 
is  best  described  by  the  word  lassitude,  which  of 
all  weariness  in  the  world  is  the  most  oppressive. 


say  a  word  more,  the  letter  in  which  he  returned  But  enough  of  myself  and  the  weather 


his  thanks  for  the  present  shall  speak  for  him 

We  may  now  treat  the  critics  as  the  archbishop 
of  Toledo  treated  Gil  Bias,  when  he  found  fault 
with  one  of  his  sermons. — His  grace  gave  him  a 
kick,  and  said,  '  Be  gone  for  a  jackanapes,  and  fur- 


*  Here  Cowper  transcribed  the  letter  written  from  Pasfsy, 
by  the  American  ambassador  Fr  inklin,  in  praise  of  his  book. '  self-conceit,  and  impertinent  boasting 
V  2 


The  blow  we  have  struck  in  the  West  Indies 
will,  I  suppose,  be  decisive,  at  least  for  the  present 
year,  and  so  far  as  that  part  of  our  possessions  h 
concerned  in  the  present  conflict.  But  the  news- 
writers,  and  their  correspondents,  disgust  me  and 
make  me  sick.  One  victory,  after  such  a  long  se- 
ries of  adverse  occurrences,  has  filled  them  with- 

and  whilo 


234 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  107,  108. 


Rodney  is  almost  accounted  a  Methodist  for  as- 
cribing his  success  to  Providence,  men  who  have 
renounced  all  dependence  upon  such  a  friend, 
without  whose  assistance  nothing  can  be  done, 
threaten  to  drive  the  French  out  of  the  sea,  laugh 
at  the  Spaniards,  sneer  at  the  Dutch,  and  are  to 
carry  the  world  before  them.  Our  enemies  are 
apt  to  brag,  and  we  deride  them  for  it;  but  we  can 
sing  as  loud  as  they  can,  in  the  same  key,  and  no 
doubt  wherever  our  papers  go,  shall  be  derided  in 
our  turn.  An  Englishman's  true  glory  should  be, 
to  do  his  business  well,  and  say  little  about  it ; 
but  he  disgraces  himself  when  he  puffs  his  prow- 
ess, as  if  he  had  finished  his  task,  when  he  has 
but  just  begun  it.  Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UN  WIN. 
MT  DEAR  FRIEND,  June  12, 1782. 

Every  extraordinary  occurrence  in  our  lives 
affords  us  an  opportunity  to  learn,  if  we  will,  some- 
thing more  of  our  own  hearts  and  tempers,  than 
we  were  before  aware  of  It  is  easy  to  promise 
ourselves  beforehand,  that  our  conduct  shall  be 
wise,  or  moderate,  or  resolute,  on  any  given  occa- 
sion. But  when  that  occasion  occurs,  we  do  not 
always  find  it  easy  to  make  good  the  promise : 
such  a  difference  there  is  between  theory  and  prac- 
tice. Perhaps  this  is  no  new  remark ;  but  it  is  not 
a  whit  the  worse  for  being  old,  if  it  be  true. 

Before  I  had  published,  I  said  to  myself— you 
and  I,  Mr.  Cowper,  will  not  concern  ourselves 
much  about  what  the  critics  may  say  of  our  book. 
But  having  once  sent  my  wits  for  a  venture,  I 
Soon  became  anxious  about  the  issue,  and  found 
that  I  could  not  be  satisfied  with  a  warm  place 
in  my  own  good  graces,  unless  my  friends  were 
pleased  with  me  as  much  as  I  pleased  myself 
Meeting  with  their  approbation,  I  began  to  feel 
the  workings  of  ambition.  It  is  well,  said  I,  that 
my  friends  are  pleased,  but  friends  are  sometimes 
partial,  and  mine,  I  have  reason  to  think,  are  not 
altogether  free  from  bias.  Methinks  I  should  like 
to  hear  a|Stranger  or  two  speak  well  of  me.  I  was 
presently  gratified  by  the  approbation  of  the  Lon- 
don Magazine,  and  the  Gentleman'Sj,  particularly 
by  that  of  the  former,  and  by  the  plaudit  of  Dr. 
Franklin.  By  the  way,  magazines  are  publica- 
tions we  have  but  little  respect  for,  till  we  o^rselves 
are  chronicled  in  them,  and  then  they  assufepe  an 
importance  in  our  esteem  which  before  we  opuld 
not  allow  them.  But  the  Monthly  Review,  the 
most  formidable  of  all  my  judges,  is  still  behind. 
What  will  that  critical  Rhadamanthus  say,  when 
my  shivering  genius  shall  appear  before  him  1 
Still  he  keeps  me  in  hot  water,  and  I  must  wait 
another  month  for  his  award.  Alas !  when  I  wish 
for  a  favourable  sentence  from  that  quarter  (to 


confess  a  weakness  that  I  should  not  confess  to  all), 
I  feel  myself  not  a  little  influenced  by  a  tender  re- 
gard to  my  reputation  here,  even  among  my  neigh- 
bours at  Olney.  Here  are  watch-makers,  who 
themselves  are  wits,  and  who  at  present  perhaps 
think  me  one.  Here  is  a  carpenter  and  a  baker, 
and  not  to  mention  others,  here  is  your  idol  Mr. 

 ,  whose  smile  is  fame.    All  these  read  the 

Monthly  Review,  and  all  these  will  set  me  down 
for  a  dunce,  if  those  terrible  critics  should  show 
them  the  example.  But  oh !  wherever  else  I  am 
accounted  dull,  dear  Mr.  Griffith,  let  me  pass  for 
a  genius  at  Olney. 

We  are  sorry  for  little  William's  illness.  It  is 
however  the  privilege  of  infancy  to  recover  almost 
immediately  what  it  has  lost  by  sickness.  We  are 

sorry  too  for  Mr.   's  dangerous  condition. 

But  he  that  is  well  prepared  for  the  great  journey 
can  not  enter  on  it  too  soon  for  himself,  though  his 
friends  will  weep  at  his  departure. 

Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  July  16,  1782. 

Though  some  people  pretend  to  be  clever  in  the 
way  of  prophetical  forecast,  and  to  have  a  peculiar 
talent  of  sagacity,  by  which  they  can  divine  the 
meaning  of  a  providential  dispensation,  while  its 
consequences  are  yet  in  embryo-r-I  do  not.  There 
is  at  this  time  to  be  found  I  suppose  in  the  cabi- 
net, and  in  both  houses,  a  greater  assemblage  of 
able  men,  both  as  speakers  and  counsellors,  than 
ever  were  contemporary  in  the  same  land.  A  man 
not  accustomed  to  trace  the  workings  of  Provi- 
dence, as  recorded  in  Scripture,  and  that  has  given 
no  attention  to  this  particular  subject,  while  em- 
ployed in  the  study  of  profane  history,  would  as- 
sert boldly,  that  it  is  a  token  for  good,  that  much 
may  be  expected  from  them,  and  that  the  country, 
though  heavily  afflicted,  is  not  to  be  despaired  of, 
distinguished  as  she  is  by  so  many  characters  of 
the  highest  class.  Thus  he  would  say,  and  I  do 
not  deny,  that  the  event  might  justify  his  skill  in 
prognostics.  God  works  by  means,  and  in  a  case 
of  great  national  perplexity  and  distress,  wisdom 
and  political  ability  seem  to  be  the  only  natural 
means  of  deliverance.  But  a  mind  more  religiously 
inclined,  and  perhaps  a  little  tinctured  with  me« 
lancholy,  might,  with  equal  probability  of  success, 
hazard  a  conjecture  directly  opposite  — Alas!  what 
is  the  wisdom  of  man,  especially  when  he  trusts 
in  it  as  the  only  God  of  his  confidence'? — When  I 
^consider  the  general  contempt  that  is  poured  upon 
Wl  things  sacred,  the  profusion,  the  dissipation, 
the  knavish  cunning  of  some,  the  rapacity  of 
otWs,  and  the  impenitence  of  all;  I  am  rather  in- 
cliriftd  to  fear  that  God,  who  honours  himself  by 


Let,  109. 


LETTERS 


235 


bringing  human  glory  to  shame,  and  by  disap- 
pointing the  expectations  of  those  whose  trust  is 
in  creatures,  has  signalized  the  present  day  as  a 
day  of  much  human  sufficiency  and  strength,  has 
brought  together  from  all  quarters  of  the  land  the 
most  illustrious  men  to  be  found  in  it,  only  that  he 
may  prove  the  vanity  of  idols,  and  that  vfhen  a 
great  empire  is  falling,  and  he  has  pronounced  a 
sentence  of  ruin  against  it,  the  inhabitants,  be 
they  weak  or  strong,  wise  or  foohsh,  must  fall  with 
it.  I  am  rather  confirmed  in  this  persuasion  by 
observing  that  these  luminaries  of  the  state  had 
no  sooner  fixed  themselves  in  the  political  heaven, 
than  the  fall  of  the  brightest  of  them  shook  all  the 
rest.  The  arch  of  their  power  was  no  sooner 
struck  than  the  key-stone  slipped  out  of  its  place ; 
those  that  were  closest  in  connexion  with  it  fol- 
lowed, and  the  whole  building,  new  as  it  is,  seems 
to  be  already  a  ruin.  If  a  man  should  hold  this 
language,  who  could  convict  him  of  absurdity"? 
The  marquis  of  Rockin^^ham  is  minister — all  the 
world  rejoices,  anticipating  success  in  war  and  a 
glorious  peace.— The  marqiois  of  Rockingham  is 
dead— all  the  world  is  afllicted,  and  relapses  into 
its  former  despondence.  What  does  this  prove, 
but  that  the  marquis  was  their  Almighty,  and 
that  now  he  is  gone,  they  know  no  other"?  But 
let  us  wait  a  little,  they  will  find  another— Per- 
haps the  duke  of  Portland,  oi  perhaps  the  unpopu- 
lar  ,  whom  they  now  represent  as  a  devil, 

may  obtain  that  honour.  Thus  God  is  forgot ; 
and  when  he  is,  his  judgmem  s  are  generally  his 
remembrancers. 

How  shall  I  comfort  you  upcn  the  subject  of 
your  present  distress  ^  Pardon  m.3  that  I  find  my- 
self obliged  to  smile  at  it,  because  who  but  your- 
self would  be  distressed  upon  such  an  occasion  1 
You  have  behaved  politely,  and  hkf  a  gentleman; 
you  have  hospitably  offered  your  house  to  a  stran- 
ger, who  could  not,  in  your  neighbourhood  at  least, 
have  been  comfortably  accommodateii  any  where 
else.  He,  by  neither  refusing  nor  accepting  an 
offer  that  did  him  too  much  honour,  hvs  disgraced 
himself,  but  not  you.  I  think  for  the  future  you 
must  be  cautious  of  laying  yourself  open  to  a  stran- 
ger, and  never  again  expose  yourself  to  incivilities 
from  an  archdeacon  you  are  not  acquainted  with. 

Though  I  did  not  mention  it,  I  felt  with  you 

what  you  suffered  by  the  loss  of  Miss  ->  . 

I  was  only  silent  because  I  could  minister  no  con- 
solation to  you  on  such  a  subject,  but  what  I 
knew  your  mind  to  be  already  stored  with.  In- 
deed, the  application  of  comfort  in  such  cases  is  a 
nice  business,  and  perhaps  when  Ipest  niana^ 
might  as  well  be  let  alone.  1  remeimber  reading 
many  years  ago  a  long  treatise  on  the  subject  of 
consolation,  written  in  French ;  the  author's  name 
I  forgot,  but  I  wrote  these  words  in  the  margin- 
Special  consolation!  at  least  for  ai  Frenchman, 


who  is  a  creature  the  most  easily  comforted  of  any 
in  the  world ! 

We  are  as  happy  in  lady  Austen,  and  she  in  us, 
as  ever — having  a  lively  imagination,  and  being 
passionately  desirous  of  consolidating  all  into  one 
family  (for  she  has  taken  her  leave  of  London),  she 
has  just  sprung  a  project  which  serves  at  least  to 
amuse  us,  and  make  us  laugh — it  is  to  hire  Mr. 
Small's  house,  on  the  top  of  Clifton-hill,  which  is 
large,  commodious,  and  handsome,  will  hold  us 
conveniently,  and  any  friends  who  may  occasion- 
ally favour  us  with  a  visit — the  house  is  furnished, 
but,  if  it  can  be  hired  without  the  furniture,  will 
let  for  a  trifle — your  sentiments,  if  you  please,  upon 
this  demarche  ! 

I  send  you  my  last  frank — our  best  love  attend 
you  individually,  and  all  together.  1  give  you  joy 
of  a  happy  change  in  the  season,  and  myself  also, 
I  have  filled  four  sides  in  less  time  than  two  would 
have  cost  me  a  week  ago — such  is  the  effect  of 
sunshine  upon  such  a  butterfly  as  I  am. 

Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UN  WIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Aug.  3,  1782. 

Entertaining  some  hope  that  Mr.  Newton's 
next  letter  would  furnish  me  with  the  means  of 
satisfying  your  inquiry  on  the  subject  of  Dr.  John- 
son's opinion,  I  have  till  now  delayed  my  answer 
to  your  last ;  but  the  information  is  not  yet  come, 
Mr.  Newton  having  intermitted  a  week  more  than 
usual,  since  his  last  writing.  When  I  receive  it, 
favourable  or  not,  it  shall  be  conmaunicated  to  yoUfj 
but  I  am  not  over  sanguine  in  my  expectations 
from  that  quarter.  Very  learned  and  very  critical 
heads  are  hard  to  please.  He  may  perhaps  treat 
me  with  lenity  for  the  sake  of  the  subject  and  de- 
sign, but  the  composition  I  think  will  hardly  es- 
cape his  censure.  Though  all  doctors  may  not 
be  of  the  same  mind,  there  is  one  doctor  at  least, 
whom  I  have  lately  discovered,  my  professed  ad- 
mirer. He  too,  like  Johnson,  was  with  difficulty 
persuaded  to  read,  having  an  aversion  to  all  poet- 
ry, except  the  Night  Thoughts,  which  on  a  cer- 
tain occasion,  when  being  confined  on  board  a 
ship  he  had  no  other  employment,  he  got  by 
heart.  He  was  however  prevailed  upon,  and 
read  me  several  times  over ;  so  that  if  my  volume 
had  sailed  with  him,  instead  of  Dr.  Young's,  1 
perhaps  might  have  occupied  that  shelf  in  his 
memory  which  he  then  allotted  to  the  Doctor. 

It  is  a  sort  of  paradox,  but  it  is  true  ;  we  are 
never  more  in  danger  than  when  we  think  our- 
selves most  secure,  nor  in  reality  mo5e  secure  than 
when  we  seem  to  be  most  in  danger.  Both  sides 
of  this  apparent  contradiction  were  lately  verified 
in  my  experience — Passing  firom  the  green-house^ 


226 


COWPER'S  WORKS, 


Let.  110. 


to  the  barn,  1  saw  three  kittens  (for  we  have  so 
many  in  our  retinue)  looking  with  fixed  attention 
on  something,  which  lay  on  the  thresliold  of  a 
door  nailed  up.    I  took  but  little  notice  of  them  at 
first,  but  a  loud  hiss  engaged  me  to  attend  more 
closely,  when  behold— a  viper !  the  largest  that  I 
remember  to  have  seen,  rearing  itself,  darting  its 
forked  tongue,  and  ejaculating  the  aforesaid  hiss 
at  the  nose  of  a  kitten  almost  in  contact  with  his 
lips.    I  ran  into  the  hall  for  a  hoe  with  a  long 
handle,  with  which  I  intended  to  assail  him,  and 
returning  in  a  few  seconds  missed  him ;  he  was 
gone,  and  I  feared  had  escaped  me.    Still  how- 
ever the  kitten  sat  watching  immoveably  upon  the 
same  spot.  •  I  concluded  therefore  that,  sliding 
between  the  door  and  the  threshold,  he  had  found 
his  way  out  of  ^he  garden  into  the  yard. — I  went 
round  immediately,  and  there  found  him  in  close 
conversation  with  the  old'  cat,  whose  curiosity  be- 
ing excited  by  so  novel  an  appearance,  inclined  her 
to  pat  his  head  repeatedly  with  her  fore  foot,  with 
her  claws  however  sheathed,  and  not  in  anger, 
but  in  the  way  of  philosophic  inquiry'  and  exami- 
nation.   To  prevent  her  falling  a  victim  to  so  lau- 
dable an  exercise  of  her  talents,  I  interposed  a 
moment  with  the  hoe,  and  performed  upon  him 
an  act  of  decapitation,  which  though  not  imme- 
diately mortal,  proved  so  in  the  end.    Had  he  slid 
into  the  passages,  where  it  is  dark,  or  had  he, 
when  in  the  yard,  met  with  no  interruption  from 
the  cat,  and  secreted  himself  in  any  of  the  out- 
houses, it  is  hardly  possible  but  that  some  of  the 
family  must  have  been  bitten ;  he  might  have 
been  trodden  upon  without  being  perceived,  and 
have  slipped  away  before  the  suflferer  could  have 
distinguished  what  foe  had  wounded  him.  Three 
years  ago  we  discovered  one  in  the  same  place, 
which  the  barber  slew  with  a  trowel. 

Our  proposed  removal  to  Mr.  Small's  was,  as 
you  suppose,  a  jest,  or  rather  a  joco-serious  mat- 
ter. "We  never  looked  upon  it  as  entirely  feasible, 
yet  we  saw  in  it  something  so  like  practicability, 
that  we  did  not  esteem  it  altogether  unworthy  of 
our  attention.  It  was  one  of  those  projects  which 
people  of  lively  imaginations  play  with,  and  ad- 
mire for  a  few  days,  and  then  break  in  pieces. 
Lady  Austen  returned  on  Thursday  from  Lon- 
don, where  she  spent  the  last  fortnight,  and  whi- 
ther she  was  called  by  an  unexpected  opportunity 
to  dispose  of  the  remainder  of  her  lease.  She  has 
therefore  no  longer  any  connexion  with  the  great  . 
city,  and  no  house  but  at  Olney.  Her  abode  is  to 
be  at  the  vicarage,  where  she  has  hired  as  much 
room  as  she  Wants,  which  she  will  embellish  with  ' 
her  own  furniture,  and  which  she  will  occupy  as 
soon  as  the  minister's  wife  has  produced  another 
child,  which  is  expected  to  make  its  entry  in  Oc-  i 
(ober.  I 
Mr.  Bull,  a  dissenting  minister  of  Newport,  a  i 


learned,  ingenious,  good-natured,  pious  friend  of 
ours,  who  sometimes  visits  us,  and  whom  we  visit - 
I  ed  last  week,  has  put  into  my  hands  three  vol- 
umes of  French  poetry,  composed  by  Madame 
Guion — a  quietist  say  you,  and  a  fanatic,  I  will 

have  nothing  to  do  with  her  'Tis  very  well, 

I  you  are  welcome  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  her, 
but  in  the  mean  time  her  verse  is  the  only  French 
verse  I  ever  read  that  I  found  agreeable ;  there  is 
a  neatness  in  it  equal  to  that  which  we  applaud 
with  so  much  reason  in  the  compositions  of  Prior. 
I  have  translated  several  of  them,  and  shall  pro- 
ceed in  my  translations,  till  I  have  filled  a  Lillipu- 
tian paper-book  I  happen  to  have  by  me,  which 
when  filled,  I  shall  present  to  Mr.  Bull.  He  is 
her  passionate  admirer,  rode  twenty  miles  to  see 
her  picture  in  the  house  of  a  stranger,  which  stran- 
ger politely  insisted  on  his  acceptance  of  it,  and  it 
now  hangs  over  his  chimney.  It  is  a  striking  por- 
trait, too  characteristic  not  to  be  a  strong  resem- 
blance, and,  were  it  encompassed  with  a  glory,  in- 
stead of  being  dressed  m  a.  nun's  hood,  might  pass 
for  the  face  of  an  angel.  ;  Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  AUSTEN. 

To  watch  the  storms  and  hear  the  sky- 
Give  all  our  almanacks  the  lie ; 
To  shake  with  coM,  and  see  the  plains 
In  autumn  drowA'd  with  wintry  rains ; 
»Tis  thus  I  spend  my  moments  here, 
And  wish  myself  a  Dutch  mynheer ; 
I  then  should  |?iave  no  need  of  wit ; 
For  lumpish  l4ollander  unfit ! 
Nor  should  1 /then  repine  at  mud, 
Or  meadow?  delug'd  with  a  flood ; 
But  in  a  bo^-  live  well  content, 
And  find  it  just  my  element ; 
Should  be/a  clod,  and  not.  a  man, 
Nor  wish/in  vain  for  Sister  Ann, 
With  charitable  aid  to  drag 
My  minfl  out  of  its  proper  quag ; 
Should  have  the  genius  of  a  boor, 
And  no  ambition  to  have  more. 

MY  DKAR  ■eifSTER, 

You  see  toy  beginning — I  do  not  know  but  in 
time  I  may /proceed  even  to  the  printing  of  half- 
penny ball/ids — Excuse  the  coarseness  of  my  pa- 
per— I  waked  such  a  quantity  before  I  could  ac- 
compUsh  ainy  thing  legible,  that  I  could  not  afford 
finer.  I  intend  to  employ  an  ingenious  mechanic 
of  the  town  to  make  me  a  longer  case ;  for  you 
may  obsei-ve  that  my  lines  turn  up  their  tails  like 
Dutch  mjistiflfs,  so  diflScult  do  I  find  it  to  make  the 
two  halves  exactly  coincide  with  each  other. 

We  wait  with  impatience  for  the  departure  of 
this  unseasonable  flood.  We  think  of  you,  and 
talk  of  you,  but  we  can  do  no  more,  till  the  waters 
subside.  I  do  not  think  our  correspondence 
should  drop  bcjcause  we  are  within  a  mile  of  each 


Let.  Ill,  112,  113. 


LETTERS. 


227 


other.  It  is  but  an  imaginary  approximation,  the 
flood  having  in  reality  as  effectually  parted  us,  as 
if  the  British  Channel  rolled  between  us. 

Yours,  my  dear  sister,  with  Mrs.  Unwin's  best 
love. 

Aug.  12,  1782.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  BULL. 

Oci.  27,  1782. 

Mon  aimahle  et  tres  cher  Ami, 

It  is  not  in  the  power  of  chaises  or  chariots  to 
carry  you  where  my  affections  will  not  follow  you; 
if  I  heard  that  you  were  gone  to  finish  your  days 
in  the  moon,  I  should  not  love  you  the  less;  but 
should  contemplate  the  place  of  your  abode,  as 
often  as  it  appeared  in  the  heavens,  and  say — 
Farewell,  my  friend,  for  ever !  Lost,  but  not  for- 
gotten! Live  happy  in  thy  lantern,  and  smoke 
the  remainder  of  thy  pipes  in  peace!  Thou  art 
rid  of  earth,  at  least  of  all  its  cares,  and  so  far  can 
I  rejoice  in  thy  removal;  and  as  to  the  cares  that 
are  to  be  found  in  the  moon,  I  am  resolved  to  sup- 
pose them  lighter  than  those  below— heavier  they 
can  hardly  be. 

Madame  Guion  is  finished,  but  not  quite  tran- 
scribed. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Nov.  4,  1782. 

You  are  too  modest;  though  your  last  consisted 
of  three  sides  only,  I  am  certainly  a  letter  in  your 
debt.  It  is  possiiile  that  this  present  writing  may 
prove  as  short.  Yet,  short  as  it  may  be,  it  will  be 
a  letter,  and  make  me  creditor,  and  you  my  debtor. 
A  letter  indeed  ought  not  to-  be  estimated  by  the 
length  of  it,  but  by  the  contents,  and  how  can  the 
contents  of  any  letter  be  more  agreeable  than  your 
lasf? 

You  tell  me  that  John  Gilpin  made  you  laugh 
tears,  and  that  the  ladies  at  court  are  dehghted 
with  my  poems.  Much  good  may  they  do  them ! 
May  they  become  as  wise  as  the  writer  wishes 
them,  and  they  will  be  much  happier  than  he !  I 
know  there  is  in  the  book  that  wisdom  which 
Cometh  from  above,  because  it  was  from  above 
that  I  received  it.  May  they  receive  it  too !  For 
whether  they  drink  it  out  of  the  cistern,  or  whe- 
ther it  falls  upon  them  immediately  from  the 
clouds,  as  it  did  on  me,  it  is  all  one.  It  is  the 
water  of  life,  which  whosoever  drinketh  shall 
thirst  no  more.  As  to  the  famous  horseman 
above-mentioned,  he  and  his  feats  are  an  inex- 
haustible source  of  merriment.  At  least  we  find 
him  so,  and  seldom  meet  without  refreshing  our- 
eelves  with  the  recollection  of  them.    You  are 


perfectly  at  liberty  to  deal  with  them  as  you  please. 
Auctore  tantum  anonymo  imprimantur ;  and 
when  printed,  send  me  a  copy. 

I  congratulate  you  on  the  discharge  of  your  duty 
and  your  conscience,  by  the  pains  you  have  taken 
for  the  relief  of  the  prisoners. — You  proceeded  wise- 
ly, yet  courageously,  and  deserved  better  success. 
Your  labours  however  will  be  remembered  else- 
where, when  you  shall  be  forgotten  here;  and  if 
the  poor  folks  at  Chelmsford  should  nevei:  receive 
the  benefit  of  them,  you  will  yourself  receive  it  in 
heaven.  It  is  pity  that  men  of  fortune  should  be 
determined  to  acts  of  beneficence  sometimes  by 
popular  whim,  or  prejudice,  and  sometimes  by 
motives  still  more  unworthy.  The  liberal  sub- 
scription raised  in  behalf  of  the  widows  of  the  sea- 
men lost  in  the  Royal  George  was  an  instance  of 
the  former.  At  least  a  plain,  short,  and  sensible 
letter  in  the  newspaper  convinced  me  at  the  time, 
that  it  was  an  unnecessary  and  injudicious  collec- 
tion :  and  the  difficulty  you  found  in  effectuating 
your  benevolent  intentions  on  this  occasion,  con- 
strains me  to  think  that  had  it  been  an  affair  of 
more  notoriety  than  merely  to  furnish  a  few  poor 
fellows  vnth  a  little  fuel  to  preserve  their  extremi- 
ties from  the  frost,  you  would  have  succeeded  bet- 
ter. Men  really  pious  delight  in  doing  good  by 
stealth.  But  nothing  less  than  an  ostentatious 
display  of  bounty  will  satisfy  mankind  in  general. 
I  feel  myself  disposed  to  furnish  you  with  an  op- 
portunity to  shine  in  secret.  We  do  what  we 
can.  But  that  can  is  little.  You  have  rich  friends, 
are  eloquent  on  all  occiasions,  and  know  how  to 
be  pathetic  on  a  proper  one.  The  winter  will  be 
severely  felt  at  Olney  by  many,  whose  sobriety, 
industry,  and  honesty,  recommend  them  to  chari- 
table notice :  and  we  think  we  could  tell  such  per- 
sons as  Mr.  ,  or  Mr.  ,  half  a  dozen 

tales  of  distress,  that  would  find  their  way  into 
hearts  as  feefing  as  theirs.  You  will  do  as  you 
see  good;  and  we  in  the  mean  time  shall  remain 
convinced,  that  you  will  do  your  best.  Lady  Aus- 
ten will  no  doubt  do  something;  for  she  has  great 
sensibility  and  compassion. 

Yours,  my  dear  Unwin,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  NoV.  18,  1762. 

On  the  part  of  the  poor,  and  on  our  part,  be 
pleased  to  make  acknowledgments,  such  as  the 
occasion  calls  for,  to  our  beneficent  friend  Mr. 
 .  I  call  him  ours,  because  having  experi- 
enced his  kindness  to  myself  in  a  former  instance, 
and  in  the  present  his  disinterested  readiness  to 
succour  the  distressed,  my  ambition  will  be  satis- 
fied with  nothing  less.  He  may  depend  upon  the 
strictest  secrecy ;  no  creature  shall  hear  him  men- 


228 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  114 


kioned,  cither  now  or  hereafter,  as  the  person  from 
whom  we  have  received  this  bounty.  But  when  I 
si)euk  of  him,  or  hear  him  spoken  of  by  others, 
which  sometimes  happens,  I  shall  not  forget  what 
is  due  to  so  rare  a  character.  I  wish,  arid  your 
mother  wishes  it  too,  that  he  could  sometimes  take 

US  in  his  way  to  ;  he  will  find  us  happy  to 

receive  a  person  whom  we  must  needs  account  it 
an  honour  to  know.  We  shall  exercise  our  best 
discretion  in  the  disposal  of  the  money;  but  in 
this  town,  where  the  Gospel  has  been  preached  so 
many  years,  where  the  people  have  been  favoured 
so  long  with  laborious  and  conscientious  minis- 
ters, it  is  not  an  easy  thing  to  find  those  who 
make  no  profession  of  religion  at  all,  and  are  yet 
proper  objects  of  charity.  The  profane,  are  so 
profane,  so  drunken,  dissolute,  and  in  every  re- 
spect worthless,  that  t0  make  them  partakers  of 
his  bounty  would  be  to  a|)use  it.  We  promise 
however  that  none  shall  touch  it  but  such  as  are 
miserably  poor,  yet  at  the  same  time  industrious 
and  honest,  two  characters  frequently  united  here, 
where  the  most  watchful  and  unremitting  labour 
will  hardly  procure  them  bread.  We  make  none 
but  the  cheapest  laces,  and  the  price  of  them  is 
fallen  almost  to  nothing.  Thanks  are  due  to  your- 
self likewise,  and  are  hereby  accordingly  rendered, 
for  waiving  your  claim  in  behalf  of  your  own  pa- 
rishioners. You  are  always  with  them,  and  they 
are  always,  at  least  some  of  them,  the  better  for 
your  residence  among  them.  Olney  is  a  popu- 
lous place,  inhabited  chiefly  by  the  half-starved 
and  the  ragged  of  the  earth,  and  it  is  not  possible 
for  our  small  party  and  small  ability  to  extend  their 
operations  so  far  as  to  be  much  felt  among  such 
numbers.  Accept  therefore  your  share  of  their 
gratitude,  and  be  convinced  that  when  they  pray 
for  a  blessing  upon  those  who  relieved  their  wants, 
He  that  answers  that  prayer,  and  when  he  an- 
swers, will  remember  his  servant  at  Stock. 

I  little  thought  when  I  was  writing  the  history 
of  John  Gilpin,  that  he  would  appear  in  print — I 
intended  to  laugh,  and  to  make  two  or  three  others 
laugh,  of  whom  you  were  one.  But  now  all  the 
world  laughs,  at  least  if  they  have  the  same  relish 
for  a  tale  ridiculous  in  itself,  and  quaintly  told,  as 
we  have — Well — they  do  not  always  laugh  so  in- 
nocently, and  at  so  small  an  expense — for  in  a 
world  like  this,  abounding  with  subjects  for  sa- 
tire, and  with  satirical  wits  to  mark  them,  a  laugh 
that  hurts  nobody  has  at  least  the  grace  of  no- 
velty to  recommend  it.  Swift's  darling  motto  was, 
Vive  la  bagatelle— a,  good  wish  for  a  philosopher 
of  his  complexion,  the  greater  part  of  whose  wis- 
dom, whencesoever  it  came,  most  certainly  came 
not  from  above.  La  bagatelle  has  no  enemy  in 
me,  though  it  has  neither  so  warm  a  friend,  nor 
so  able  a  one,  as  it  had  in  him.  If  I  trifle,  and 
merely  trifle,  it  is  because  I  am  reduced  to  it  by 


necessity — a  melancholy  that  nothing  so  effectu- 
ally disperses,  engages  me  sometimes  in  the  ardu- 
ous task  of  being  merry  by  force.  And,  strange 
as  it  may  seem,  the  most  ludicrous  lines  I  ever 
wrote  have  been  written  in  the  saddest  mood,  and 
but  for  that  saddest  mood,  perhaps  had  never 
been  written  at  all. 

I  hear  from  Mrs.  Newton,  that  some  great  per- 
sons have  spoken  with  great  approbation  of  a  cer- 
tain book — Who  they  are,  and  what  they  have 
said,  I  am  to  be  told  in  a  future  letter.  The 
Monthly  Reviewers  in  the  mean  time  have  satis- 
fied me  well  enough. 

Yours,  my  dear  WiUiam,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM, 

Doctor  Beattie  is  a  respectable  character.  I 
account  him  a  man  of  sense,  a  philosopher,  a  scho- 
lar, a  person  of  distinguished  genius,  and  a  good 
writer.  I  believe  him  too  a  Christian:  with  a 
profound  reverence  for  the  Scripture,  with  great 
zeal  and  a,bility  to  enforce  the  belief  of  it  (both 
which  he  exerts  with  the  candour  and  good  man- 
ners of  a  gentleman ;)  he  seems  well  entitled  to 
that  allowance  ;  and  to  deny  it  him,  would  impeach 
one's  own  right  to  the  appellation.  With  all  these 
good  things  to  recommend  him,  there  can  be  no 
dearth  of  sufficient  reasons  to  read  his  writings. 
You  favoured  me  some  years  since  with  one  of  his 
volumes;  by  which  I  was  both  pleased  and  in- 
structed :  and  I  beg  that  you  will  send  me  the  new 
one,  when  you  can  conveniently  spare  it,  or  rather 
bring  it  yourself,  while  the  swallows  are  yet  upon 
the  wing ;  for  the  summer  is  going  down  apace. 

You  tell  me  you  have  been  asked,  if  I  am  intent 
upon  another  volume  1  I  reply — not  at  present, 
not  being  convinced  that  I  have  met  with  sufficient 
encouragement.  I  account  myself  happy  in  hav- 
ing pleased  a  few,  but  am  not  rich  enough  to  de- 
spise the  many.  I  do  not  know  what  sort  of  mar- 
ket my  commodity  has  found,  but  if  a  slack  one 
I  must  beware  how  1  make  a  second  attempt.  My 
bookseller  will  not  be  willing  to  incur  a  certain 
loss ;  and  I  can  as  little  aflford  it.  Notwithstand- 
ing what  I  have  said,  I  write,  and  am  even  now 
writing  for  the  press.  I  told  you  that  I  had  trans- 
lated several  of  the  poems  of  Madame  Guion.  I 
told  you  too,  or  I  am  mistaken,  that  Mr.  Bull  de- 
signed to  print  them.  That  gentleman  is  gone  to 
the  sea-side  with  Mrs.  Wilberforce,  and  will  be 
absent  six  weeks.  My  intention  is  to  surprise  him 
at  his  return  with  the  addition  of  as  much  more 
translation  as  I  have  already  given  him.  This, 
however,  is  still  less  likely  to  be  a  popular  work 
than  mv  former.  Men,  that  have  no  religion, 
wouid  despise  it ;  and  men,  that  have  no  religion* 


Let.  115,  116,  117. 


LETTERS. 


229 


experience,  would  not  understand  it.  Bu.t  the 
strain  of  simple  and  unaffected  piety  in  the  origi- 
nal is  sweet  beyond  expression.  She  sings  like  an 
angel,  and  for  that  very  reason  has  found  but  few 
admirers.  Other  things  I  write  too,  as  you  will 
see  on  the  other  side,  but  these  merely  for  my 
amusement.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  Jan.  19,  1783. 

Not  to  retaliate,  but  for  want  of  opportunity, 
I  have  delayed  writing.  From  a  scene  of  most 
uninterrupted  retirement,  we  have  passed  at  once 
into  a  state  of  constant  engagement ;  not  that  our 
society  is  much  multiplied.  The  addition  of  an 
individual  has  made  all  this  difference.  Lady 
Austen  and  we  pass  our  days  alternately  at  each 
other's  chateau.  In  the  morning  I  walk  with  one 
or  other  of  the  ladies,  and  in  the  afternoon  wind 
thread.  Thus  did  Hercules  and  Samson,  and  thus 
do  I ;  and  were  both  those  heroes  living,  I  should 
not  fear  to  challenge  them  to  a  trial  of  skill  in  that 
business,  or  doubt  to  beat  them  both.  As  to  kill- 
ing lions,  and  other  amusements  of  that  kind,  with 
which  they  were  so  delighted,  I  should  be  their 
humble  servant,  and  beg  to  be  excused. 

Having  no  frank,  I  can  not  send  you  Mr.  's 

two  letters  as  I  intended.  We  corresponded  as 
long  as  the  occasion  required,  and  then  ceased. 
Charmed  with  his  good  sense,  politeness,  and  libe- 
rality to  the  poor,  I  was  indeed  ambitious  of  con- 
tinuing a  correspondence  with  him,  and  told  him 
so.  Perhaps  I  had  done  more  prudently  had  I 
never  proposed  it.  But  warm  hearts  are  not  fa- 
mous for  wisdom,  and  mine  was  too  warm  to  be  very 
considerate  on  such  an  occasion.  I  have  not  heard 
from  him  since,  and  have  long  given  up  all  expec- 
tation of  it.  I  know  he  is  too  busy  a  man  to  have 
leisure  for  me,  and  ought  to  have  recollected  it 
sooner.  He  found  time  to  do  much  good,  and  to 
employ  us  as  his  agents  in  doing  it,  and  that  might 
have  satisfied  me.  Though  laid  under  the  strict- 
est injunctions  of  secrecy,  both  by  him,  and  by  you 
on  his  behalf,  I  consider  myself  as  under  no  obli- 
gation to  conceal  from  you  the  remittances  he  made. 
Only,  in  my  turn,  I  beg  leave  to  request  secrecy 
on  your  part,  because,  intimate  as  you  are  with 
him,  and  highly  as  he  values  you,  I  can  not  yet 
be  sure  that  the  communication  would  please  him, 
his  delicacies  on  this  subject  being  as  singular  as 
his  benevolence.  He  sent  forty  pounds,  twenty 
at  a  time.  Olney  has  not  had  such  a  friend  this 
many  a  day ;  nor  has  there  been  an  instance  at 
any  time  of  a  few  poor  families  so  effectually  re- 
lieved, or  so  completely  encouraged  to  the  pursuit 
of  that  honest  industry  by  which,  their  debts  be- 
ing paid,  and  the  parents  and  children  comfortably  | 


clothed,  they  are  now  enabled  to  maintain  them- 
selves. Their  labour  was  almost  in  vain  before ; 
but  now  it  answers ;  it  earns  them  bread,  and  all 
their  other  wants  are  plentifully  suppUed. 

I  wish,  that  by  Mr.  's  assistance,  your 

purpose  in  behalf  of  the  prisoners  may  be  effectu- 
ated. A  pen  so  formidable  as  his  might  do  much, 
good,  if  properly  directed.  The  dread  of  a  bold 
censure  is  ten  times  more  moving  than  the  most 
eloquent  persuasion.  They  that  can  not  feel  for 
others,  are  the  persons  of  all  the  world  who  feel 
most  sensibly  for  themselves. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C, 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Feb.  8,  1783. 

When  I  contemplate  the  nations  of  the  earth, 
and  their  conduct  towards  each  other,  through  the 
medium  of  a  scriptural  light,  my  opinions  of  them 
are  exactly  like  your  own.  Whether  they  do  good 
or  do  evil,  I  see  them  acting  under  the  permission 
or  direction  of  that  Providence  who  governs  the 
earth,  whose  operations  are  as  irresistible  as  they 
are  silent  and  unsuspected.  So  far  we  are  per- 
fectly agreed ;  and  howsoever  we  may  differ  upon 
inferior  parts  of  the  subject,  it  is,  as  you  say,  an 
affair  of  no  great  consequence.  For  instance,  you 
think  the  peace  a  better  than  we  deserve,  and  in  a 
certain  sense  I  agree  with  you :  as  a  sinful  nation 
we  deserve  no  peace  at  all,  and  have  reason  enough 
to  be  thankful  that  the  voice  of  war  is  at  any  rate 
put  to  silence. 

Mr.  S  's  last  child  is  dead ;  it  lived  a 

little  while  in  a  world  of  which  it  knew  nothing, 
and  has  gone  to  another,  in  which  it  has  already 
become  wiser  than  the  wisest  it  has  left  behind. 
The  earth  is  a  grain  of  sand,  but  the  interests  of 
man  are  commensurate  with  the  heavens. 

Mrs.  Unwin  thanks  Mrs.  Newton  for  her  kind 
letter,  and  for  executing  her  commissions.  We 
truly  love  you  both,  and  think  of  you  often. 

W.  C. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Feb.  13  and  20,  1783. 

In  writing  to  you  I  never  want  a  subject.  Self 
is  always  at  hand,  and  self  with  its  concerns  is  al- 
ways interesting  to  a  friend. 

You  may  think,  perhaps,  that  having  commen- 
ced poet  by  profession,  I  am  always  writing  verses. 
Not  so — I  have  written  nothing,  at  least  finished 
nothing,  since  I  published — except  a  certain  face- 
tious history  of  John  Gilpin,  which  Mr.  Unwin 
would  send  to  the  Public  Advertiser.  Perhaps 
you  might  read  it  without  suspecting  the  author. 


fi30 


COWPER' 


'S  WORKS. 


Let.  118,  119,  isi) 


My  book  procures  me  favours,  which  my  mo- 
desty will  not  permit  mo  to  specify,  except  one 
which,  modest  as  I  am,  I  can  not  suppress — a  very 
handsome  letter  from  Dr.  Franklin  at  Passy. — 
These  fruits  it  has  brought  me. 

I  have  been  refreshing  myself  with  a  walk  in 
the  garden,  where  I  find  that  January  (who  ac- 
cording to  Chaucer  was  the  husband  of  May)  be- 
ing dead,  February  has  married  the  widow. 

Yours*  &c.  W.  C. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

Olney,  Feb.  20,  1783. 
Suspecting  that  I  should  not  have  hinted  at 
Dr.  Franklin's  encomium  under  any  other  influ- 
ence than  that  of  vanity,  I  was  several  times  on 
the  point  of  burning  my  letter  for  that  very  rea- 
son. But  not  having  time  to  write  another  by 
the  same  post,  and  believing  that  you  would  have 
the  grace  to  pardon  a  little  self- complacency  in  an 
author  on  so  trying  an  occasion,  I  let  it  pass.  One 
sin  naturally  leads  to  another,  and  a  greater;  and 
thus  it  happens  now,  for  I  have  no  way  to  gratify 
your  curiosity,  but  by  transcribing  the  letter  in 
question.  It  is  addressed,  by  the  way,  not  to  me, 
but  to  an  acquaintance  of  mine,  who  had  trans- 
mitted the  volume  to  him  without  my  knowledge. 


Sir,  Passy,  May  8,  1782. 

I  received  the  letter  you  did  me  the  honour  of 
writing'  to  me,  and  am  much  obliged  by  your  kind 
present  of  a  book.  The  relish  for  reading  of 
poetry  had  long  since  left  me,  but  there  is  some- 
thing so  new  in  the  manner,  so  easy,  and  yet  so 
correct  in  the  language,  so  clear  in  the  expression, 
yet  concise,  and  so  just  in  the  sentiments,  that  I 
have  read  the  whole  with  great  pleasure,  and 
some  of  the  pieces  more  than  once.  I  beg  you  to 
accept  my  thankful  acknowledgments,  and  to  pre- 
sent my  respects  to  the  author. 

Your  most  obedient  humble  servant, 

B.  FRANKLIN.  > 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

Great  revolutions  happen  in  this  Ant's  nest  of 
ours.  One  Emmet  of  illustrious  character  and 
great  abilities  pushes  out  another;  parties  are 
formed,  they  range  themselves  in  formidable  op- 
position, they  threaten  each  other's  ruin,  they 
cross  over  and  are  mingled  together,  and  like  the 
coruscations  of  the  Northern  Aurora  amuse  the 


spectator,  at  the  same  time  that  by  some  they  are 
supposed  to  be  forerunners  of  a  general  dissolu- 
tion. 

There  are  political  earthquakes  as  well  as  na- 
tural ones,  the  former  less  shocking  to  the  eye,  but 
not  always  less  fatal  in  their  influence  than  the 
latter.  The  image  which  Nebuchadnezzar  saw 
in  his  dream  was  made  up  of  heterogeneous  and 
incompatible  materials,  and  accordingly  broken. 
Whatever  is  so  formed  must  expect  a  like  catas- 
trophe. 

I  have  an  etching  of  the  late  Chancellor  hang- 
ing over  the  parlour  chimney.  1  often  contem- 
plate  it,  and  call  to  mind  the  day  when  I  was 
intimate  with  the  original.  It  is  very  like  him, 
but  he  is  disguised  by  his  hat,  which,  though 
fashionable,  is  awkward;  by  his  great  wig,  the  tie 
of  which  is  hardly  discernible  in  profile ;  and  by 
his  band  and  gown,  which  give  him  an  appear- 
ance clumsily  sacerdotal.  Our  friendship  is  dead 
and  buried,  yours  is  the  only  surviving  one  of  all 
with  which  I  was  once  honoured. 

Adieu,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  April  5,  1783. 

When  one  has  a  letter  to  write,  there  is  nothing 
more  useful  than  toi  make  a  beginning.  In  the 
first  place,  because  unless  it  be  begun,  there  is  no 
good  reason  to  hope  it  will  ever  be  ended ;  and  se- 
condly, because  the  beginning  is  half  the  business ; 
it  being  much  more  diflftcult  to  put  the  pen  in  mo- 
tion at  first,  than  to  continue  the  progress  of  it, 
when  once  moved. 

Mrs.  C  's  illness,  Ukely  to  prove  mor- 
tal, and  seizing  her  at  such  a  time,  has  excited 
much  compassion  in  my  breast,  and  in  Mrs.  Un- 
win's,  both  for  her  and  her  daughter.  To  have 
parted  with  a  child  she  loves  so  much,  intending 
soon  to  follow  her;  to  find  herself  arrested  before 
she  could  set  out,  and  at  so  great  a  distance  from 
her  most  valued  relations,  her  daughter's  life  too 
threatened  by  a  disorder  not  often  curable,  are  cir- 
cumstances truly  aflfecting.  She  has  indeed  much 
natural  fortitude,  and  to  make  her  condition  still 
more  tolerable,  a  good  Christian  hope  for  her  sup- 
port. But  so  it  is,  that  the  distresses  of  those  who 
least  need  our  pity  excite  it  most ;  the  amiable- 
ness  of  the  character  engages  our  sympathy,  and 
we  mourn  for  persons  for  whom  perhaps  we  might 
more  reasonably  rejoice.  There  is  still  however  a 
possibility  that  she  may  recover ;  an  event  w^e  mv^t 
wish  for,  though  for  her  to  depart  would  be  lar 
better.  Thus  we  would  always  withhold  from  the 
skies  those  who  alorie  can  reach  them ;  at  least  till 
we  are  ready  to  bear  them  company. 


Let.  121,  123, 


LETTERS. 


231 


Present  our  love,  if  you  please,  to  Miss  C  . 

1  S9.W  in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  for  last  month 
an  account  of  a  physician  who  has  discovered  a 
new  method  of  treating  consumptive  cases,  vs^hich 
has  succeeded  wonderfully  in  the  trial.  He  finds 
the  seat  of  the  distemper  in  the  stomach,  and  cures 
it  principally  by  emetics.  The  old  method  of  en- 
countering the  disorder  has  proved  so  unequal  to 
the  task,  that  I  should  be  much  inchned  to  any 
new  practice,  that  comes  well  recommended.  He 
is  spoken  of  as  a  sensible  and  judicious  man,  but 
his  name  I  have  forgot. 

Our  love  to  all  under  your  roof,  and  in  particu- 
lar to  Miss  Catlett,  if  she  is  with  you. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

May  5,  1783. 

You  may  suppose  that  I  did  not  hear  Mr.  

preach,  but  I  heard  of  him.  How  different  is  that 
plainness  of  speech,  which  a  spiritual  theme  re- 


quires, from  that  vulgar  dialect  which  this  gentle- 
man has  mistaken  for  it !  Affectation  of  every  sort  is 
odious,  especially  in  a  minister,  and  more  especial- 
ly an  affectation  that  betrays  him  into  expressions 
fit  only  for  the  mouths  of  the  illiterate.  Truth 
indeed  needs  no  ornament,  neither  does  a  beauti- 
ful person ;  but  to  clothe  it  therefore  in  rags,  when 
a  decent  habit  was  at  hand,  would  be  esteemed 
preposterous  and  absurd.  The  best  proportioned 
figure  may  be  made  offensive  by  beggary  and  filth; 
and  even  truths,  which  came  down  from  Heaven, 
though  they  can  not  forego  their  nature,  may  be 
disguised  and  disgraced  by  unsuitable  language. 
It  is  strange  that  a  pupil  of  yours  should  blunder 
thus.  You  may  be  consoled  however  by  reflect- 
ing, that  he  could  not  have  erred  so  grossly,  if  he 
had  not  totally  and  wilfully  departed  both  from 
your  instruction  and  example.  Were  I  to  describe 
your  style  in  two  words,  I  should  call  it  plain  and 
neat,  simplicem  munditiis,  and  1  do  not  know 

howl  couldgiveit  juster  praise,  or  pay  it  a  greater  I  pose,  there  ought  to  be  at  least  three  parsons  in 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  May  12,  1783. 

A  LETTER  written  from  such  a  place  as  this  is 
a  creation ;  and  creation  is  a  work  for  which  mere 
man  is  very  indifferently  qualified.  Ex  nihilo  ni- 
hil Jit,  is  a  maxim  that  appHes  itself  in  every  case 
where  deity  is  not  concerned.  With  this  view  of 
the  matter,  I  should  charge  myself  with  extreme 
folly  for  pretending  to  work  without  materials,  did 
I  not  know,  that  although  nothing  could  be  the 
result,  even  that  nothing  will  be  welcome.  If  I 
can  tell  you  no  news,  I  can  tell  you  at  least  that  I 
esteem  you  highly;  that  my  friendship  with  you 
and  yours  is  the  only  balm  of  my  life ;  a  comfoitj 
sufficient  to  reconcile  me  to  an  existence  destitute 
of  every  other.  This  is  not  the  language  of  to- 
day, only  the  effect  of  a  transient  cloud  suddenly 
brought  over  me,  and  suddenly  to  be  removed,  but 
punctually  expressive  of  my  habitual  frame  of 
mind,  such  as  it  has  been  these  ten  years. 

In  the  Review  of  last  month,  I  met  with  an  ac- 
count of  a  sermon  preached  by  Mr.  Paley,  at  the 
consecration  of  his  friend.  Bishop  Law.  The 
critic  admires  and  extols  the  preacher,  and  devoutly 
prays  the  lord  of  the  harvest  to  send  forth  more  such 
labourers  into  his  vineyard.  I  rather  differ  from 
him  in  opinion,  not  being  able  to  conjecture  in 
what  respect  the  vineyard  will  be  benefited  by  such 
a  measure.  He  is  certainly  ingenious,  and  has 
stretched  his  ingenuity  to  the  uttermost  in  order  to 
exhibit  the  church  established,  consisting  of  bishops, 
priests,  and  deacons,  in  the  most  favourable  point 
of  view.  I  lay  it  down  for  a  rule,  that  when  much 
ingenuity  is  necessary  to  gain  an  argument  credit, 
that  argument  is  unsound  at  bottom.  So  is  his, 
and  so  are  all  the  petty  devices  by  which  he  seeks 
to  enforce  it.  He  says  first,  '  that  the  appoint- 
ment of  various  orders  in  the  church  is  attended  with 
this  good  consequence,  that  each  class  of  people  is 
supplied  with  a  clergy  of  their  own  level  and  descrip- 
tion, with  whom  they  may  live  and  associate  on  terms 
of  equality.'    But  in  order  to  effect  this  good  pur- 


compliment.  He  that  speaks  to  be  understood  by 
a  congregation  of  rustics,  and  yet  in  terms  that 
would  not  offend  academical  ears,  has  found  the 
happy  medium.  This  is  certainly  practicable  to 
men  of  taste  and  judgment,  and  the  practice  of  a 
few  proves  it.    Hactenus  de  Concionando. 

We  are  truly  glad  to  hear  that  Miss  C  


every  parish,  one  for  the  gentry,  one  for  the  traders 
and  mechanics,  and  one  for  the  lowest  of  the  vul- 
gar. Neither  is  it  easy  to  find  many  parishes, 
where  the  laity  at  large  have  any  society  with  their 
minister  at  all.  This  therefore  is  fanciful,  and  a 
mere  invention.  In  the  next  place  he  says  it  gives 
a  dignity  to  the  ministry  itself,  and  the  clergy  share 
is  better,  and  heartily  wish  you  more  promising  in  the  respect  paid  to  their  superiors.  Much  good 
accounts  from  Scotland.  Dehemur  morti  nos  nos-  may  such  participation  do  them!  They  them- 
traque.  We  all  acknowledge  the  debt,  but  are  selves  know  how  little  it  amounts  to.  The  dig- 
seldom  pleased  when  those  we  love  are  required  nity  a  parson  derives  from  the  lawn  sleeves  and 
to  pay  it.  The  demand  will  find  you  prepared  square  cap  of  his  diocesan  will  never  endanger  his 
for  it.  Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C.  humility. 

16-  V 


232 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Popo  says  truly- 


Let.  123,  124,  125. 


Worth  nink(!H  tlio  man,  anil  want  of  it  the  fellow ; 
Tho  rest  is  all  but  leather  or  prunello. 

Again— 'Rich  and  splendid  situations  in  the 
church  have  hcon  justly  rogarded  as  j)rizcs,  held 
out  to  invito  persons  of  good  hopes,  and  ingenuous 
attaninients.'  Agreed.  But  the  prize  held  out 
in  the  Scripture  is  of  a  very  diflcrent  kind;  and 
our  ecclesiastical  baits  are  too  often  snapped  by 
the  worthless,  and  persons  of  no  attainments  at 
all.  They  are  uideed  incentives  to  avarice  and  am- 
bition, but  not  to  those  acquirements  by  which 
only  the  ministerial  function  can  be  adorned— 
zeal  for  the  salvation  of  men,  humility,  and  self- 
denial.    Mr.  Paley  and  I  therefore  can  not  agree. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

May  26,  1783. 
1  PEEL  for  my  uncle,  and  do  not  wonder  that  hi^ 
loss  afflicts  him.    A  connexion  that  has  subsisted 
so  many  years  could  not  be  rent  asunder  without 
great  pain  to  the  survivor.    I  hope  however  and 
doubt  not  but  when  he  has  had  a  httle  more  time 
for  recollection,  he  will  find  that  consolation  in  his 
own  famdy,  which  is  not  the  lot  of  every  father  to 
be  blessed  with.    It  seldom  happens  that  married 
persons  hve  together  so  long,  or  so  happily;  but 
this,  which  one  feels  oneself  ready  to  suggest  as 
matter  of  alleviation,  is  the  very  circumstance 
that  aggravates  his  distress;  therefore  he  misses 
her  the  more,  and  feels  that  he  can  but  ill  spare 
lier.    It  is  however  a  necessary  tax  which  all  who 
live  long  must  pay  for  their  longevity,  to  lose  many 
whom  .hey  would  be  glad  todetain  (perhaps those 
m  whom  all  their  happiness  is  centered),  and  to 
see  them  step  into  the  grave  before  them.    In  one 
respect  at  least  this  is  a  merciful  appointment: 
when  hfe  has  lost  that  to  which  it  owed  its  princi- 
pal relish,  we  may  ourselves  the  more  cheerfully 

most  affectionate  remembrance,  and  tell  him  if 
you  think  fit,  how  much  I  wish  that  the  evening 
01  his  long  day  may  be  serene  and  happy. 

W..  C 


some  a„  of  sorrow,  when  an  amiable  and 
Christian  friend  departs;  but  the  Scrir,ture  so 
many  more  and  so  much  more  important  reasons 

-^rr;  P'^^haps  more 

remarkably  than  on  any  other,  sormw  is  turned 
mto  joy  The  law  of  our  land  is  affronted  if  we 
say  the  king  dies,  and  insists  on  it  that  he  only  de- 
mises. This,  which  is  a  fiction,  where  a  monarch 
only  IS  m  question,  in  the  case  of  a  Christian  is 
rea  lty  and  truth.  He  only  lays  aside  a  body 
which  It  IS  his  privilege  to  be  encumbered  with  no 
longer;  and  instead  of  dying,  in  that  moment  he 
begins  o  live.  But  this  the  world  does  not  un- 
derstand, therefore  the  kings  of  it  must  go  on  de- 
mising to  the  end  of  the  chapter  *         W  C 


TO  THE  REV.  J.  NEWTON. 

We  rather  rejoice  than  mourn  with  you  on  the 

occasion  of  Mrs.  C  Weath.    Lthe  c  s 

of  believers,  death  has  lost  his  sting,  not  only  with 
respect  to  those  he  takes  away,  but  with  r^elt  to 
survivors  also.   Nature  indeeLill  aTw^sl^st 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

''or'' JnneS^m^. 
Our  severest  winter,  commonly  called  the  spring 
now  over  and  I  find  myself  seated  inmylonr\ 
ite  recess,  the  green-house.    In  such  a  Jtuation 

and  where  only  my  myrtles  presume  to  peep  in  a 
he  window,  you  may  suppose  I  have  no  interrup 

Sre        'T'"'^-.  ^^^"^i^^  «f  the 

spot  are  themselves  an  interruption,  my  attention 
being  cal  ed  upon  by  those  very  myrtles,  by  a  dou" 

ai^r  t'o  blossom 

and  by  ,  bed  of  beans  already  in  bloom;  andy^u 
are  to  consider  It,  if  you  please,  as  no  small  proo^ 
of  my  regard  that  though  you  have  so  many  pow- 
erful rivals,  I  disengage  myself  from  them  all  aTd 
devote  this  hour  entirely  to  you.  ' 

You  are  not  acquainted  with  the  Rev.  Mr  Bull 
of  Newport,  perhaps  it  is  as  well  for  you  that  you 
are  not.  You  would  regret  still  more^han  youT 
that  there  are  so  many  miles  interposed  between 

row.  A  dissenter,  but  a  liberal  one;  a  man  of 
lettersandof genius;  master ofafine imagination 

wVen  hT  findT"  t  '^'^  -^g-tioLh;:h; 
when  he  finds  himself  in  the  company  he  loves 
and  can  confide  in,  runs  away  with  him^n  o  rh 
fields  of  speculation,  as  amuse  and  enliven  every 
other  imagination  that  has  the  happiness  to  bl  of 
the  party!    At  other  times  he  has  a  tender  and 

lesst:  "^'^"^'^^^  disposition  not 

ess  agreeable  m  its  way.  No  men  are  better  quai- 
led for  companions  in  such  a  world  as  this,  than 
men  of  ,uch  a  temperament.    Every  scene  if  hfe 

^nZ::t'^  '  ^  ^^^'^ tht 

mmd  that  has  an  equal  mixture  of  melancholy  and 


tin.'!!f? ^PP^^''  '°  ^^^^  between  the  wri- 

ting  of  this  letter  and  that  which  immediately  foUow* 


Let.  126. 


LETTERS. 


2S3 


vivacity  is  the  best  of  all  qualified  for  the  contem- 
plation of  either.  He  can  be  lively  without  levity, 
and  pensive  without  dejection.  Such  a  man  is 
Mr.  Bull.  But — he  smokes  tobacco — nothing  is 
perfect  

Nihil  est  ab  omni 

Parte  beatum. 

On  the  other  side  I  sent  you  a  something,  a 
song  if  you  please,  composed  last  Thursday — 
the  incident  happened  the  day  before.* 

Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  June  13, 1783. 

I  THANK  you  for  your  Dutch  communications. 
The  suffrage  of  such  respectable  men  must  have 
given  you  much  pleasure,  a  pleasure  only  to  be  ex- 
ceeded by  the  consciousness  you  had  before  of  hav- 
ing published  truth,  and  of  having  served  a  good 
master  by  doing  so. 

I  have  always  regretted  that  your  ecclesiastical 
history  went  no  further ;  I  never  saw  a  work  that 
I  thought  more  likely  to  serve  the  cause  of  truth, 
nor  history  applied  to  so  good  a  purpose.  The 
facts  incontestable,  the  grand  observations  upon 
them  all  irrefragable,  and  the  style,  in  my  judg- 
ment, incomparably  better  than  that  of  Robertson 
or  Gibbon.  I  would  give  you  my  reasons  for  think- 
ing so,  if  I  had  not  a  very  urgent  one  for  declining 
it.  You  have  no  ear  for  such  music,  whoever 
may  be  the  performer.  What  ydu  added,  but  never  | 
printed,  is  quite  equal  to  what  has  appeared,  I 
which  I  think  might  have  encouraged  you  to  pro-  j 
cecd,  though  you  missed  that  freedom  in  writing . 
which  you  found  before.  While  you  were  at 
Olney  this  was  at  least  possible ;  in  a  state  of  re-  j 
tirement  you  had  leisure,  without  which  I  suppose 
Paul  himself  could  not  have  written  his  Epistles.  ■ 
But  those  days  are  fled,  and  every  hope  of  a  contin- 1 
uation  is  fled  with  them. 

The  day  of  judgment  is  spoken  of  not  only  as  a' 
surprise,  but  a  snare — a  snare  upon  all  the  in- 
habitants of  the  earth.  A  difference  indeed  will 
obtain  in  favour  of  the  godly,  which  is,  that  though 
a  snare,  a  sudden,  in  some  sense  an  unexpected, 
and  in  every  sense  an  awful  event,  yet  it  will  find 
them  prepared  to  meet  it.  But  the  day  being  thus 
characterised,  a  wide  field  is  consequently  open  to' 
conjecture ;  some  will  look  for  it  at  one  period,  and 
some  at  another;  we  shall  most  of  us  prove  at  last 
to  have  been  mistaken,  and  if  any  should  prove  to 
have  guessed  aright,  they  will  reap  no  advantage, 
the  felicity  of  their  conjecture  being  incapable  of 


Here  followed  his  song  of  the  Rose. 


proof  till  the  day  itself  shall  prove  it.  My  own  sen- 
timents upon  the  subject  appear  to  me  perfectly 
scriptural,  though  I  have  no  doubt  that  they  differ 
totally  from  those  of  all  who  have  ever  thought 
about  it;  being  however  so  singular,  and  of  no  im- 
portance to  the  happiness  of  mankind,  and  being 
moreover  difficult  to  swallow,  just  in  proportion  as 
they  are  peculiar,  I  keep  them  to  myself 

I  am,  and  always  have  been,  a  great  observer 
of  natural  appearances,  but  I  think  not  a  super- 
stitious one.  The  fallibility  of  those  speculations 
which  lead  men  of  fanciful  minds  to  interpret 
Scripture  by  the  contingencies  of  the  day,  is  evident, 
from  this  consideration,  that  what  the  God  of  the 
Scriptures  has  seen  fit  to  conceal,  he  will  not  as 
the  God  of  nature  pubUsh.  He  is  one  and  the 
same  in  both  capacities,  and  consistent  with  himr 
self;  and  his  purpose,  if  he  designs  a  secret,  im- 
penetrable, in  whatever  way  we  attempt  to  open 
it.  It  is  impossible  however  for  an  observer  of  na- 
tural phenomena  not  to  be  struck  with  the  singu- 
larity of  the  present  season.  The  fogs  I  mentioned 
in  my  last  still  continue,  though  till  yesterday  the 
earth  was  as  dry  as  intense  heat  could  make  it. 
The  sun  continues  to  rise  and  set  without  his  rays, 
and  hardly  shines  at  noon,  even  in  a  cloudless  sky. 
At  eleven  last  night  the  moon  was  a  dull  red,  she 
was  nearly  at  her  highest  elevation,  and  had  the 
colour  of  heated  brick.  She  would  naturally,  I 
know,  have  such  an  appearance  looking  through 
a  misty  atmosphere;  but  that  such  an  atmosphere 
should  obtain  for  so  long  a  time,  and  in  a  country 
where  it  has  not  happened  in  my  remembrance 
even  in  the  winter,  is  rather  remarkable.  We 
have  had  more  thunder  storms  than  have  consisted 
well  with  the  peace  of  the  fearful  maidens  in  Ol- 
ney, though  not  so  many  as  have  happened  in 
places  at  no  great  distance,  nor  so  violent.  Yes- 
terday morning,  however,  at  seven  o'clock,  two  fire- 
balls burst  either  in  the  steeple  or  close  to  it.  Wil- 
liam Andrews  saw  them  meet  at  that  point,  and 
immediately  after  saw  such  a  smoke  issue  from  the 
apertures  in  the  steeple  as  soon  rendered  it  invisi- 
ble: the  noise  of  the  explosion  surpassed  all  the 
noises  I  ever  heard — you  would  have  thought  that 
a  thousand  sledge-hammers  were  battering  great 
stones  to  powder,  all  in  the  same  instant.  The 
weather  is  still  as  hot,  and  the  air  as  full  of  va- 
pour, as  if  there  had  been  neither  rain  nor  thunder 
all  the  summer. 

There  was  once  a  periodical  paper  published, 
called  Mist's  Journal :  a  name  well  adapted  to  the 
sheet  before  you.  Misty  however  as  I  am,  I  do 
not  mean  to  be  mystical,  but  to  be  understood,  like 
an  almanack-maker,  according  to  the  letter.  As 
a  poet,  nevertheless,  I  claim,  if  any  wonderful  event 
should  follow,  a  right  to  apply  all  and  every  such 
post-prognostic,  to  the  purposes  of  the  tragic  muse. 

Yours,  W.  C. 


234 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  127, 128, 129. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

MY  DKAR  FRIEND,  June  17,  1783. 

Your  letter  reached  Mr.  S  while  Mr.  

was  with  him;  whether  it  wrought  any  change  in 
his  opinion  of  that  gentleman,  as  a  preacher,  I 
know  not,  but  for  my  own  part  I  give  you  full 
credit  for  the  soundness  and  rectitude  of  yours.  No 
man  was  ever  scolded  out  of  his  sins.  The  heart, 
corrupt  as  it  is,  and  because  it  is  so,  grows  angry 
if  it  be  not  treated  with  some  management  and 
good  manners,  and  scolds  again.  A  surly  mastiff 
will  bear  perhaps  to  be  stroked,  though  he  will 
growl  even  under  that  operation,  but  if  you  touch 
him  roughly,  he  will  bite.  There  is  no  grace  that 
the  spirit  of  self  can  counterfeit  with  more  success 
than  a  religious  zeal.  A  man  thinks  he  is  fighting 
for  Christ,  and  he  is  fighting  for  his  own  notions. 
He  thinks  that  he  is  skilfully  searching  the  hearts 
of  others,  when  he  is  only  gratifying  the  malignity 
of  his  own,  and  charitably  supposes  his  hearers 
destitute  of  all  grace,  that  he  may  shine  the  more 
in  his  own  eyes  by  comparison.  When  he  has 
performed  this  notable  task,  he  wonders  that  they 
are  not  converted:  '  he  has  given  it  them  soundly, 
and  if  they  do  not  tremble,  and  confess  that  God 
is  in  him  of  a  truth,  he  gives  them  up  as  reprobate, 
incorrigible,  and  lost  for  ever.'  But  a  man  that 
loves  me,  if  he  sees  me  in  -an  error,  will  pity  me, 
and  endeavour  calmly  to  convince  me  of  it,  and 
persuade  me  to  forsake  it.  If  he  has  great  and 
good  news  to  tell  me,  he  will  not  do  it  angrily,  and 
in  much  heat  and  discomposure  of  spirit.  It  is  not 
therefore  easy  to  conceive  on  what  ground  a  minis- 
ter can  justify  a  conduct  which  only  proves  that 
he  does  not  understand  his  errand.  The  absurdity 
of  it  would  certainly  strike  him,  if  he  were  not 
himself  deluded. 

A  people  will  always  love  a  minister,  if  a  minis- 
ter seems  to  love  his  people.  The  old  maxim,  Si- 
mile agit  in  simile,  is  in  no  case  more  exactly  veri- 
fied: therefore  you  were  beloved  at  Olney,  and 
if  you  preached  to  the  Chickesawes,  and  Chach- 
taws,  would  be  equally  beloved  by  them. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWT9N. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  June  19,  1783. 

The  translation  of  your  letters  into  Dutch  was 
news  that  pleased  me  much.  I  intended  plain 
prose,  but  a  rhyme  obtruded  itself,  and  I  became 
poetical  when  I  least  expected  it.  When  you 
wrote  those  letters  you  did  not  dream  that  you 
Were  designed  for  an  apostle  to  the  Dutch.  Yet 
so  it  proves,  and  such  among  many  others  are  the 
advantages  we  derive  from  the  art  of  printing :  an 
art  in  which  indisputably  man  was  instructed  by 


the  same  great  teacher  who  taught  him  to  cm- 
l)roidcr  for  the  service  of  the  sanctuary,  and  which 
amounts  almost  to  as  great  a  blessing  as  the  gift 
of  tongues. 

The  summer  is  passing  away,  and  hitherto  has 
hardly  been  either  seen  or  felt.  Perpetual  clouds 
intercept  the  influence  of  the  sun,  and  for  the  most 
part  there  is  an  autumnal  coldness  in  the  weather, 
though  we  are  almost  upon  the  eve  of  the  longest 
day. 

We  are  well,  and  always  mindful  of  you;  be 
mindful  of  us,  and  assured  that  we  love  you. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  July  27,  1783. 

You  can  not  have  more  pleasure  in  receiving  a 
letter  from  me,  than  I  should  find  in  writing  it, 
were  it  not  almost  impossible  in  such  a  plac'e  to 
find  a  subject. 

I  live  in  a  world  abounding  with  incidents,  upon 
which  many  grave,  and  perhaps  some  profitable 
observations  might  be  made ;  but  those  incidents 
never  reaching  my  unfortunate  ears,  both  the  en- 
tertaining narrative  and  the  reflection  it  might 
suggest  are  to  me  annihilated  and  lost.  I  look 
back  to  the  past  week,  and  say,  what  did  it  pro- 
duce'? I  ask  the  same  question  of  the  week  pre- 
ceding, and  duly  receive  the  same  answer  from 
both — nothing ! — A  situation  like  this,  in  which  I 
am  as  unknown  to  the  world,  as  I  am  ignorant 
of  all  that  passes  in  it,  in  which  I  have  nothing  to 
do  but  to  think,  would  exactly  suit  me,  were  my 
subjects  of  meditation  as  agreeable  as  my  leisure  is 
uninterrupted.  My  passion  for  retirement  is  not 
at  all  abated,  after  so  many  years  spent  in  the 
most  sequestered  state,  but  rather  increased.  A 
circumstance  I  should  esteem  wonderful  to  a  de- 
gree not  to  be  accounted  for,  considering  the  con- 
dition of  my  mind,  did  I  not  know,  that  we  think 
as  we  are  made  to  think,  and  of  course  approve  and 
prefer,  as  Providence,  who  appoints  the  bounds 
of  our  habitation,  chooses  for  us.  Thus  am*  I  both 
free  and  a  prisoner  at  the  same  time.  The  world 
is  before  me;  I  am  not  shut  up  in  the  Bastile; 
there  are  no  moats  about  my  castle,  no  locks  upon 
my  gates,  of  which  I  have  not  the  key — but  an 
invisible,  uncontrollable  agency,  a  local  attach- 
ment, an  inclination  more  forcible  than  I  ever  felt, 
even  to  the  place  of  my  birth,  serves  me  for  prison 
walls,  and  for  bounds  which  I  can  not  pass.  In 
former  years  I  have  known  sorrow,  and  before  I 
had  ever  tasted  of  spiritual  trouble.  The  eflJect 
was  an  abhorrence  of  the  scene  in  which  I  had 
suffered  so  much,  and  a  weariness  of  those  objects 
which  I  had  so  long  looked  at  with  an  eye  of  des- 
pondency and  dejection.    But  it  is  otherwise  with 


Let.  130,  131. 


LETTERS. 


235 


me  now.  The  same  cause  subsisting,  and  in  a 
much  more  powerful  degree,  fails  to  produce  its 
natural  effect.  The  very  stones  in  the  garden- 
walls  are  my  intimate  acquaintance.  I  should 
miss  almost  the  minutest  object,  and  be  disagreea- 
bly affected  by  its  removal,  and  am  persuaded  that 
were  it  possible  I  could  leave  this  incommodious 
nook  for  a  twelvemonth,  I  should  return  to  it  again 
with  rapture,  and  be  transported  with  the  sight 
of  objects  which  to  all  the  world  beside  would  be 
at  least  indifferent;  some  of  them  perhaps,  such  as 
the  ragged  thatch  and  the  tottering  walls  of  the 
neighbouring  cottages,  disgusting.  But  so  it  is, 
and  it  is  so,  because  here  is  to  be  my  abode,  and 
because  such  is  the  appointment  of  Him  that  placed 
me  in  it — 

Iste  terrarum  mihi  prjBter  omnes 
Angulus  ridet. 

It  is  the  place  of  all  the  world  I  love  the  most,  not 
for  any  happiness  it  affords  me,  but  because  here 
I  can  be  miserable  witli  most  convenience  to  my- 
self, and  with  the  least  disturbance  to  others. 

You  wonder,  and  (I  dare  say)  unfeignedly,  be- 
cause you  do  not  think  yourself  entitled  to  such 
praise,  that  I  prefer  your  style,  as  an  historian,  to 
that  of  the  two  most  renowned  writers  of  history 
the  present  day  has  seen.  That  you  may  not  sus- 
pect me  of  having  said  more  than  my  real  opinion 
will  warrant,  I  will  tell  you  why.  In  your  style 
I  see  no  affectation.  In  every  line  of  theirs  I  see 
nothing  else.  They  disgust  me  always,  Robertson 
with  his  pomp  and  his  strut,  and  Gibbon  vsdth  his 
finical  and  French  manners.  You  are  as  correct 
as  they.  You  express  yourself  with  as  much  pre- 
cision. Your  words  are  ranged  with  as  much 
propriety,  but  you  do  not  set  your  periods  to  a 
tune.  They  discover  a  perpetual  desire  to  exhibit 
themselves  to  advantage,  whereas  your  subject  en- 
grosses you.  They  sing,  and  you  say ;  which,  as 
history  is  a  thing  to  be  said,  and  not  sung,  is,  in 
my  judgment,  very  much  to  your  advantage.  A 
writer  that  despises  their  tricks,  and  is  yet  neither 
inelegant  nor  inharmonious,  proves  himself,  by 
that  single  circumstance,  a  man  of  superior  judg- 
ment and  ability  to  them  both  You  have  my 
reasons,  I  honour  a  manly  character,  in  which 
good  sense,  and  a  desire  of  doing  good,  are  the 
predominant  features — but  affectation  is  an  emetic, 

W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  BULL. 

August  3,  1783. 
Your  seaside  situation,  your  beautiful  prospects, 
your  fine  rides,  and  the  sight  of  the  palaces  which 
you  have  seen,  we  have  not  envied  you ;  but  are 
glad  that  you  have  enjoyed  them.  Why  should 
we  envy  any  man  %    Is  not  our  green-house  a  ca- 


binet of  perfumes'?  It  is  at  this  moment  fronted 
with  carnations  and  balsams,  with  mignionette  and 
\  roses,  with  jessamine  and  woodbine,  and  wants 
nothing  but  your  pipe  to  make  it  truly  Arabian; 
a  wilderness  of  sweets  !  The  sofa  is  ended  but 
!  not  finished,  a  paradox  which  your  natural  acu- 
'  men,  sharpened  by  habits  of  logical  attention,  will 
enable  you  to  reconcile  in-  a,  moment.  Do  not  im- 
agine, however,  that  I  lounge  over  it — on  the  con- 
trary, I  find  it  severe  exercise  to  mould  and  fashion 
if  to  my  mind  !* 

I  was  always  an  admirer  of  thunder-storms,  even 
before  I  knew  whose  voice  I  heard  in  them :  but 
especially  an  admirer  of  thunder  rolling  over  the 
great  waters.  There  is  something  singularly  ma- 
jestic in  the  sound  of  it  at  sea,  where  the  eye  and 
the  ear  have  uninterrupted  opportunity  of  obser- 
vation, and  the  concavity  above  being  made  spa- 
cious reflects  it  with  more  advantage.  I  have  con- 
sequently envied  you  your  situation,  and  the  en- 
joyment of  those  refreshing  breezes  that  belong  to 
it.  We  have  indeed  been  regaled  with  some  of 
those  bursts  of  ethereal  music. — The  peals  have 
been  as  loud,  by  the  report  of  a  gentleman  who 
lived  many  years  in  the  West  Indies,  as  were  evdr 
heard  in  those  islands,  and  the  flashes  as  splendid. 
But  when  the  thunder  preaches,  an  horizon  bound- 
ed by  the  ocean  is  the  only  sounding-board. 

I  have  had  but  little  leisure,  strange  as  it  may 
seem;  and  that  little  I  devoted  for  a  month  after 
your  departure  to  Madame  Guion.  I  have  made 
fair  copies  of  all  the  pieces  I  have  produced  on  this 
last  occasion,  and  will  put  them  into  your  hands 
when  we  meet.  They  are  yours,  to  serve  as  you 
please ;  you  may  take  and  leave,  as  you  like,  for 
my  purpose  is  already  served ;  they  have  amused 
me,  and  I  have  no  further  demand  upon  them. 
The  lines  upon  friendship,  however,  which  were 
not  sufficiently  of  a  piece  with  the  others,  will  not 
now  be  wanted.  I  have  some  other  little  things, 
which  I  will  communicate  when  time  shall  serve ; 
but  I  can  not  now  transcribe  them. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  AugUSt  4,  1783. 

I  FEEL  myself  sensibly  obliged  by  the  interest 
you  take  in  the  success  of  my  productions.  Your 
feelings  upon  the  subject  are  such  as  I  should 
have  myself,  had  I  an  opportunity  of  calling  John- 
son aside  to  make  the  enquiry  you  propose.  But 
I  am  pretty  well  prepared  for  the  worst,  and  so 
long  as  I  have  the  opinion  of  a  few  capable  judges 
in  my  favour,  and  am  thereby  convinced  that  I 
have  neither  disgraced  myself  nor  my  subject,  shall 
not  feel  myself  disposed  to  any  extreme  anxiety 

*  The  prosecution  of  the  Task  seems  to  have  been  deferred 
till  towards  the  end  of  October. 


23G 


« 

COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  132. 


about  (ho  sale.  To  aim  with  success  at  the  s[)irit- 
lial  good  of  mankind,  and  to  become  popular  by 
writing  on  scriptural  subjects,  were  an  unreasona- 
ble ambition,  even  for  a  poet  to  entertain  in  days 
like  these.  Verse  may  have  many  charms,  but 
has  none  powerful  enough  to  conquer  the  aversion 
of  a  dissipated  age  to  such  instruction.  Ask  the 
question  therefore  boldly,  and  be  not  mortified 
r.ven  though  he  should  shake  his  head  and  drop 
his  chin  ;  for  it  is  no  more  than  we  have  reason  to 
expect.  We  will  lay  the  fault  upon  the  vice  of 
the  times,  and  we  will  acquit  the  poet. 

I  am  glad  you  were  pleased  with  my  Latin  ode, 
and  indeed  with  my  English  dirge  as  much  as  I 
was  myself.  The  tune  laid  me  under  a  disadvan- 
tage, obliging  me  to  write  in  Alexandrines ;  which 
I  suppose  would  suit  no  ear  but  a  French  one ; 
neither  did  I  intend  any  thing  more  than  that  the 
subject  and  the  words  should  be  sufficiently  ac- 
commodated to  the  music.  The  ballad  is  a  spe- 
cies of  poetry  I  believe  peculiar  to  this  country, 
equally  adapted  to  the  drollest  and  the  most  tragi- 
cal subjects.  Simplicity  and  ease  are  its  proper 
characteristics.  Our  forefathers  excelled  in  it; 
but  we  moderns  have  lost  the  art.  It  is  observed, 
that  we  have  few  good  English  odes.  But  to 
make  amends,  we  have  many  excellent  ballads, 
not  inferior  perhaps  in  true  poetical  merits  to  some 
of  the  very  best  odes  that  the  Greek  or  Latin  lan- 
guages have  to  boast  of.  It  is  a  sort  of  composi- 
tion [  was  ever  fond  of,  and  if  graver  matters  had 
not  called  me  another  way,  should  have  addicted 
myself  to  it  more  than  to  any  other.  I  inherit  a 
taste  for  it  from  my  father,  who  succeeded  well  in 
it  himself,  and  who  lived  at  a  time  when  the  best 
pieces  in  that  way  were  produced.  What  can  be 
prettierthanGay'sballad,  or  rather  Swift's,  Arbuth- 
not's.  Pope's,  and  Gay's,  in  the  What  do  ye  call 
it — "  'Twas  when  the  seas  were  roaring?"  I  have 
been  well  informed  that  they  all  contributed,  and 
that  the  most  celebrated  association  of  clever  fel- 
lows this  country  ever  saw,  did  not  think  it  be- 
neath them  to  unite  their  strength  and  abilities  in 
the  composition  of  a  song.  The  success  however 
answered  their  wishes.  The  ballads  that  Bourne 
has  translated,  beautiful  in  themselves,  are  still 
more  beautiful  in  his  version  of  them,  infinitely 
surpassing  in  my  judgment  all  that  OAdd  or  Ti- 
bullus  have  left  behind  them.  They  are  quite  as 
elegant,  and  far  more  touching  and  pathetic  than 
the  tenderest  strokes  of  either. 

So  much  for  ballads,  and  ballad  writers, — "  A 
worthy  subject,"  you  will  sa)'^,  "for  a  man  whose 
head  might  be  filled  with  better  things:"  and  it  is 
filled  with  better  things,  but  to  so  ill  a  purpose, 
that  I  thrust  into  it  all  manner  of  topics  that  may 
prove  more  amusing;  as  for  instance  I  have  two 
goldfinches,  which  in  the  summer  occupy  the 
green-house.    A  few  days  since,  being  employed 


in  cleaning  out  their  cages,  1  placed  that  which  I 
had  in  hand  upon  the  table,  while  the  other  hung 
against  the  wall :  the  windows  and  the  doors  stood 
wide  open.  I  went  to  fill  the  fountain  at  the  pump, 
and  on  my  return  was  not  a  little  surprised  to  find 
a  goldfinch  sitting  on  the  top  of  the  cage  I  had 
been  cleaning,  and  singing  to  and  kissing  the  gold- 
finch within.  I  approached  him,  and  he  disco- 
vered no  fear;  still  nearer,  and  he  discovered  none. 
I  advanced  my  hand  towards  him,  and  he  took  no 
notice  of  it.  I  seized  him,  and  supposed  I  had 
caught  a  new  bird,  but  casting  my  eye  upon  the 
other  cage  perceived  my  mistake.  Its  inhabitant, 
during  my  absence,  had  contrived  to  find  an  open- 
ing, where  the  wire  had  been  a  little  bent,  and 
made  no  other  use  of  the  escape  it  afforded  him, 
than  to  salute  his  friend,  and  to  converse  with 
him  more  intimately  than  he  had  done  before.  I 
returned  him  to  his  proper  mansion,  but  in  vain. 
In  less  than  a  minute  he  had  thrust  his  little  per- 
son through  the  aperture  again,  and  again  perched 
upon  his  neighbour's  cage,  kissing  him  as  at  the 
first,  and  singing,  as  if  transported  with  the  fortu- 
nate adventure.  I  could  not  but  respect  such 
friendship,  as  for  the  sake  of  its  gratification  had 
twice  declined  an  opportunity  to  be  free,  and  con- 
senting to  their  union,  resolved  that  for  the  future 
one  cage  should  hold  them  both.  I  am  glad  of  such 
incidents.  For  at  a  pinch,  and  when  I  need  en- 
tertainment, the  versification  of  them  serves  to  di- 
vert me. 

I  transcribe  for  you  a  piece  of  Madam  Guion, 
not  as  the  best,  but  as  being  shorter  than  many, 
and  as  good  as  most  of  them. 

Yours  ever,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Sept.  7,  1783. 

So  long  a  silence  needs  an  apology.  I  have  been 
hindered  by  a  three-weeks  visit  from  our  Hoxton 
friends,  and  by  a  cold  and  feverish  complaint, 
which  are  but  just  removed. 

The  French  poetess  is  certainly  chargeable  with 
the  fault  you  mention,  though  I  thought  it  not  so 
glaring  in  the  piece  I  sent  you.  I  have  endeavoured 
indeed,  in  all  the  translations  I  have  made,  to  cure 
her  of  that  evil,  either  by  the  suppression  of  pas- 
sages exceptionable  upon  that  account,  or  by  a 
more  sober  and  respectful  manner  of  expression. 
Still  however  she  will  be  found  to  have  conversed 
familiarly  with  God,  but  I  hope  not  fulsomely, 
nor  so  as  to  give  reasonable  disgust  to  a  religious 
reader.  That  God  should  deal  familiarly  with 
man,  or  which  is  the  same  thing,  that  he  should 
permit  man  to  deal  familiarly  with  him,  seems 
not  very  diflUcult  to  conceive,  or  presumptuous  to 
suppose,  when  some  things  are  taken  into  consi- 
1  deration.    Wo  to  the  sinner  that  shall  dare  to  take 


Let.  133,  134.  LETTERS. 


237 


a  liberty  with  him  that  is  not  warranted  by  his 
word,  or  to  which  he  himself  has  not  encouraged 
him.  When  he  assumed  man's  nature,  he  revealed 
himself  a.s\  the  friend  of  man,  as  the  brother  of 
every  soul  that  loves  him.  He  conversed  freely 
with  man  Avhile  he  was  on  earth,  and  as  freely 
with  him  after  his  resurrection.  I  doubt  not  there- 
fore that  it  is  possible  to  enjoy  an  access  to  him 
even  now  unincumbered  with  ceremonious  awe, 
easy,  delightful,  and  without  constraint.  This 
however  can  only  be  the  lot  of  those  who  make  it 
the  business  of  their  lives  to  please  him,  and  to 
cultivate  communion  with  him.  And  then  I  pre- 
sume there  can  be  no  danger  of  offence,  because 
such  a  habit  of  the  soul  is  of  his  own  creation,  and 
near  as  we  come,  we  come  no  nearer  to  him  than 
he  is  pleased  to  draw  us.  If  we  address  him  as 
children,  it  is  because  he  tells  us  he  is  our  father. 
If  we  unbosom  ourselves  to  him  as  to  a  friend,  it 
is  because  he  calls  us  friends;  and  if  we  speak  to 
him  in  the  language  of  love,  it  is  because  he  first 
used  it,  thereby  teaching  us  that  it  is  the  language 
he  delights  to  hear  from  his  people.  But  I  con- 
fess that  through  the  weakness,  the  folly,  and  cor- 
ruption of  human  nature,  this  privilege,  like  all 
other  Christian  privileges,  is  liable  to  abuse.  There 
is  a  mixture  of  evil  in  every  thing  we  do,  indul- 
gence encourages  us  to  encroach,  and  while  we 
exercise  the  rights  of  children,  we  become  childish. 
Here  I  think  is  the  point  in  which  my  authoress 
failed,  and  here  it  is  that  I  have  particularly  guard- 
ed my  translation,  not  afraid  of  representing  her 
as  dealing  with  God  familiarly,  but  foolishly,  irre- 
verently, and  without  due  attention  to  his  majesty, 
of  which  she  is  somewhat  guilty.  A  wonderful 
fault  for  such  a  woman  to  fall  into,  who  spent  her 
life  in  the  contemplation  of  his  glory,  who  seems 
to  have  been  always  impressed  with  a  sense  of  it, 
and  sometimes  quite  absorbed  by  the  views  she 
had  of  it.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  J.  NEWTON. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Sept.  8,  1783. 

Mrs.  Unwin  would  have  answered  your  kind 
note  from  Bedford,  had  not  a  pain  in  her  side  pre- 
vented her.  I,  who  am  her  secretary  upon  such 
occasions,  should  certainly  have  answered  it  for 
her,  but  was  hindered  by  illness,  having  been  my- 
self seized  with  a  fever  immediately  after  your  de- 
parture. The  account  of  your  recovery  gave  us 
great  pleasure,  and  I  am  persuaded  that  you  will 
feel  yourself  repaid  by  the  information  that  I  give 
you  of  mine.  The  reveries  your  head  was  filled 
with,  while  your  disorder  was  most  prevalent, 
though  they  were  but  reveries,  and  the  offspring 
of  a  heated  imagination,  afforded  you  yet  a  com- 


fortable evidence  of  the  predominant  bias  of  your 
heart  and  mind  to  the  best  subjects.  I  had  none 
such— indeed  I  was  in  no  degree  delirious,  nor  has 
any  thing  less  than  a  fever  really  dangerous  ever 
made  me  so.  In  this  respect,  if  in  no  other,  I 
may  be  said  to  have  a  strong  head;  and  perhaps 
for  the  same  reason  that  wine  would  never  make 
me  drunk,  an  ordinary  degree  of  fever  has  no 
effect  upon  my  understanding.  The  epidemic  be- 
gins to  be  more  mortal,  as  the  autumn  comes  on 
and  in  Bedfordshire  it  is  reported,  how  truly  I  can 
not  say,  to  be  nearly  as  fatal  as  the  plague,  I 
heard  lately  of  a  clerk  in  a  public  office,  whose 
chief  employment  it  was  for  many  years  to  admi- 
nister oaths,  who  being  Ught-headed  in  a  fever,  of 
which  he  died,  spent  the  last  week  of  his  life  in 
crying  day  and  night—"  So  help  you,  God — kiss 
the  book— give  me  a  shilling."  What  a  wretch  in 
comparison  with  you ! 

Mr.  S  —  has  been  ill  almost  ever  since  you 

left  us ;  and  last  Saturday,  as  on  many  foregoing 
Saturdays,  was  obliged  to  clap  on  a  blister  by  way 
of  preparation  for  his  Sunday  labours.  He  can 
not  draw  breath  upon  any  other  terms.  If  holy 
orders  were  always  conferred  upon  such  condi- 
tions, I  question  but  even  bishopricks  themselves 
would  want  an  occupant.  But  he  is  easy  and 
cheerful. 

I  beg  you  will  mention  me  kindly  to  Mr.  Ba- 
con, and  make  him  sensible  that  if  I  did  not  write 
the  paragraph  he  wished  for,  it  was  not  owing  to 
any  want  of  respect  for  the  desire  he  expressed, 
but  to  mere  inability.  If  in  a  state  of  mind  that 
almost  disquahfies  me  for  society,  I  could  possibly 
wish  to  form  a  new  connexion,  I  should  wish  to 
know  him;  but  I  never  shall,  and  things  being  as 
they  are,  I  do  not  regret  it.  You  are  my  old 
friend,  therefore  I  do  not  spare  you;  having  known 
you  in  better  days,  I  make  you  pay  for  any  plea- 
sure I  might  then  afford  you,  by  a  communication 
of  my  present  pains.  But  I  have  no  claims  of  this 
sort  upon  Mr.  Bacon. 

Be  pleased  to  remember  us  both,  with  much 
affection,  to  Mrs.  Newton,  and  to  her  and  your 

Eliza;  to  Miss  C  likewise,  if  she  is  with 

you.  Poor  Eliza  droops  and  languishes,  but  in 
the  land  to  which  she  is  going,  she  will  hold  up 
her  head  and  droop  no  more.  A  sickness  that 
leads  the  way  to  everlasting  life  is  better  than  the 
health  of  an  antediluvian.  Accept  our  united 
love  My  dear  friend, 

Sincerely  yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Sept.  23,  1783. 

We  are  glad  that  having  been  attacked  by  a 


238 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  135. 


fever,  which  has  often  proved  fatal,  and  almost 
always  leaves  the  sufferer  debilitated  to  the  last 
degree,  you  find  yourself  so  soon  restored  to  health, 
and  your  strength  recovered.  Your  health  and 
strength  are  useful  to  others,  and  in  that  view  im- 
portant in  his  account  who  dispenses  both,  and 
by  your  means  a  more  precious  gift  than  either. 
For  my  own  part,  though  I  have  not  been  laid  up, 
I  have  never  been  perfectly  well  since  you  left  us. 
A  smart  fever,  which  lasted  indeed  but  a  few 
hours,  succeeded  by  lassitude  and  want  of  spirits, 
that  seemed  still  to  indicate  a  feverish  habit,  has 
made  for  some  time,  and  still  makes  me  very  unfit 
for  my  favourite  occupations,  writing  and  reading 

 so  that  even  a  letter,  and  even  a  letter  to  you, 

is  not  without  its  burthen. 

John  has  had  the  epidemic,  and  has  it 

still,  but  grows  better.  When  he  was  first  seized 
with  it,  he  gave  notice  that  he  should  die,  but  in  this 
only  instance  of  prophetic  exertion  he  seems  to 
have  been  mistaken ;  he  has  however  been  very 
near  it.  I  should  have  told  you,  that  poor  John  has 
been  very  ready  to  depart,  and  much  comforted 
through  his  whole  illness.  He,  you  know,  though 
a  silent,  has  been  a  very  steady  professor.  He 
indeed  fights  battles,  and  gains  victories,  but  makes 
no  noise.  Europe  is  not  astonished  at  his  feats, 
foreign  academies  do  not  seek  him  for  a  member ; 
he  will  never  discover  the  art  of  flying,  or  send  a 
globe  of  taffeta  up  to  heaven.  But  he  will  go 
thither  himself 

Since  you  went  we  dined  with  Mr.  ■  I 
had  sent  him  notice  of  our  visit  a  week  before, 
which  like  a  contemplative,  studious  man,  as  he  is, 
ne  put  in  his  pocket  and  forgot.  When  we  arrived, 
the  parlour  windows  were  shut,  and  the  house  had 
the  appearance  of  being  uninhabited.  After  wait- 
ing some  time,  however,  the  maid  opened  the  door, 
and  the  master  presented  himself  It  is  hardly 
worth  while  to  observe  so  repeatedly  that  his  gar- 
den seems  a  spot  contrived  only  for  the  growth  of 
melancholy,  but  being  always  affected  by  it  in  the 
same  way,  I  can  not  help  it,  *  He  showed  me  a 
nook,  in  which  he  had  placed  a  bench,  and  where 
he  said  he  found  it  very  refreshing  to  smoke  his 
pipe  and  meditate.  Here  he  sits,  with  his  back 
against  one  brick  wall,  and  his  nose  against  ano- 
ther, which  must  you  know  be  very  refreshing,  and 
greatly  assist  meditation.  He  rejoices  the  more 
in  this  niche,  because  it  is  an  acquisition  made  at 
some  expense,  and  with  no  small  labour ;  several 
loads  of  earth  were  removed  in  order  to  make  it, 
which  loads  of  earth,  had  I  the  management  of 
them,  I  should  carry  thither  again,  and  fill  up  a 
place  more  fit  in  appearance  to  be  a  repository  for 
the  dead  than  the  living.  I  would  on  no  account 
put  any  man  out  of  conceit  with  his  innocent  en- 
joyments,  and  therefore  never  tell  him  my  thoughts 
upon  this  subject,  but  he  is  not  seldom  low  spi- 


rited, and  1  can  not  but  suspect  that  his  situation 
helps  to  make  him  so. 

I  shall  be  obliged  to  you  for  Hawkesworth's 
Voyages  when  it  can  be  sent  conveniently.  The 
long  evenings  are  beginning,  and  nothing  short- 
ens them  so  effectually  as  reading  aloud. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C, 

TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  Sept.  29,  1783. 

We  are  sorry  that  you  and  your  household  par- 
take so  largely  of  the  ill  effects  of  this  unhealthy 
season.  You  are  happy  however  in  having  hith- 
erto escaped  the  epidemic  fever,  which  has  pre- 
vailed much  in  this  part  of  the  kingdom,  and  car- 
ried many  off.  Your  mother  and  I  are  well.  Af- 
ter more  than  a  fortnight's  indisposition,  which 
slight  appellation  is  quite  adequate  to  the  descrip- 
tion of  all  I  suffered,  I  am  at  length  restored  by 
a  grain  or  two  of  emetic  tartar.  It  is  a  tax  I 
generally  pay  in  autumn.  By  this  time,  I  hope, 
a  purer  ether  than  we  have  seen  for  months,  and 
these  brighter  suns  than  the  summer  had  to  boast, 
have  cheered  your  spirits,  and  made  your  existence 
more  comfortable.  We  are  rational.  But  we  are 
animal  too,  and  therefore  subject  to  the  influences 
of  the  weather.  The  cattle  in  the  fields  show  evi- 
dent symptoms  of  lassitude  and  disgust  in  an  un- 
pleasant season ;  and  we,  their  lords  and  masters, 
are  constrained  to  sympathize  with  them :  the  only 
difference  between  us  is,  that  they  know  not  the 
cause  of  their  dejection,  and  we  do,  but  for  our 
humiliation,  are  equally  at  a  loss  to  cure  it.  Up- 
on this  account  I  have  sometimes  wished  myself  a 
philosopher.  How  happy,  in  comparison  with 
myself,  does  the  sagacious  investigator  of  nature 
seem,  whose  fancy  is  ever  employed  in  the  inven- 
tion of  hypotheses,  and  his  reason  in  the  support 
of  them !  While  he  is  accounting  for  the  origin 
of  the  winds,  he  has  no  leisure  to  attend  to  their 
influence  upon  himself— and  while  he  considers 
what  the  sun  is  made  of,  forgets  that  he  has  not 
shone  for  a  month.  One  project  indeed  supplants 
another.  The  vortices  of  Descartes  gave  way  to 
the  gravitation  of  Newton,  and  this  again  is 
threatened  by  the  electrical  fluid  of  a  moderri.  One 
generation  blows  bubbles,  and  the  next  breaks 
them.  But  in  the  mean  time  your  philosopher  is 
a  happy  man.  He  escapes  a  thousand  inquietudes 
to  which  the  indolent  are  subject,  and  finds  his 
occupation,  whether  it  be  the  pursuit  of  a  butter- 
fly, or  a  demonstration,  the  wholesomest  exercise  in 
the  world.  As  he  proceeds  he  applauds  himself. 
His  discoveries,  though  eventfuUy  perhaps  they 
prove  but  dreams,  are  to  him  realities.  The  world 
gaze  at  him,  as  he  does  at  new  phenomena  in  the 
heavens,  and  perhaps  understands  him  as  little. 


Let.  136. 


LETTERS. 


239 


But  this  does  not  prevent  their  praises,  nor  at  all 
disturb  him  in  the  enjoyment  of  that  self-compla- 
cence, to  which  his  imaginary  success  entitles 
him.  He  wears  his  honours  while  he  lives,  and 
if  another  strips  them  ofl'  when  he  has  been  dead 
a  century,  it  is  no  great  matter;  he  can  then 
make  shift  without'them. 

I  have  said  a  great  deal  upon  this  subject,  and 
know  not  what  it  all  amounts  to.  I  did  not  intend 
a  syllable  of  it  when  I  began.  But  currente  ca- 
lamo,  I  stumbled  upon  it.  My  end  is  to  amuse 
myself  and  you.  The  former  of  these  two  points 
is  secured.  I  shall  be  happy  if  I  do  not  miss  the 
latter. 

By  the  way,  what  is  your  opinion  of  these  air- 
balloons  1  I  am  quite  charmed  with  the  discovery. 
Is  it  not  possible  (do  you  suppose)  to  convey  such 
a  quantity  of  inflammable  air  in  the  stomach  and 
abdomen,  that  the  philosopher,  no  longer  gravita- 
ting to  a  centre,  shall  ascend  by  his  own  compara- 
tive levity,  and  never  stop  till  he  has  reached  the 
medium  exactly  in  equilibrio  with  himself?  Mav 
he  not  by  the  help  of  a  pasteboard  rudder,  at- 
tached to  his  posteriors,  steer  himself  in  that  purer 
element  with  ease,  and  again  by  a  slow  and  grad- 
ual discharge  of  his  aerial  contents,  recover  his 
former  tendency  to  the  earth,  and  descend  without 
the  smallest  danger  or  inconvenience  7  These 
things  are  worth  inquiry;  and  (I  dare  say)  they 
will  be  inquired  after  as  they  deserve :  The  penncB 
non  homini  dates  are  likely  to  be  less  regretted 
than  they  were  ;  and  perhaps  a  flight  of  academi- 
cians and  a  covey  of  fine  ladies  may  be  no  uncom- 
mon spectacle  in  the  next  generation.  A  letter 
which  appeared  in  the  public  prints  last  week 
convinces  me  that  the  learned  are  not  without 
hopes  of  some  such  improvement  upon  this  dis- 
covery. The  author  is  a  sensible  and  ingenious 
man,  and  under  a  reasonable  apprehension  that 
the  ignorant  may  feel  themselves  inclined  to  laugh 
upon  a  subject  that  affects  himself  with  the  utmost 
seriousness,  with  much  good  manners  and  man- 
agement bespeaks  their  patience,  suggesting  ma- 
ny good  consequences  that  may  result  from  a 
course  of  experiments  upon  this  machine,  and 
amongst  others,  that  it  may  be  of  use  in  ascertain- 
ing the  shape  of  continents  and  islands,  and  the 
face  of  wide-extended  and  far  distant  countries ; 
an  end  not  to  be  hoped  for,  unless  by  these  means 
of  extraordinary  elevation  the  human  prospect 
may  be  immensely  enlarged,  and  the  philosopher,  : 
exalted  to  the  skies,  attain  a  view  of  the  whole  i 
hemisphere  at  once.  But  whether  he  is  to  ascend  '. 
by  the  mere  inflation  of  his  person,  as  hinted  ( 
above,  or  whether  in  a  sort  of  bandbox,  supported  1 
upon  balloons,  is  not  yet  apparent,  nor  (I  suppose)  < 
even  in  his  own  idea  perfectly  decided.  ( 
Yours,  my  dear  WiUiam,  W.  C.    I  ( 


■  TO  THE  REY.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

I  MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  October  6,  1783. 

I     It  is  indeed  a  melancholy  consideration,  that 
L  the  Gospel,  whose  direct  tendency  is  to  promote 
the  happiness  of  mankind  in  the  present  life  as 
well  as  the  life  to  come,  and  which  so  effectually 
\  answers  the  design  of  its  author,  whenever  it  is 

■  well  understood  and  sincerely  believed,  should, 
through  the  ignorance,  the  bigotry,  the  supersti- 
tion of  its  professors,  and  the  ambition  of  popes, 
and  princes,  the  tools  of  popes,  have  produced  in- 
cidentally so  much  mischief ;  only  furnishing  the 
world  v/ith  a  plausible  excuse  to  worry  each  other, 
while  they  sanctified  the  worse  cause  with  the 
specious  pretext  of  zeal  for  the  furtherance  of  the 
best. 

Angels  descend  from  Heaven  to  publish  peace 
between  man  and  his  Maker— the  Prince  of  Peace 
himself  comes  to  confirm  and  establish  it,  and 
war,  hatred,  and  desolation  are  the  consequence. 
Thousands  quarrel  about  the  interpretation  of  a 
book  which  none  of  them  understand.  He  that  is 
slain  dies  firmly  persuaded  that  the  crown  of  mar- 
tyrdom expects  him;  and  he  that  stew  him  is 
equally  convinced  that  he  has  done  God  service. 
In  reality  they  are  both  mistaken,  and  equally  un- 
entitled to  the  honour  they  arrogate  to  them- 
selves. If  a  multitude  of  bhnd  men  should  set  out 
for  a  certain  city,  and  dispute  about  the  right 
road  till  a  battle  ensued  between  them,  the  proba- 
ble effect  would  be  that  none  of  them  would  ever 
reach  it;  and  such  a  fray,  preposterous  and  shock- 
ing in  the  extreme,  would  exhibit  a  picture  in 
some  degree  resembling  the  original  of  which  we 
have  been  speaking.  And  why  is  not  the  world 
thus  occupied  at  present '?  even  because  they  have  ^ 
exchanged  a  zeal,  that  was  no  better  than  mad- 
ness, for  an  indifference  equally  pitiable  and  ab- 
surd. The  holy  sepulchre  has  lost  its  importance 
in  the  eyes  of  nations  called  Christians,  not  be- 
cause the  light  of  true  wisdom  has  delivered  them 
from  a  superstitious  attachment  to  the  spot,  but 
because  he  that  was  buried  in  it  is  no  longer  re- 
garded by  them  as  the  Saviour  of  the  world.  The 
exercise  of  reason,  enlightened  by  philosophy,  has 
cured  them  indeed  of  the  misery  of  an  abused  un- 
derstanding, but  together  with  the  delusion  they 
have  lost  the  substance,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  lies 
that  were  grafted  upoi.  it  have  quarreled  with  the 
truth  itself  Here  then  we  see  the  ne  plus  ultra  of 
human  wisdom,  at  last  in  affairs  of  religion.  It 
enlightens  the  mind  with  respect  to  nonessentials 
but  with  respect  to  that  in  which  the  essence  of 
Christianity  consists,  leaves  it  perfectly  in  the 
dark.  It  can  discover  many  errors  that  in  differ- 
ent ages  have  disgraced  the  faith;  but  it  is  only 


240 


COWpiR'S  WORKS. 


Let.  137 


to  make  way  for  the  admission  of  one  more  fatal 
than  thorn  all,  wliich  represents  tliat  faith  itself 
as  a  delusion.  Why  those  evils  have  been  per- 
juitted  shall  be  known  hereafter.  One  thing  in 
the  mean  time  is  certain,  that  the  folly  and  frenzy 
of  the  professed  disciples  of  the  Gospel  have  been 
more  dangerous  to  its  interests,  than  all  the  avow- 
ed hostilities  of  its  adversaries;  and  perhaps  for 
this  cause  these  mischiefs  might  be  suffered  to 
prevail  for  a  season,  that  its  divine  original  and 
nature  might  be  the  more  illustrated,  when  it 
should  appear  that  it  was  able  to  stand  its  ground 
for  ages  against  that  most  formidable  of  all  at- 
tacks, the  indiscretion  of  its  friends.  The  out- 
rages that  have  followed  this  perversion  of  the 
truth  have  proved  indeed  a  stumbling-block  to  in- 
dividuals; the  wise  of  this  world,  with  all  their 
wisdom,  have  not  been  able  to  distinguish  be- 
tween the  blessing  and  the  abuse  of  it.  Voltaire 
was  offended,  and  Gibbon  has  turned  his  back; 
but  the  flock  of  Christ  is  still  nourished,  and  still 
increases,  notwithstanding  the  unbelief  of  a  phi- 
losopher is  able  to  convert  bread  into  a  stone,  and 
a  fish  into  a  serpent. 

I  am  much  obhged  to  you  for  the  voyages, 
which  I  received,  and  began  to  read  last  night. 
My  imagination  is  so  captivated  upon  these  occa- 
sions, that  1  seem  to  partake  with  the  navigators 
in  all  the  dangers  they  encountered.  I  lose  my 
anchor;  my  mainsail  is  rent  into  shreds;  I  kill  a 
shark,  and  by  signs  converse  with  a  Patagonian, 
and  all  this  without  moving  from  the  fireside. 
The  principal  fruits  of  these  circuits,  that  have 
been  made  around  the  globe,  seem  likely  to  be  the 
amusement  of  those  that  staid  at  home.  Discove- 
ries have  been  made,  but  such  discoveries  as  will 
hardly  satisfy  the  expense  of  such  undertakings 
We  brought  away  an  Indian,  and  having  de- 
bauched him,  we  sent  him  home  again  to  commu 
nicate  the  infection  to  his  country— fine  sport,  to 
be  sure,  but  such  as  will  not  defray  the  cost.  Na- 
tions that  live  upon  bread-fruit,  and  have  no 
mines  to  make  them  worthy  of  our  acquaintance, 
will  be  but  little  visited  for  the  future.  So  much 
the  better  for  them!  their  poverty  is  indeed  their 
mercy. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend, 


w.  c. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 


MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  October,  1783. 

I  AM  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  American 
anecdotes,  and  feel  the  obligation  perhaps  more 
sensibly,  the  labour  of  transcribing  being  in  parti- 
cular that  to  which  I  myself  have  the  greatest 
aversion.  The  Loyalists  are  much  to  be  pitied; 
driven  from  all  the  comforts  that  depend  upon  and 
are  intimately  connected  with  a  residence  in  their 


native  land,  and  sent  to  cultivate  a  distant  one, 
without  the  means  of  doing  it ;  abandoned,  too, 
through  a  deplorable  necessity,  by  the  govern^ 
ment  to  which  they  have  sacrificed  all ;  they  ex- 
hibit a  spectacle  of  distress,  which  one  can  not 
view  even  at  this  distance  without  participating  in 
what  they  feel.    Why  could  not  some  of  our  use- 
less wastes  and  forests  have  been  allotted  to  their 
support  1    To  have  built  them  houses  indeed,  and 
to  have  furnished  them  with  implements  of  hus- 
bandry, would  have  put  us  to  no  small  expense; 
but  I  suppose  the  increase  of  population,  and  the 
improvement  of  the  soil,  would  soon  ha^ve  been 
felt  as  a  national  advantage,  and  have  indemnified 
the  state,  if  not  enriched  it.    We  are  bountiful  to 
foreigners,  and  neglect  those  of  our  own  house- 
hold.   I  remember  that  compassionating  the  mise- 
ries of  the  Portuguese,  at  the  time  of  the  Lisbon 
earthquake,  we  sent  them  a  ship  load  of  tools  to 
clear  away  the  rubbish  with,  and  to  assist  them 
in  rebuilding  the  city.    I  remember  too,  it  was 
reported  at  the  time,  that  the  court  of  Portugal 
accepted  our  wheelbarrows  and  spades  with  a 
very  ill  grace,  and  treated  our  bounty  with  con- 
tempt. An  act  like  this  in  behalf  of  our  brethren, 
carried  only  a  little  further,  riiight  possibly  have 
redeemed  them  from  ruin,  have  resulted  in  emo- 
lument to  ourselves,  have  been  received  with  joy, 
and  repaid  with  gratitude.    Such  are  my  specu- 
lations upon  the  subject,  who  not  being  a  politi- 
cian by  profession,  and  very  seldom  giving  my 
attention  for  a  moment  to  such  a  matter,  may  not 
be  aware  of  difficulties  and  objections,  which  they 
of  the  cabinet  can  discern  with  half  an  eye.  Per- 
haps to  have  taken  under  our  protection  a  race 
of  men  proscribed  by  the  Congress  might  be 
thought  dangerous  to  the  interests  we  hope  to 
have  hereafter  in  their  high  and  mighty  regards 
and  affections.    It  is  ever  the  way  of  those  who 
rule  the  earth,  to  leave  out  of  their  reckoning  Him 
who  rules  the  universe.    They  forget  that  the 
poor  have  a  friend  more  powerful  to  avenge,  than 
they  can  be  to  oppress,  and  that  treachery  and 
perfidy  must  therefore  prove  bad  policy  in  the 
end.    The  Americans  themselves  appear  to  me 
to  be  in  a  situation  little  less  pitiable  than  that 
of  the  deserted  Loyalists.    Their  fears  of  arbitrary 
imposition  were  certainly  well  founded.    A  strug- 
gle therefore  might  be  necessary,  in  order  to  pre- 
vent it,  and  this  end  might  surely  have  been  an- 
swered without  a  renunciation  of  dependence. 
But  the  passions  of  a  whole  people,  once  put  in 
motion,  are  not  soon  quieted.    Contest  begets 
aversion,  a  little  success  inspires  more  ambitious 
hopes,  and  thus  a  slight  quarrel  terminates  at  last 
in  a  breach  never  to  be  healed,  and  perhaps  in  the 
ruin  of  both  parties.    It  does  not  seem  likely  that 
a  country  so  distinguished  by  tlie  Creator  with 
every  thing  that  can  make  it  desirable,  should  bo 


Let.  138,  139. 


LETTERS. 


241 


given  up  to  desolation  for  ever;  and  they  may  the  case  at  present.*  If  prose  comes  readily,  I  shall 
possibly  have  reason  on  their  side,  who  suppose  transcribe  them  on  another  sheet,  otherwise,  on  this, 
that  in  time  it  will  have  the  pre-eminence  over  all  You  will  understand,  before  you  have  read  many 

of  them,  that  they  are  not  for  the  press.    I  lay 


others;  but  the  day  of  such  prosperity  seems  far 
distant — Omnipotence  indeed  can  hasten  it,  and 
it  may  dawn  when  it  is  least  expected.  But  we 
govern  ourselves  in  all  our  reasonings  by  present 
appearances.  Persons  at  least  no  better  informed 
than  myself  are  constrained  to  do  so, 

I  intended  to  have  taken  another  subject  when 
I  began,  and  I  wish  I  had.  No  man  living  is 
less  qualified  to  settle  nations  than  I  am;  but 
when  I  write  to  you,  I  talk,  that  is,  I  write  as 
fast  as  my  pen  can  run,  and  on  this  occasion  it 
ran  away  with  me.  I  acknowledge  myself  in 
your  debt  for  your  last  favour,  but  can  not  pay  you 
now,  unless  you  will  accept  as  payment,  what  I 
know  you  value  more  than  all  I  can  say  beside, 
the  most  unfeigned  assurances  of  my  affection  for 
^ou  and  yours. 

Yours,  &c.  W.  C. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

Oct.  20,  1783 
I  SHOULD  not  have  been  thus  long  silent,  had  I 
Rnown  with  certainty  where  a  letter  of  mine  might 
find  you.  Your  summer  excursions  however  are 
now  at  an  end,  and  addressing  a  line  to  you  in 
the  centre  of  the  busy  scene  in  which  you  spend 
your  winter,  I  am  pretty  sure  of  my  mark. 

I  see  the  winter  approaching  without  much  con- 
cern, though  a  passionate  lover  of  fine  weather 
and  the  pleasant  scenes  of  summer;  but  the  long 
evenings  have  their  comforts  too,  and  there  is 
hardly  to  be  found  upon  the  earth,  I  suppose,  so 
snug  a  creature  as  an  Englishman  by  his  fireside 
in  the  winter.  I  mean  however  an  Englishman 
that  lives  in  the  country,  for  in  London  it  is  not 
very  easy  to  avoid  intrusion.  I  have  two  ladies 
to  read  to,  sometimes  more,  but  never  less — at  pre- 
sent we  are  circumnavigating  the  globe,  and  I  find 
the  old  story  with  which  I  amused  myself  some 
years  since,  through  the  great  felicity  of  a  memory 
not  very  retentive,  almost  new.  I  am  however 
sadly  at  a  loss  for  Cook's  voyage,  can  you  send  it ' 


you  under  no  other  injunctions.  The  unkind  be- 
haviour of  our  acquaintance,  though  it  is  possible 
that  in  some  instances  it  may  not  much  affect  our 
happiness,  nor  engage  many  of  our  thoughts,  will 
sometimes  obtrude  itself  upon  us  with  a  degree  of 
importunity  not  easily  resisted ;  and  then  perhaps, 
though  almost  insensible  of  it  before,  we  feel  more 
than  the  occasion  will  justify.  In  such  a  moment 
it  was  that  I  conceived  this  poem,  and  gave  loose 
to  a  degree  of  resentment,  which  perhaps  I  ought 
not  to  have  indulged,  but  which  in  a  cooler  hour 
I  can  not  altogether  condemn.  My  former  inti- 
macy with  the  two  characters  was  such,  that  I 
could  not  but  feel  myself  provoked  by  the  neglect 
with  which  they  both  treated  me  on  a  late  occa- 
sion.   So  much  by  way  of  preface. 

You  ought  not  to  have  supposed  that  if  you  had 
visited  us  last  summer,  the  pleasure  of  the  inter- 
view would  have  been  all  your  own.  By  such  an 
imagination  you  wrong  both  yourself  and  us.  Do 
you  suppose  we  do  not  love  you  1  You  can  not 
suspect  your  mother  of  coldness;  and  as  to  me, 
assure  yourself  I  have  no  friend  in  the  world  with 
whom  I  communicate  without  the  least  reserve, 
yourself  excepted.  Take  heart  then,  and  when 
you  find  a  favourable  opportunity  to  come,  assure 
yourself  of  such  a  welcome  from  us  both  as  you 
have  a  right  to  look  for.  But  I  have  observed  in 
your  two  last  letters  somewhat  of  a  dejection  and 
melancholy,  that  I  am  afraid  you  do  not  sufficient- 
ly strive  against.  I  suspect  you  of  being  too  seden- 
tary. "  You  can  not  walk."  Why  you  can  not 
is  best  known  to  yourself  I  am  sure  your  legs 
are  long  enough,  and  your  person  does  not  overload 
them.  But  I  beseech  you  ride,  and  ride  often.  I 
think  I  have  heard  you  say,  you  can  not  even  do 
that  without  an  object.  Is  not  health  an  object  T 
Is  not  a  new  prospect,  which  in  most  countries  is 
gained  at  the  end  of  every  mile,  an  object As- 
sure yourself  that  easy  chairs  are  no  friends  to 
cheerfulness,  and  that  a  long  winter  spent  by  the 
fireside  is  a  prelude  to  an  unhealthy  spring.  Every 
thing  I  see  in  the  fields  is  to  me  an  object,  and  I 


I  shall  be  glad  of  Foster's  too.    These  together  can  look  at  the  same  rivulet,  or  at  a  handsome 


will  make  the  winter  pass  merrily,  and  you  will 
much  oblige  me  W.  C 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  Nov.  10,  1783. 

I  HAVE  lost  and  wasted  almost  all  my  writing 
time,  in  making  an  alteration  in  the  verses  I  either 
enclose  or  subjoin,  for  I  know  not  which  will  be 


tree,  every  day  of  my  life,  with  new  pleasure. 
This  indeed  is  partly  the  effect  of  a  natural  taste 
for  rural  beauty,  and  partly  the  effect  of  habit; 
for  I  never  in  all  my  life  have  let  slip  the  opportu- 
nity of  breathing  fresh  air,  and  of  conversing  with 
nature,  when  I  could  fairly  catch  it.  I  earnestly 
recommend  a  cultivation  of  the  same  taste  to  you, 
suspecting  that  you  have  neglected  it,  and  suffer 
for  doing  so, 

*  Verses  from  a  poem  entitled  Valediction.   Vide  Poems, 


212 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  140,  141. 


Last  Satur(l;iy  sc'nni<rlit.,  the  moment  I  had 
composed  myself  in  my  bed,  your  mother  too  hav- 
ing just  got  into  hers,  we  were  alarmed  by  a  cry 
of  fire  on  the  staircase.  I  immediately  arose,  and 
saw  sheets  of  flame  above  the  roof  of  Mr.  Palmer's 
house,  our  opposite  neighbour.  The  mischief 
however  was  not  so  near  to  him  as  it  seemed  to 
be,  having  begun  at  a  butcher's  yard,  at  a  little 
distance.  We  made  all  haste  down  stairs,  and 
soon  threw  open  the  street  door,  for  the  reception 
of  as  much  lumber,  of  all  sorts,  as  our  house  would 
hold,  brought  into  it  by  several  who  thought  it 
necessary  to  move  their  furniture.  In  two  hours' 
tune  we  had  so  much  that  we  could  hold  no  more, 
even  the  uninhabited  part  of  our  building  being 
filled .  Not  that  we  ourselves  were  entirely  secure — 
an  adjoining  thatch,  on  which  fell  showers  of 
sparks,  being  rather  a  dangerous  neighbour.  Pro- 
videntially however  the  night  was  perfectly  calm, 
and  we  escaped.  By  four  in  the  morning  it  was 
extinguished,  having  consumed  many  out-build- 
ings, but  no  dweUing-house.  Your  mother  suffered 
a  little  in  her  health,  from  the  fatigue  and  bustle 
of  the  night,  but  soon  recovered.  As  for  me,  it 
hurt  me  not.  The  slightest  wind  would  have 
carried  the  fire  to  the  very  extremity  of  the  town 
there  being  multitudes  of  thatched  buildings  and 
fagot-piles  so  near  to  each  other,  that  they  must 
have  proved  infallible  conductors. 

The  balloons  prosper;  I  congratulate  you  upon 
it.    Thanks  to  Montgolfier,  we  shall  fly  at  last 
Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  NoV.  24,  1783. 

An  evening  unexpectedly  retired,  and  which 
your  mother  and  I  spend  without  company  (an 
occurrence  far  from  frequent,)  affords  me  a  fa- 
vourable opportunity  to  write  by  to-morrow's  post, 
which  else  I  could  not  have  found.  You  are  very 
good  to  consider  my  literary  necessities  with  so 
much  attention,  and  I  feel  proportionably  grateful. 
Blair's  Lectures  (though  I  suppose  they  must 
make  a  part  of  my  private  studies,  not  being  ad 
captum  foeminarum)  will  be  perfectly  welcome. 
You  say  you  felt  my  verses;  I  assure  you  that  in 
this  you  follow  my  example,  for  I  felt  them  first. 
A  man's  lordship  is  nothing  to  me,  any  further 
than  in  connexion  with  qualities  that  entitle  him 
to  my  respect.  If  he  thinks  himself  privileged  by 
it  to  treat  me  with  neglect,  I  am  his  humble  ser- 
vant, and  shall  never  be  at  a  loss  to  render  him  an 
equivalent.  I  will  not  however  belie  my  know 
led, 
at 


ccssary,  no  longer  convenient,  or  in  any  respect 
an  object.  They  think  of  mc  as  of  the  man  in  the 
moon,  and  whether  I  have  a  lantern,  or  a  dog  and 
fagot,  or  whether  I  have  neither  of  those  desirable 
accommodations,  is  to  them  a  matter  of  perfect 
indifference :  upon  that  point  we  are  agreed,  our 
indiflerence  is  mutual,  and  were  I  to  pubUsh  again, 
which  is  not  impossible,  I  should  give  them  a 
proof  of  it. 

L'Estrange's  Josephus  has  lately  furnished  us 
with  evening  lectures.  But  the  historian  is  so 
tediously  circumstantial,  and  the  translator  so  in- 
supportably  coarse  and  vulgar,  that  we  are  all 
three  weary  of  him.  How  would  Tacitus  have 
shone  upon  such  a  subject,  great  master  as  he  was 
of  the  ait  of  description,  concise  without  obscurity, 
and  atfecting'without  being  poetical.  But  so  it  was 
ordered,  and  for  wise  reasons,  no  doubt,  that  the 
greatest  calamities  any  people  ever  suffered,  and 
an  accomplishment  of  one  of  the  most  signal  pro- 
phecies in  the  Scripture,  should  be  recorded  by 
one  of  the  worst  writers.  The  man  was  a  tem- 
porizer too,  and  courted  the  favour  of  his  Roman 
masters  at  the  expense  of  his  own  creed,  or  else 
an  infidel  and  absolutely  disbelieved  it.  You  will 
think  me  very  difficult  to  please;  I  quarrel  with 
Josephus  for  the  want  of  elegance,  and  with  some 
of  our  modern  historians  for  having  too  nmch. 
With  him  for  running  right  forward  like  a  ga- 
zette, without  stopping  to  make  a  single  observa- 
tion by  the  way;  and  with  them,  for  pretending 
to  delineate  characters  that  existed  two  thousand 
years  ago,  and  to  discover  the  motives  by  which 
they  were  influenced,  with  the  same  precision  as 
if  they  had  been  their  contemporaries. — Simplicity 
is  become  a  very  rare  quality  in  a  writer.  In  the 
decline  of  great  kingdoms,  and  where  refinement 
in  all  the  arts  is  carried  to  an  excess,  I  suppose  it 
is  always  rare.  The  latter  Roman  writers  are 
remarkable  for  false  ornament,  they  were  yet  no 
doubt  admired  by  the  readers  of  their  own  day ; 
and  with  respect  to  the  authors  of  the  present  era, 
the  most  popular  among  them  appear  to  me  equal- 
ly censurable  on  the  same  account.  Swift  and 
Addison  were  simple. 

Your  mother  wants  room  for  a  postscript, 
my  lecture  must  conclude  abruptly. 

Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 


MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

It  is  hard  upon  us  striplings  who  have  uncles 
still  living  (N.  B.  I  myself  have  an  uncle  still 
of  mankind  so  much,  as  to  seem  surprised  alive)  that  those  venerable  gentlemen  should  stand 
treatment  which  I  had  abundant  reason  to  in  our  way,  even  when  the  ladies  are  in  question ; 


expect.  To  these  men  with  whom  T  was  once  that  I,  for  instance,  should  find  in  one  page  of 
intimate,  and  for  many  years,  I  am  no  longer  ne-  your  letter  a  hope  that  IVliss  Shuttle  worth  would 


Let.  142. 


LETTERS. 


243 


oe  of  your  party,  and  be  told  in  the  next  that  she 
IS  engaged  to  your  uncle.  Well  we  may  perhaps 
never  be  uncles,  but  we  may  reasonably  hope  that 
the  time  is  coming,  when  others  as  young  as  we 
are  now,  shall  envy  us  the  privileges  of  old  age 
and  see  us  engross  that  share  in  the  attention  of 
the  ladies  to  which  their  youth  must  aspire  in  vain. 
Make  our  compUments  if  you  please  to  your  sis- 
ter Eliza,  and  tell  her  that  we  are  both  mortified 
at  having  missed  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her. 

Balloons  are  so  much  the  mode,  that  even  in 
this  country  we  have  attempted  a  balloon.  You 
may  possibly  remember  that  at  a  place  called  Wes- 
ton, a  little  more  than  a  mile  from  Olney,  there 
lives  a  family,  whose  name  is  Throckmorton. 
The  present  possessor  of  the  estate  is  a  young 
man  whom  I  remember  a  boy.  He  has  a  wife, 
who  is  young,  genteel,  and  handsome.  They  are 
Papists,  but  much  more  amiable  than  many  Pro- 
testants. We  never  had  any  intercourse  with  the 
family,  though  ever  since  we  lived  here  we  have 
enjoyed  the  range  of  their  pleasure  grounds,  hav- 
ing been  favoured  with  a  key,  which  admits  us 
into  all.  When  this  man  succeeded  to  the  estate, 
on  the  death  of  his  elder  brother,  and  came  to  set- 
tle at  Weston,  I  sent  him  a  compUmentary  card, 
requesting  the  continuance  of  that  privilege,  hav- 
ing till  then  enjoyed  it  by  favour  of  his  mother, 
who  on  that  occasion  went  to  finish  her  days  at 
Bath.  You  may  conclude  that  he  granted  it,  and 
for  about  two  years  nothing  more  passed  between 
us.  A  fortnight  ago,  I  received  an  invitation  in 
the  civilest  terms,  in  which  he  told  me  that  the 
next  day  he  should  attempt  to  fiJl  a  balloon,  and 
if  it  would  be  any  pleasure  to  me  to  be  present, 
should  be  happy  to  see  me.  Your  mother  and  I 
went.  The  whole  ^luntry  were  there,  but  the 
balloon  could  not  be  filled.  The  endeavour  was, 
I  believe,  very  philosophically  made,  but  such  a 
process  depends  for  its  success  upon  such  niceties 


key  of  it  in  a  manner  that  made  it  impossible  not 
to  accept  it,  and  said  she  would  send  us  one.  A 
few  days  afterwards  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  we 
walked  that  way  again.    We  saw  them  going  to- 
ward the  house,  and  exchanged  bows  and  curtsies 
at  a  distance,  but  did  not  join  them.    In  a  few 
minutes  when  we  had  passed  the  house,  and  had 
almost  reached  the  gate  that  opens  out  of  the  park 
into  the  adjoining  field,  I  heard  the  iron  gate  be- 
longing to  the  court-yard  ring,  and  saw  Mr.  T. 
advancing  hastily  towards  us,  we  made  equal  haste 
to  meet,  he  presented  to  us  the  key,  which  1  told 
him  I  esteemed  a  singular  favour,  and  after  a  few 
such  speeches  as  are  made  on  such  occasions,  we 
parted.    This  happened  about  a  week  ago.   I  con- 
cluded nothing  less  than  that  all  this  civiUty  and 
attention  was  designed,  on  their  part,  as  a  prelude 
to  a  nearer  acquaintance  ;  but  here  at  present  the 
matter  rests.    I  should  like  exceedingly  to  be  on 
an  easy  footing  there,  to  give  a  morning  call  now 
and  then,  and  to  receive  one,  but  nothing  more. 
For  though  he  is  one  of  the  most  agreeable  men  I 
ever  saw,  I  could  not  wish  to  visit  him  in  any  other 
way;  neither  our  house,  furniture,  servants,  or  in- 
come, being  such  as  qualify  us  to  make  entertain- 
ments, neither  would  I  on  any  account  be  introduced 
to  the  neighbouring  gentry.    Mr.  T.  is  altogether  a 
man  of  fashion,  and  respectable  on  every  account, 
I  have  told  you  a  long  story.    Farewell.  We 
number  the  days  as  they  pass,  and  are  glad  that  we 
shall  see  you  and  your  sister  soon. 

Yours,  &c.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 


MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  Jan.  3,  1784. 

Your  silence  began  to  be  distressing  both  to 
your  mother  and  me,  and  had  I  not  received  a  let- 
1    ..  •         r^  •  ^^^^       ^^^^  ^ight,  I  should  have  written  by 

as  make  it  very  precarious  Our  reception  was  this  post  to  inquire  'after  your  health.  How  can 
however  flattering  to  a  great  degree,  insomuch  that  jt  be,  that  you,  who  are  not  stationary  like  me,  but 
more  notice  seemed  to  be  taken  of  us,  than  we  often  change  your  situation,  and  mix  with  a  va- 
could  possibly  have  expected,  indeed  rather  more  ^iety  of  company,  should  suppose  me  furnished 
man  or  any  ol  nis  other  guests.  They  even  ^  ^ith  such  abundant  materials,  and  yourself  desti- 
seemed  anxious  to  recommend  themselves  to  our  tute  1  1  assure  you  faithfully,  that  I  do  not  find 
regards.  We  drank  chocolate,  and  were  asked  the  soil  of  Olney  prolific  in  the  growth  of  such 
to  dme,  but  were  engaged.  A  day  or  two  after- 
wards,  Mrs.  Unwin  and  I  walked  that  way,  and 
were  overtaken  in  a  shower.  I  found  a  tree  that 
I  thought  would  shelter  us  both,  a  large  elm,  in  a 
grove  that  fronts  the  mansion.  Mrs.  T.  observed 
us,  and  running  towards  us  in  the  rain  insisted  on 
our  walking  in.  He  was  gone  out.  We  sat 
chatting  with  her  till  the  weather  cleared  up,  and 
then  at  her  instance  took  a  walk  with  her  in  the 
garden.    The  garden  is  almost  their  only  walk, 

and  is  certainly  their  only  retreat  in  which  they  principal  occurrence,  and  that  which  afl^ects  me 
are  not  liable  to  interruption.    She  offered  us  a  most  at  present,  came  to  pass  this  moment.  The 

W 


articles  as  make  letter-writing  a  desirable  employ- 
ment.   No  place  contributes  less  to  the  catalogue 
of  incidents,  or  is  more  scantily  supplied  with  an- 
ecdotes worth  notice. 
We  have 

One  parson,  one  poet,  one  bellman,  one  crier, 
And  the  poor  poet  is  our  only  'squire. 

Guess  then  if  I  have  not  more  reason  to  expect  two 
letters  from  you,  than  you  one  from  me.  The 


244 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  143. 


stair-foot  door,  being  swelled  by  the  thaw,  would 
do  any  thing  better  than  it  would  open.  An  at- 
tempt to  force  it  upon  that  office  has  been  attended 
with  such  a  horrible  dissolution  of  its  parts,  that 
we  were  immediately  obliged  to  introduce  achirur- 
geon,  commonly  called  a  carpenter,  whose  appli- 
cations we  have  some  hope  will  cure  it  of  a  locked 
jaw,  and  heal  its  numerous  fractures.  His  medi- 
cines are  powerful  chalybeates,  and  a  certain 
glutinous  salve,  which  he  tells  me  is  made  of  the 
tails  and  ears  of  animals.  The  consequences  how- 
ever are  rather  unfavourable  to  my  present  employ- 
ment, which  does  not  well  brook  noise,  bustle,  and 
interruption. 

This  being  the  case,  I  shall  not  perhaps  be  either 
so  perspicuous,  or  so  diffuse,  on  the  subject  of  which 
you  desire  my  sentiments,  as  I  should  be,  but  I 
wUl  do  my  best.    Know' then  that  I  have  learnt 
long  since  of  Abbe  Raynal,  to  hate  all  monopo- 
lies, as  injurious,  howsoever  managed,  to  the  in- 
terests of  commerce  at  large;  consequently  the  char- 
ter in  question  would  not  at  any  rate  be  a  favour- 
ite of  mine.    This  however  is  of  itself  I  confess 
no  sufficient  reason  to  justify  the  resumption  of  it. 
lint  such  reasons  I  think  are  not  wanting.  A 
grant  of  that  kind,  it  is  well  known,  is  always 
forfeited  by  the  nonperformance  of  the  conditions. 
And  why  not  equally  forfeited,  if  those  conditions 
are  exceeded,  if  the  design  of  it  be  perverted,  and 
its  operation  extended  to  objects  which  were  never 
in  the  contemplation  of  the  donor     This  appears 
to  me  to  be  no  misrepresentation  of  their  case, 
whose  charter  is  supposed  to  be  in  danger.    It  con- 
stitutes them  a  trading  company,  and  gives  them 
an  exclusive  right  to  traffic  in  the  East  Indies.  But 
it  does  no  more.    It  invests  them  with  no  sove- 
reignty;  it  does  not  convey  them  the  royal  prerog- 
ative of  making  war  and  peace,  which  the  king 
can  not  alienate  if  he  would.    But  this  preroga- 
tive they  have  exercised,  and,  forgetting  the  terms 
of  their  institution,  have  possessed  themselves  of 
an  immense  territory,  which  they  have  ruled  with 
a  rod  of  iron,  to  which  it  is  impossible  they  should 
even  have  a  right,  unless  such  a  one  as  it  is  a  dis- 
grace to  plead— the  right  of  conquest.    The  poten- 
tates of  this  country  they  dash  in  pieces  Uke  a  pot- 
ter's vessel,  as  often  as  they  please,  making  the 
happiness  of  thirty  millions  of  mankind  a  consid- 
eration subordinate  to  that  of  their  own  emolu- 
ment, oppressing  them  as  often  as  it  may  serve  a 
lucrative  purpose,  and  in  no  instance,  that  I  have 
ever  heard,  consulting  their  interest  or  advantage. 
That  government  therefore  is  bound  to  interfere, 
and  to  unking  these  tyrants,  is  to  me  self-evident. 
And  if  having  subjugated  so  much  of  this  misera- 
ble world,  it  is  therefore  necessary  that  we  must 
keep  possession  of  it,  it  appears  to  me  a  duty  so 
binding  on  the  legislature  to  resume  it  from  the 
hands  of  those  usurpers,  that  I  should  think  a 


curse,  and  a  bitter  one,  must  follow  the  neglect  of 
it.  But  suppose  this  were  done,  can  they  be  le- 
gally deprived  of  their  charter'?  In  truth  I  think 
so.  If  the  abuse  and  perversion  of  a  charter  can 
amount  to  a  defeasance  of  it,  never  were  they  so 
grossly  palpable  as  in  this  instance;  never  was 
charters©  justly  forfeited.  Neither  am  I  at  all 
afraid  that  such  a  measure  should  be  drawn  into 
a  precedent,  unless  it  could  be  alleged  as  a  suffi- 
cient reason  for  not  hanging  a  rogue,  that  perhaps 
magistracy  might  grow  wanton  in  the  exercise  of 
such  a  power,  and  now  and  then  hang  up  an  hon- 
est man  for  its  amusement.  When  the  governors 
of  the  bank  shall  have  deserved  the  same  severity, 
I  hope  they  will  meet  with  it.  In  the  mean  time 
I  do  not  think  them  a  whit  more  in  jeopardy  be- 
cause a  corporation  of  plunderers  have  been  brought 
to  justice. 

We  are  well,  and  love  you  all.  I  never  wrote 
in  such  a  hurry,  nor  in  such  disturbance.  Pardon 
the  effects,  and  believe  me  yours  affectionately, 

W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Jan.  18,  1784. 

I  TOO  have  taken  leave  of  the  old  year,  and 
parted  with  it  just  when  you  did,  but  with  very 
different  sentiments  and  feelings  upon  the  occasion,' 
I  looked  back  upon  all  the  passages  and  occur- 
rences upon  it,  as  a  traveller  looks  back  upon  a 
wilderness,  through  which  he  has  passed  with 
weariness  and  sorrow  of  heart,  reaping  no  other 
fruit  of  his  labour  than  the  poor  consolation  that, 
dreary  as  the  desert  was,  he  has  left  it  all  behind 
him.  The  traveller  would  find  even  this  c;omfort 
considerably  lessened,  if,  as  soon  as  he  had  passed 
one  wilderness,  another  of  equal  length,  and  equally 
desolate,  should  expect  him.  In  this  particular, 
his  experience  and  mine  would  exactly  tally.  I 
should  rejoice  indeed  that  the  old  year  is  over  and 
gone,  if  I  had  not  every  reason  to  prophesy  a  new 
one  similar  to  it. 

I  am  glad  you  have  found  so  much  hidden  trea- 
sure; and  Mrs.  Unwin  desires  me  to  tell  you  that 
you  did  her  no  more  than  justice,  in  believing  that 
she  would  rejoice  in  it.  It  is  not  easy  to  surmise 
the  reason,  why  the  reverend  doctor,  your  prede- 
'  cessor,  concealed  it.  Being  a  subject  of  a  free 
'  government,  and  I  suppose  full  of  the  divinity  most 
in  fashion,  he  could  not  fear  lest  his  great  riches 
should  expose  him  to  persecution .  Nor  can  I  sup- 
pose that  he  held  it  any  disgrace  for  a  dignitary 
of  the  church  to  be  wealthy,  at  a  time  when 
churchmen  in  general  spare  no  pains  to  become 
so.  But  the  wisdom  of  some  men  has  a  droll  sort 
of  knavishness  in  it,  much  lilce  that  of  the  magpie, 


Let.  144, 


LETTERS. 


who  hides  what  he  finds  with  a  deal  of  contrivance, 
merely  for  the  pleasure  of  doing  it. 

Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  TJNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  Jan.  23,  1784, 

When  I  first  resolved  to  write  an  answer  to 
your  last,  this  evening,  I  had  no  thought  of  any 
thing  more  sublime  than  prose.  But  before  I  be- 
gan, it  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  you  would 
not  be  displeased  with  an  attempt  to  give  a  poetical 
translation  of  the  lines  you  sent  me.  They  are  so 
beautiful,  that  I  felt  the  temptation  irresistible.  At 
least,  as  the  French  say,  it  was  plus  forte  que 
moi;  and  I  accordingly  complied.  By  this  means 
I  have  lost  an  hour;  and  whether  I  shall  be  abl( 
to  fill  my  sheets  before  supper,  is  as  yet  doubtful 
But  I  will  do  my  best. 

For  your  remarks,  I  think  them  perfectly  just 
You  have  no  reason  to  distrust  your  taste,  or  to 
submit  the  trial  of  it  to  me.  You  understand  the 
use  and  the  force  of  language  as  well  as  any  man. 
You  have  quick  feelings,  and  you  are  fond  of 
poetry.  How  is  it  possible  then  that  you  should 
not  be  a  judge  of  if?  I  venture  to  hazard  only  one 
alteration,  which,  as  it  appears  to  me,  would 
amount  to  a  little  improvement.  The  seventh 
and  eighth  Unes  I  think  I  should  like  better  thus — 

Aspirante  levi  zeph3Tro  et  redeunte  serena 
Anni  temperie,  fecundo  e  cespite  surgunt. 

My  reason  is,  that  the  word  cum  is  repeated  too 
soon.  At  least  my  ear  does  not  like  it ;  and  when 
it  can  be  done  without  injury  to  the  sense,  there 
seems  to  be  an  elegance  in  diversifying  the  ex- 
pression, as  much  as  possible,  upon  similar  occa- 
sions. It  discovers  a  command  of  phrase,  and 
gives  a  more  masterly  air  to  the  piece.  If  extincta 
stood  unconnected  with  telis,  I  should  prefer  your 
word  micant  to  the  doctor's  vigent.  But  the  latter 
seems  to  stand  more  in  direct  opposition  to  that 
of  extinction,  which  is  effected  by  a  shaft  or  arrow. 
In  the  day-time  the  stars  may  be  said  to  die,  and 
in  the  night  to  recover  their  strength.  Perhaps 
the  doctor  had  in  his  eye  that  noble  Une  of  Gray — 
Hyperion's  march  they  spy,  and  glittering  shafts 
of  war!  But  it  is  a  beautiful  composition.  It  is 
tender,  touching  and  elegant.  It  is  not  easy  to 
do  justice  in  Enghsh,  as  for  example.* 

Many  thanks  for  the  books,  which,  being  most 
admirably  packed,  came  safe.  They  will  furnish 
us  with  many  a  winter  evening's  amusement.  We 
are  glad  that  you  intend  to  be  the  carrier  back. 

We  rejoice  too  that  your  cousin  has  remembered 
you  in  her  will.    The  money  she  left  to  those  who 


'See  the  note  subjoined  to  the  next  letter. 


attended  her  hearse  would  have  been  better  be- 
stowed upon  you;  and  by  this  time  perhaps  she 
thinks  so.  Alas !  what  an  inquiry  does  that  thought 
suggest,  and  how  impossible  to  make  it  to  any  pur- 
pose 1  What  are  the  employments  of  the  departed 
spirit  1  and  where  does  it  subsist '?  Has  it  any  cog- 
nizance of  earthly  things  1  Is  it  transported  to  an 
immeasurable  distance;  or  is  it  still,  though  im- 
perceptible to  us,  conversant  with  the  same  scene, 
and  interested  in  what  passes  here '?  How  little  we 
know  of  a  state  to  which  we  are  all  destined;  and 
how  does  the  obscurity,  that  hangs  over  that  un- 
discovered country,  increase  the  anxiety  we  some- 
times feel  as  we  are  journeying  towards  it !  It  is 
sufficient  however  for  such  as  you,  and  a  few  more 
of  my  acquaintance,  to  know  that  in  your  separate 
state  you  will  be  happy.  Provision  is  made  for 
your  reception,  and  you  will  have  no  cause  to  re- 
gret aught  that  you  have  left  behind. 

1  have  written  to  Mr.  .    My  letter  went 

this  morning.  How  I  love  and  honour  that  man ! 
For  many  reasons  I  dare  not  tell  him  how  much. 
But  I  hate  the  frigidity  of  the  style,  in  which  I  am 
forced  to  address  him.  That  line  of  Horace— 
'  Dii  tibi  divitias  dederunt  artemque  fruendi" — 
was  never  so  applicable  to  the  poet's  friend,  as  to 

Mr.  .  My  bosom  burns  to  immortalize  him. 

But  prudence  says  "Forbear!"  and,  though  a 
poet,  I  pay  respect  to  her  injunctions. 

I  sincerely  give  you  joy  of  the  good  you  have 
unconsciously  done  by  your  example  and  conversa- 
tion. That  you  seem  to  yourself  not  to  deserve 
the  acknowledgment  your  friend  makes  of  it,  is  a 
proof  that  you  do.  Grace  is  blind  to  its  own 
beauty,  whereas  such  virtues  as  men  may  reach 
without  it,  are  remarkable  self-admirers.  May 
you  make  such  impressions  upon  many  of  your 
order !  I  know  none  that  need  them  more. 

You  do  not  want  our  praises  of  your  conduct 

towards  Mr.  ,    It  is  well  for  him  however, 

and  still  better  for  yourself,  that  you  are  capable 
of  such  a  part.  It  v^-as  said  of  some  good  man, 
(my  memory  does  not  serve  me  with  his  name,) 
"  do  him  an  ill  turn  and  you  make  him  your  friend 
for  ever."  But  it  is  Christianity  only  that  forms 
such  friends.  I  wish  his  father  may  be  duly  af- 
fected by  this  instance  and  proof  of  your  supe- 
riority to  those  ideas  of  you  which  he  has  so  un- 
reasonably harboured.  He  is  not  in  my  favour 
now,  nor  will  be  upon  any  other  terms. 

I  laughed  at  the  comments  you  make  on  your 
own  feelings!,  when  the  subject  of  them  was  a 
newspaper  eulogium.  But  it  was  a  laugh  of  plea- 
sure and  approbation:  such  indeed  is  the  heart, 
and  so  is  it  made  up.  There  are  few  that  can  do 
good,  and  keep  their  own  secret,  none  perhaps 
without  a  struggle.  Yourself,  and  your  friend 
 ,  are  no  very  common  instances  of  the  for- 
titude that  is  necessary  in  such  a  conflict.    In  for- 


246 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  145,  14G. 


mcr  days  I  have  felt  my  heart  beat,  and  every 
vein  throb,  upon  such  an  occasion.  To  publish 
my  own  deed  was  wrong.  I  knew  it  to  be  so. 
But  to  conceal  it  seemed  like  a  voluntary  injury 
to  myself.  Sometimes  I  could,  and  sometimes  I 
could  not  succeed.  My  occasions  for  such  conflicts 
indeed  were  not  very  numerous. 

Yours,  W .  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  J^'^-  2^,  1784 

This  contention  about  East  Indian  patronage 
seems  not  unlikely  to  avenge  upon  us,  by  its  con- 
sequences, the  mischiefs  we  have  done  there.  The 
matter  in  dispute  is  too  precious  to  be  relinquished 
by  either  party;  and  eacK  is  jealous  of  the  influ- 
ence the  other  would  derive  from  the  possession 
of  it.    In  a  country  whose  politics  have  so  long 
rolled  upon  the  wheels  of  corruption,  an  affair  of 
such  value  must  prove  a  weight  in  either  scale 
absolutely  destructive  of  the  very  idea  of  a  balance. 
Every  man  has  his  sentiments  upon  this  subject, 
and  I  have  mine.    Were  I  constituted  umpire  of 
this  strife,  with  full  powers  to  decide  it,  I  would 
tie  a  talent  of  lead  about  the  neck  of  this  patron- 
age, and  plunge  it  into  the  depths  of  the  sea.  To 
speak  less  figuratively,  I  would  abandon  all  territo- 
rial interest  in  a  country  to  which  we  can  have  no 
right,  and  which  we  can  not  govern  with  any  se- 
curity to  the  happiness  of  the  inhabitants,  or  with- 
out the  danger  of  incurring  either  perpetual  broils 
or  the  most  insupportable  tyranny  at  home.  That 
sort  of  tyranny,  I  mean,  which  flatters  and  tanta- 
lizes the  subject  with  a  show  of  freedom,  and  in 
reality,  allows  him  nothing  more;  bribing  to  the 
right  and  left,  rich  enough  to  afford  the  purchase 
of  a  thousand  consciences,  and  consequently  strong 
enough,  if  it  happen  to  meet  with  an  incorruptible 
one  to  render  all  the  eff-orts  of  that  man,  or  of 
twenty  such  men,  if  they  could  be  found,  romantic 
and  of  no  effect.    I  am  the  king's  most  loyal  sub 
ject,  and  most  obedient  humble  servant.    But  by 
his  majesty's  leave  I  must  acknowledge  I  am  not 
altogether  convinced  of  the  rectitude  even  of  his 
own  measures,  or  the  simphcity  of  his  views;  and 
if  I  were  satisfied  that  he  himself  is  to  be  trusted, 
H  is  nevertheless  palpable,  that  he  cannot  answer 
for  his  successors.    At  the  same  time  he  is  my 
king  and  I  reverence  him  as  such.    I  account  his 
prerogative  sacred,  and  shall  never  wish  prosperity 
ta  a  party  that  invades  it,  and  that  under  the  pre- 
tence of  patriotism  would  annihilate  all  the  conse- 
quence of  a  character  essential  to  the  very  being 
of  the  constitution.    For  these  reasons  I  am  sorry 
that  we  have  any  dominion  in  the  East— that  we 
have  any  such  emoluments  to  contend  about. 
Their  immense  value  will  probably  prolong  thel 


dispute,  and  such  struggles  having  been  already 
made  in  the  conduct  of  it,  as  have  shaken  our  very 
foundations,  it  seems  not  unreasonable  to  suppose 
that  still  greater  efforts,  and  more  fatal,  are  behirid ; 
and  after  all,  the  decision  in  favour  of  either  side 
may  be  ruinous  to  the  whole.  In  the  mean  time, 
that  the  company  themselves  are  but  indifferently 
quaUfied  for  the  kingship,  is  most  deplorably  evi. 
dent.  What  shall  I  say  therefore  1  I  distrust  the 
court,  I  suspect  the  patriots,  I  put  the  company 
entirely  aside,  as  having  forfeited  all  claim  to  con- 
fidence in  such  a  business,  and  see  no  remedy  of 
course,'but  in  the  annihilation,  if  that  could  be  ac- 
complished, of  the  very  existence  of  our  authority 
in  the  East  Indies. 


The  late  Doctor  Jortin 
Had  the  good  fortune 
To  write  these  verses 
Upon  tombs  and  hearses: 
Which  I  being  jingUsh, 
Have  done  into  EngUsh.* 

Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

MT  DEAR  FRIEND,  February,  1784. 

I  am  glad  that  you  have  finished  a  work,  of 
which  I  well  remember  the  beginning,  and  which 
1  was  sorry  you  thought  it  expedient  to  discon- 
tinue. Your  reason  for  not  proceeding  was  however 
such  as  I  was  obliged  to  acquiesce  in,  being  sug- 
gested by  a  jealousy  you  felt,  "lest  your  spirit 
should  be  betrayed  into  acrimony,  in  writing  upon 
such  a  subject."  I  doubt  not  you  have  suflSciently 
guarded  that  point,  and  indeed  at  the  time,  I  could 
not  discover  that  you  had  failed  in  it.    I  have  bu- 
sied myself  this  morning  in  contriving  a  Greek 
title,  and  in  seeking  a  motto.    The  motto  you 
mention  is  certainly  apposite.    But  I  think  it  an 
objection  that  it  has  been  so  much  in  use ;  almost 
every  writer  that  has  claimed  a  liberty  to  think  for 
himself  upon  whatever  subject,  having  chosen  it. 
I  therefore  send  you  one,  which  I  never  saw  in 
that  shape  yet,  and  which  appears  to  me  equally 
apt  and  proper.    The  Greek  word,  hrfxoi,  which 
signifies  literally  a  shackle,  may  figuratively  serve 
to  express  those  chains  which  bigotry  and  preju- 
dice cast  upon  the  mind.    It  seems,  therefore,  to 
speak  like  a  lawyer,  no  misnomer  of  your  book  to 
call  it, 


•  For  the  verses  entitled  "  In  brevitatem  vitoe  spatii  hominu 
bus  concessi,"  together  with  Cowper's  translation  of  them, 
vide  Poems. 


Let.  147, 


LETTERS. 


247 


Querelis 

Haud  justis  assurgis,  et  irritajurgia  jactas. 

JEn.  X.  94. 

From  the  little  I  have  seen,  and  the  much  I 


The  following  pleases  me  most  of  all  the  mottos  ing  frequent  occasion  for  some  skill  in  surgery ; 
1  have  thought  of  But  with  respect  both  to  that  but  physicians,  I  presume,  they  had  none,  having 
»nd  the  titb  you  will  use  your  pleasure.  no  need  of  any.    Is  it  possible,  that  a  creature  Hke 

myself  can  be  descended  from  such  progenitors,  in 
whom  there  appears  not  a  single  trace  of  family 
resemblance  1  What  an  alteration  have  a  few  ages 
made  ?  They,  without  clothing,  would  defy  the 
severest  season:  and  I,  with  all  the  accommoda- 
have  heard  of  the  manager  of  the  Review  you  tions  that  art  has  since  invented,  am  hardly  secure 
mention,  I  can  not  feel  even  the  smallest  push  of  a  even  in  the  mildest.  If  the  wind  blows  upon  me 
desire  to  serve  him  in  the  capacity  of  poet.  Indeed  ^hen  my  pores  are  open,  I  catch  cold.  A  cough 
1  dishke  him  so  much,  that,  had  I  a  drawer  full  of  is  the  consequence.  I  suppose  if  such  a  disorder 
pieces  fit  for  his  purpose,  I  hardly  think  I  should  could  have  seized  a  Pict,  his  friends  would  have 
contnbute  to  his  collection.  It  is  possible  too  that  concluded  that  a  bone  had  stuck  in  his  throat,  and 
I  may  live  to  be  once  more  a  publisher  myself;  in  that  he  was  in  some  danger  of  chokina.  They 
which  case  I  should  be  glad  to  find  myself  in  pos-  ^ould  perhaps  have  addressed  themselves  to  the 
session  of  any  such  origmal  pieces,  as  might  de-  cure  of  his  cough  by  thrusting  their  fincrers  into 
cently  make  their  appearance  m  a  volume  of  my  g^net,  which  would  only  have  exasperated  the 
own.  At  present  however  I  have  nothing  that  case.  But  they  would  never  have  thought  of  ad- 
would  be  of  use  to  him,  nor  have  I  many  oppor-  ministering  laudanum,  my  only  remedy.  For  this 
tunities  of  composmg.    Sunday  being  the  only  difierence,  however,  that  has  obtained  between  me 


day  in  the  week  which  we  spend  alone. 


and  my  ancestors,  I  am  indebted  to  the  luxurious 


I  am  at  this  moment  pinched  for  time,  but  was  practices,  and  enfeebling  self-indulgence,  of  a  long 
desirous  of  proving  to  you,  with  what  alacrity  my  of  grandsires,  who  from  generation  to  genera- 
Greek  and  Latin  memory  are  always  ready  to  obey  tion  have  been  employed  in  deterioratina  the  breed 
you,  and  therefore  by  the  first  post  have  to  the  best  till  at  last  the  collected  effects  of  all  their  foUies 
of  my  ability  complied  with  your  request.  ^^^^  ^e^t.^^         p^^^  ^^jf    ^  ^^^^^ 

Believe  me,  ray  dear  fnend,  ^ot  in  the  image  of  those  that  went  before  me.  A 

Affectionately  yours,  W.C.  ^^n,  who  sigh  and  groan,  who  wear  out  life  in 
dejection  and  oppression  of  spirits,  and  who  never 
think  of  the  Aborigines  of  the  country  to  which  I 
belong,  without  wishing  that  I  had  been  born 
among  them.  The  evil  is  without  a  remedy,  un- 
less the  ages  that  are  passed  could  be  recalled,  my 
whole  pedigree  be  permitted  to  live  again,  and  be- 
ing properly  admonished  to  beware  of  enervating 
sloth  and  refinement,  would  preserve  their  hardi- 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 


MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Feb.  10,  1784. 

The  morning  is  my  writing  time,  and  in  the 
morning  I  have  no  spirits.  So  much  the  worse  for 
my  correspondents.  Sleep,  that  refreshes  my  bo- 
dy, seems  to  cripple  me  in  every  other  respect.  As  '  ness  of  nature  unimpaired,  and  transmit  the  desira- 
the  evening  approaches,  I  grow  more  alert,  and  ble  quality  to  their  posterity.  I  once  saw  Adam 
when  I  am  retiring  to,  bed,  am  more  fit  for  mental  in  a  dream.  We  sometimes  say  of  a  picture,  that 
occupation  than  at  any  other  time.  So  it  fares  we  doubt  not  its  likeness  to  the  original,  though 
with  us  whom  they  call  nervous.  By  a  strange  we  never  saw  him;  a  judgment  we  have  some  rea^ 
inversion  of  the  animal  economy,  we  are  ready  to  '  son  to  form,  when  the  face  is  strongly  character- 
sleep  when  we  have  most  need  to  be  awake,  and  '  ed,  and  the  features  full  of  expression.  So  I  think 
go  to  bed  just  when  we  might  sit  up  to  some  pur-  of  my  visionary  Adam,  and  for  a  similar  reason. 


pose.  The  watch  is  irregularly  wound  up,  it  goes 
in  the  night  when  it  is  not  wanted,  and  in  the  day 
stands  still.  In  many  respects  we  have  the  advan- 
tage of  our  forefathers  the  Picts.  We  sleep  in  a 
whole  skin,  and  are  not  obliged  to  submit  to  the 
painful  operation  of  puncturing  ourselves  from  head 
to  foot,  in  order  that  we  may  be  decently  dressed, 
and  fit  to  appear  abroad.  But  on  the  other  hand, 
we  have  reason  enough  to  envy  them  their  tone  of 
nerves,  and  that  flow  of  spirits  which  effectually  se- 
cured them  from  all  uncomfortable  impressions  of 
a  gloomy  atmosphere,  and  from  every  shade  of  me- 
lancholy from  every  other  cause.  They  under- 
stood, I  suppose,  the  use  of  vulnerary  herbs,  hav- 
17  w  2 


His  figure  was  awkward  indeed  in  the  extreme. 
It  was  evident  that  he  had  never  been  taught  by  a 
Frenchman  to  hold  his  head  erect,  or  to  turn  out 
his  toes ;  to  dispose  gracefully  of  his  arms,  or  to 
simper  without  a  meaning.  But  if  Mr.  Bacon  was 
called  upon  to  produce  a  statue  of  Hercules,  ho 
need  not  wish  for  a  juster  pattern.  He  stood  like 
a  rock ;  the  size  of  his  limbs,  the  prominence  of 
his  muscles,  and  the  height  of  his  stature,  all  con- 
spired to  bespeak  him  a  creature  whose  strength 
had  suffered  no  diminution ;  and  who,  being  the 
first  of  his  race,  did  not  come  into  the  world  un- 
der a  necessity  of  sustaining  a  load  of  infirmities, 
derived  to  him  from  the  intemperance  of  others. 


248 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  148,  149,  150. 


He  was  as  much  stouter  than  a  Pict,  as  I  suppose 
a  Pict  to  have  been  than  I.  Upon  my  hypothesis, 
therefore,  there  has  been  a  gradual  declension,  in 
point  of  bodily  vigour,  from  Adam  down  to  me : 
at  least  if  my  dream  were  a  just  representation  of 
that  gentleman,  and  deserve  the  credit  I  can  not 
help  giving  it,  such  must  have  been  the  case. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 


[TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  BULL.] 

February  23,  1784 
"  1  CONGRATULATE  you  on  the  thaw— I  suppose 
it  is  an  universal  blessing,  and  probably  felt  all 
over  Europe.  I  myself  am  the  better  for  it,  who 
wanted  nothing  that  might  make  the  frost  supporta- 
ble ;  what  reason  therefore  have  they  to  rejoice, 
who,  being  in  want  of  all  things,  were  exposed  to 
its  utmost  rigour  1— The  ice  in  my  ink,  however, 
is  not  yet  dissolved.  It  was  long  before  the  frost 
seized  it,  but  at  last  it  prevailed.  The  Sofa  has 
consequently  received  little  or  no  addition  smce. 
It  consists  at  present  of  four  books  and  part  of  a 
fifth;  when  the  sixth  is  finished,  the  work  is  ac- 
complished ;  but  if  I  may  judge  by  my  present  ina- 
bility, that  period  is  at  a  considerable  distance." 

TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  February,  1784. 

I  GIVE  you  joy  of  a  thaw,  that  has  put  an  end 
to  a  frost  of  nine  weeks'  continuance  with  very  lit- 
tle interruption;  the  longest  that  has  happened 
since  the  year  1739.    May  I  presume  that  you  feel 
yourself  indebted  to  me  for  intelligence,  which  per- 
haps no  other  of  your  correspondents  will  vouch- 
safe to  communicate,  though  they  are  as  well  ap- 
prised of  it,  and  as  much  convinced  of  the  truth 
of  it,  as  myself?    It  is,  I  suppose,  every  where 
felt  as  a  blessing,  but  nowhere  more  sensibly  than 
at  Olney;  though  even  at  Olney  the  severity  of  it 
has  been  alleviated  in  behalf  of  many.    The  same 
benefactor,  who  befriended  them  last  year,  has  with 
equal  liberality  administered  a  supply  to  their  ne- 
cessities in  the  present.    Like  the  subterraneous 
flue  that  warms  my  myrtles,  he  does  good,  and  is 
unseen.    His  injunctions  of  secrecy  are  as  rigor- 
ous as  ever,  and  must,  therefore,  be  observed  with 
the  same  attention.    He,  however,  is  a  happy  man, 
whose  philanthropy  is  not  like  mine,  an  impotent 
principle,  spending  itself  in  fruitless  wishes.  At 
the  same  time,  I  confess  it  is  a  consolation,  and  I 
feel  it  an  honour,  to  be  employed  as  the  conductor 
and  to  be  trusted  as  the  dispenser,  of  another  man's 
bounty.    Some  have  been  saved  from  perishing, 
and  all,  that  could  partake  of  it,  from  the  most 
pitiable  distress. 

I  will  not  apologize  for  my  politics,  or  suspect 
them  of  error,  merely  because  they  are  taken  up 


from  the  newspapers.    I  take  it  for  granted,  that 
those  reporters  of  the  wisdom  of  our  representa- 
tives are  tolerably  correct  and  faithful.    Were  they 
not,  and  were  they  guilty  of  frequent  and  gross 
misrepresentation,  assuredly  they  would  be  chas- 
tised by  the  rod  of  parliamentary  criticism.  Could 
I  be  present  at  the  debates,  I  should  indeed  have  a 
better  opinion  of  my  documents.    But  if  the  House 
of  Commons  be  the  best  school  of  British  politics, 
which  I  think  an  undeniable  assertion,  then  he  that 
reads  what  passes  there  has  opportunities  of  infor- 
mation, inferior  only  to  theirs  who  hear  for  them- 
selves, and  can  be  present  upon  the  spot.  Thus 
quaUfied  I  take  courage ;  and  when  a  certain  reve- 
rend neighbour  of  ours  curls  his  nose  at  me,  and 
holds  my  opinions  cheap,  merely  because  he  has 
passed  through  London,  I  am  not  altogether  con- 
vinced that  he  has  reason  on  his  side.    I  do  not 
know  that  the  air  of  the  metropolis  has  a  power 
to  brighten  the  intellects,  or  that  to  sleep  a  night 
in  the  great  city  is  a  necessary  cause  of  wisdom. 
He  tells  me  that  Mr.  Fox  is  a  rascal,  and  that 
Lord  North  is  a  villain,  that  every  creature  exe- 
crates them  both,  and  that  I  ought  to  do  so  too. 
But  I  beg  to  be  excused.    Villain  and  rascal  are 
appellations,  which  we,  who  do  not  converse  with 
great  men,  are  rather  sparing  in  the  use  of    I  can 
conceive  them  both  to  be  most  entirely  persuaded 
of  the  rectitude  of  their  conduct ;  and  the  rather, 
because  I  feel  myself  much  inclined  to  believe  that, 
being  so,  they  are  not  mistaken.    I  can  not  think 
that  secret  influence  is  a  bugbear,  a  phantom  con- 
jured up  to  serve  a  purpose ;  the  mere  shibboleth 
of  a  party :  and  being,  and  having  always  been, 
somewhat  of  an  enthusiast  on  the  subject  of  British 
liberty,  I  am  not  able  to  withhold  my  reverence 
and  good  wishes  from  the  man,  whoever  he  be,  that 
exerts  himself  in  a  constitutional  way  to  oppose  it. 

Caraccioli  upon  the  subject  of  self-acquaintance 
was  never,  I  believe,  translated.  I  have  sometimes 
thought  that  the  Theological  Miscellany  might  be 
glad  of  a  chapter  of  it  monthly.  It  is  a  work 
which  I  much  admire.  You,  who  are  master  of 
their  plan,  can  tell  me  whether  such  a  contribu- 
tion would  be  welcome.  If  you  think  it  would,  I 
would  be  punctual  in  my  remittances ;  and  a  la- 
bour of  that  sort  would  suit  me  better  in  my  pre- 
sent state  of  mind  than  original  composition  on 
religious  subjects. 

Remember  us  as  those  that  love  you,  and  are 
never  unmindful  of  you. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  ^9,  1784. 

We  are  glad  that  you  have  such  a  Lord  Petre 
in  your  neighbourhood.   He  must  be  a  man  of  a 


Let.  151,  152. 


LETTERS. 


249 


liberal  turn,  to  employ  a  heretic  in  such  a  service. 
I  wish  you  a  further  acquaintance  with  him,  not  i 
doubting  that  the  more  he  knows  you  he  will  find 
you  the  more  agreeable.  You  despair  of  becoming 
a  prebendary  for  want  of  certain  rhythmical  ta-  i 
lents,  which  you  suppose  me  possessed  of  But 
what  think  you  of  a  cardinal's  hat  1  Perhaps  his 
lordship  may  have  interest  at  Rome,  and  that  great- 
er honour  may  await  you.  Seriously,  however,  I 
respect  his  character,  and  should  not  be  sorry  if 
there  were  many  such  Papists  in  the  land. 

Mr.  has  given  free  scope  to  his  generosi- 
ty, and  contributed  as  largely  to  the  relief  of  01- 
ney,  as  he  did  last  year.  Soon  after  I  had  given 
you  notice  of  his  first  remittance,  we  received  a  se- 
cond to  the  same  amount,  accompanied  indeed  with 
an  intimation  that  we  were  to  consider  it  as  an  an- 
ticipated supply,  which,  but  for  the  uncommon  se- 
verity of  the  present  winter,  he  should  have  re- 
served for  the  next.  The  inference  is,  that  next 
winter  we  are  to  expect  nothing.  But  the  man 
and  his  beneficent  turn  of  mind  considered,  there 
is  some  reason  to  hope  that,  logical  as  the  inference 
seems,  it  may  yet  be  disappointed. 

Adverting  to  your  letter  again,  I  perceive  that 
you  wish  for  my  opinion  of  your  answer  to  his 
lordship.  Had  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  approve 
of  it,  I  know  you  well  enough  to  be  aware  of  the 
interpretation  you  would  have  put  upon  my  silence. 
I  am  glad,  therefore,  that  I  happened  to  cast  my 
eye  upon  your  appeal  to  my  opinion,  before  it  was 
too  late.  A  modest  man,  however  able,  has  always 
some  reason  to  distrust  himself  upon  extraordinary 
occasions.  Nothing  so  apt  to  betray  us  into  ab- 
surdity, as  too  great  a  dread  of  it ;  and  the  appli- 
cation of  more  strength  than  enough  is  sometimes 
as  fatal  as  too  little ;  but  you  have  escaped  very 
well.  For  my  own  part,  when  I  write  to  a  stran- 
ger, I  feel  myself  deprived  of  half  my  intellects. 
I  suspect  that  I  shall  write  nonsense,  and  I  do  so. 
I  tremble  at  the  thought  of  an  inaccuracy,  and  be- 
come absolutely  ungrammatical.  I  feel  myself 
sweat.  I  have  recourse  to  the  knife  and  the  pounce. 
I  correct  half  a  dozen  blunders,  which  in  a  com- 
mon case  1  should  not  have  committed,  and  have 
no  sooner  despatched  what  I  have  written,  than  I 
recollect  how  much  better  I  could  have  made  it ; 
how  easily  and  genteelly  I  could  have  relaxed  the 
stiflfness  of  the  phrase,  and  have  cured  the  insuf- 
ferable awkwardness  of  the  whole,  had  they  struck 
me  a  little  earlier.  Thus  we  stand  in  awe  of  we 
know  not  what,  and  miscarry  through  mere  desire 
to  excel. 

I  read  Johnson's  Prefaces  every  night,  except 
when  the  newspaper  calls  me  off.  At  a  time  like 
the  present,  what  author  can  stand  in  competition 
with  a  newspaper  1  or  who,  that  has  a  spark  of 
patriotism,  does  not  point  all  his  attention  to  the 
present  crisis W.  C. 


I  am  so  disgusted  with  ,  for  allowing  him- 
self to  be  silent,  when  so  loudly  called  upon  to 
write  to  you,  that  I  do  not  choose  to  express  my 
feelings.  Wo  to  the  man  whom  kindness  can  not 
soften ! 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  March  8,  1784. 

I  THANK  you  for  the  two  first  numbers  of  the 
T  heological  Miscellany.  I  have  not  read  them  re- 
gularly through,  but  sufficiently  to  observe  that 
they  are  much  indebted  to  Omicron.  An  essay, 
signed  Parvulus,  pleased  me  likewise ;  and  I  shall 
be  glad  if  a  neighbour  of  ours,  to  whom  I  have 
lent  them,  should  be  able  to  apply  to  his  own  use 
the  lesson  it  inculcates.  On  further  consideration, 
I  have  seen  reason  to  forego  my  purpose  of  trans- 
lating Caraccioh.  Though  1  think  no  book  more 
calculated  to  teach  the  art  of  pious  meditation,  or 
to  enforce  a  conviction  of  the  vanity  of  all  pursuits, 
that  have  not  the  soul's  interests  for  their  object,  I 
can  yet  see  a  flaw  in  his  manner  of  instructing, 
that  in  a  country  so  enlightened  as  ours  would  es- 
cape nobody's  notice.  Not  enjoying  the  advanta- 
ges of  evangelical  ordinances,  and  Christian  com- 
munion, he  falls  into  a  mistake  natural  in  his  situa- 
tion ;  ascribing  always  the  pleasures  he  found  in  a 
holy  life  to  his  own  industrious  perseverance  in  a 
contemplative  course,  and  not  to  the  immediate 
agency  of  the  great  Comforter  of  his  people ;  and 
directing  the  eye  of  his  readers  to  a  spiritual  prin- 
ciple within,  which  he  supposes  to  subsist  in  the 
soul  of  every  man,  as  the  source  of  all  divine  en- 
joyment, and  to  Christ,  as  he  would  gladly  have 
done,  had  he  fallen  under  Christian  teachers.  Al- 
lowing for  these  defects,  he  is  a  charming  writer, 
and  by  those  who  know  how  to  make  such  allow- 
ances, may  be  read  with  great  delight  and  improve- 
ment. But  with  these  defects  in  his  manner, 
though  (I  believe)  no  man  ever  had  a  heart  more 
devoted  to  God,  he  does  not  seem  dressed  with  suf- 
ficient exactness  to  be  fit  for  the  public  eye,  where 
man  is  known  to  be  nothing,  and  Jesus  all  in  ail. 
He  must,  therefore,  be  dismissed  as  an  unsuccess- 
ful candidate  for  a  place  in  this  Miscellany,  and 
will  be  less  mortified  at  being  rejected  in  the  first 
instance,  than  if  he  had  met  with  a  refusal  from 
the  publisher.  I  can  only  therefore  repeat  what 
I  said  before,  that  when  I  find  a  proper  subject, 
and  myself  at  liberty  to  pursue  it,  I  will  endeavour 
to  contribute  my  quota.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

Olney,  March  11,  1784. 
I  RETDRN  you  many  thanks  for  your  apology, 


250 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  153,  154. 


which  I  have  read  with  great  pleasure.*  You 
know  of  old  that  your  stylo  always  pleases  me: 
and  having  in  a  former  letter  given  you  the  rca- 
eons  for  which  I  like  it,  I  spare  you  now  the  pain 
of  a  repetition.  The  spirit  too,  in  which  you 
write,  pleases  me  as  much,  But  I  perceive  that 
in  some  cases  it  is  possible  to  be  severe,  and  at 
the  same  time  perfectly  good-tempered;  in  all 
cases  I  suppose  where  we  suffer  by  an  injurious 
and  unreasonable  attack,  and  can  justify  our  con- 
duct by  a  plain  and  simple  narrative.  On  such 
occasions,  truth  itself  seems  a  satire,  because  by 
implication  at  least  it  convicts  our  adversaries  of 
the  want  of  charity  and  candour.  For  this  rea- 
son perhaps  you  will  find  that  you  have  made 
many  angry,  though  you  are  not  so;  and  it  is 
possible  that  they  may  be  the  more  angry  upon 
that  very  account.  To  assert,  and  to  prove,  that 
an  enlightened  minister  of  the  gospel  may,  with- 
out any  violation  of  his  conscience  and  even,  upon 
the  ground  of  prudence  and  propriety,  continue 
in  the  establishment;  and  to  do  this  with  the 
most  absolute  composure,  must  be  very  provoking 
to  the  dignity  of  some  dissenting  doctors ;  and  to 
nettle  them  still  the  more,  you  in  a  manner  im- 
pose upon  them  the  necessity  of  being  silent,  by 
declaring  that  you  will  be  so  yourself  Upon  the 
whole  however  I  have  no  doubt  that  your  apology 
will  do  good.  If  it  should  irritate  some,  who  have 
more  zeal  than  knowledge,  and  more  of  bigotry 
than  of  either,  it  may  serve  to  enlarge  the  views 
of  others,  and  to  convince  them,  that  there  may  be 
grace,  truth,  and  efficacy,  in  the  ministry  of  a 
church  of  which  they  are  not  members.  I  wish  it 
success,  and  all  that  attention  to  which,  both  from 
the  nature  of  the  subject,  and  the  manner  in 
which  you  have  treated  it,  it  is  so  well  entitled. 

The  patronage  of  the  East  Indies  will  be  a 
dangerous  weapon  in  whatever  hands.  I  have  no 
prospect  of  deliverance  for  this  country,  but  the 
same  that  I  have  of  a  possibility  that  we  may  one 
day  be  disencumbered  of  our  ruinous  possessions 
in  the  East, 

Our  good  neighbours,  who  have  so  successfully 
knocked  away  our  Western  crutch  from  under 
us,  seem  to  design  us  the  same  favour  on  the  op- 
posite side ;  in  which  case  we  shall  be  poor,  but  I 
think  we  shall  stand  a  better  chance  to  be  free; 
and  I  had  rather  drink  water-gruel  for  breakfast, 
and  be  no  taan's  slave,  than  wear  a  chain,  and 
drink  tea  as  usual. 

I  have  just  room  to  add,  that  we  love  you  as 
usual,  and  are  your  very  affectionate  William  and 
Mary.  W.  C. 


•  The  book  alluded  to  is  entitled  "Apologia.  Four  Let- 
^rs  to  a  Minister  of  an  Independent  Church.  By  a  Minister 
»f  the  Church  of  England." 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  March  19,  1784. 

I  WISH  it  were  in  my  power  to  give  you  any 
account  of  the  Marquis  CaraccioU.  Some  years 
since  I  saw  a  short  history  of  him  in  the  Review, 
of  which  I  recollect  no  particulars,  except  that  he 
was  (and  for  aught  I  know  may  be  still)  an  officer 
in  the  Prussian  service.  I  have  two  volumes  of 
his  works,  lent  me  by  Lady  Austen.  One  is 
upon  the  subject  of  self-acquaintance,  and  the 
other  treats  of  the  art  of  conversing  with  the  same 
gentleman;  had  I  pursued  my  purpose  of  trans- 
lating him,  my  design  was  to  have  furnished  my- 
self, if  possible,  with  some  authentic  account  of 
him,  which  I  suppose  may  be  procured  at  any 
bookseller's  who  deals  in  foreign  publications. 
But  for  the  reasons  given  in  my  last  I  have  laid 
aside  the  design.  There  is  something  in  his  style 
that  touches  me  exceedingly,  and  which  I  do  not 
know  how  to  describe.  I  should  call  it  pathetic, 
if  it  were  occasional  only,  and  never  occurred  but 
when  his  subject  happened  to  be  particularly  af- 
fecting. But  it  is  universal;  he  has  not  a  sen- 
tence that  is  not  marked  with  it.  Perhaps  there- 
fore I  may  describe  it  better  by  saying,  that  his 
whole  work  has  an  air  of  pious  and  tender  melan- 
choly, which  to  me  at  least  is  extremely  agreeable. 
This  property  of  it,  which  depends  perhaps  alto- 
gether upon  the  arrangement  of  his  words,  and 
the  modulation  of  his  sentences,  it  would  be  very 
difficult  to  preserve  in  a  translation.  I  do  not 
know  that  our  language  is^  capable  of  being  so 
managed,  and  rather  suspect  that  it  is  not,  and 
that  it  is  peculiar  to  the  French,  because  it  is  not 
unfrequent  among  their  writers,  and  I  never  saw 
any  thing  similar  to  it  in  our  own. 

My  evenings  are  devoted  to  books.  I  read 
aloud  for  the  entertainment  of  the  party,  thus 
making  amends  by  a  vociferation  of  two  hours  for 
my  silence  at  other  times.  We  are  in  good  health, 
and  waiting  as  patiently  as  we  can  for  the  end  of 
this  second  winter. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  March  29,  1784, 

It  being  his  majesty's  pleasure  that  I  should 
yet  have  another  opportunity  to  write  before  he 
dissolves  the  parliament,  I  avail  myself  of  it  with 
all  possible  alacrity.  I  thank  you  for  your  last, 
which  was  the  less  welcome  for  coming,  like  an 
extraordinary  gazette,  at  a  time  when  it  was  not 
expected. 

j  As  when  the  sea  is  uncommonly  agitated,  the 
water  finds  it  way  into  creeks  and  holes  of  rocks, 


Let.  155. 


LETTERS. 


251 


which  in  its  calmer  state  it  never  reaches,  in  Uke 
manner  the  effect  of  these  turbulent  times  is  felt 
even  at  Orchardside,  where  in  general  we  live  as 
undisturbed  by  the  political  element,  as  shrimps 
or  cockles  that  have  been  accidentally  deposited  in 
some  hollow  beyond  the  water  mark,  by  the  usual 
dashing  of  the  waves.  We  were  sitting  yester- 
day after  dinner,  the  two  ladies  and  myself,  very 
composedly,  and  without  the  least  apprehension 
of  any  such  intrusion  in  our  snug  parlour,  one 
lady  knitting,  the  other  netting,  and  the  gentle- 
man winding  worsted,  when  to  our  unspeakable 
surprise  a  mob  appeared  before  the  window;  a 
smart  rap  was  heard  at  the  door,  the  boys  halloo'd 

and  the  maid  announced  Mr  G  .    Puss*  was 

unfortunately  let  out  of  her  box,  so  that  the  can- 
didate, with  all  his  good  friends  at  his  heels,  was 
refused  admittance  at  the  grand  entry,  and  refer- 
red to  the  back  door,  as  the  only  possible  way  of 
approach. 

Candidates  are  creatures  not  very  susceptible 
of  affronts,  and  would  rather  I  suppose  climb  in 
at  a  window,  than  be  absolutely  excluded.  In  a 
minute,  the  yard,  the  kitchen,  and  the  parlour 

were  filled.    Mr.  G          advancing  toward  me 

shook  me  by  the  hand  with  a  degree  of  cordiality 
that  was  extremely  seducing.  As  soon  as  he  and 
as  many  as  could  find  chairs  were  seated,  he  be- 
gan to  open  the  intent  of  his  visit.  I  told  him  I 
had  no  vote,  for  which  he  readily  gave  me  credit. 
I  assured  him  I  had  no  influence,  Avhich  he  was 
not  equally  inclined  to  believe,  and  the  less,  no 

doubt,  because  Mr.  A  ,  addressing  himself  to 

me  at  that  moment,  informed  me  that  I  had  a 
great  deal.  Supposing  that  I  could  not  be  pos- 
sessed of  such  a  treasure  without  knowing  it,  1 
ventured  to  confirm  my  first  assertion,  by  saying 
that  if  I  had  any  I  was  utterly  at  a  loss  to  ima- 
gine where  it  could  be,  or  wherein  it  consisted. 

Thus  ended  the  conference.    Mr.  squeezed 

me  by  the  hand  again,  kissed  the  ladies,  and  with- 
drew. He  kissed  hkewise  the  maid  in  the  kitchen, 
and  seemed,  upon  the  whole,  a  most  loving,  kiss- 
ing, kind-hearted  gentleman.  He  is  very  young, 
genteel,  and  handsome.  He  has  a  pair  of  very 
good  eyes  in  his  head,  which  not  being  sufficient 
as  it  should  seem  for  the  many  nice  and  difficult 
purposes  of  a  senator,  he  has  a  third  also,  which 
he  wore  suspended  by  a  ribband  from  his  button- 
hole. The  boys  halloo'd,  the  dogs  barked.  Puss 
scampered,  the  hero,  with  his  long  train  of  obse- 
quious followers,  withdrew.  We  made  ourselves 
very  merry  with  the  adventure,  and  in  a  short 
time  settled  into  our  former  tranquillity,  never 
probably  to  be  thus  interrupted  more.  I  thought 
myself  however  happy  in  being  able  to  affirm 
truly  that  I  had  not.  that  influence  for  which  he 


"  His  taine  haxe. 


sued;  and  for  which,  had  I  been  possessed  of  it, 
with  my  present  views  of  the  dispute  between 
the  Crown  and  the  Commons,  I  must  have  re- 
fused him,  for  he  is  on  the  side  of  the  former.  It 
is  comfortable  to  be  of  no  consequence  in  a 
world  where  one  can  not  exercise  any  without 
disobliging  somebody.  The  town  however  seems 
to  be  much  at  his  service,  and  if  he  be  equally 
successful  throughout  the  county,  he  will  un- 
doubtedly gain  his  election.  Mr.  A-- —  perhaps 
was  a  little  mortified,  because  it  was  evident  that 
I  owed  the  honour  of  this  visit  to  his  misrepre- 
sentation of  my  importance.  But  had  he  thought 
proper  to  assure  Mr.  G.  that  I  had  three  heads,  I 
should  not  I  suppose  have  been  bound  to  produce 
them. 

Mr.  S  ,  who  you  say  was  so  much  admired 

in  your  pulpit,  would  be  equally  admired  in  his 
own,  at  least  by  all  capable  judges,  were  he  not 
so  apt  to  be  angry  with  his  congregation.  This 
hurts  him,  and  had  he  the  understanding  and  elo- 
quence of  Paul  Mmself,  would  still  hurt  him.  He 
seldom,  hardly  ever  indeed,  preaches  a  gentle, 
well-tempered  sermon,  but  I  hear  it  highly  com- 
mended; but  warmth  of  temper,  indulged  to  a 
degree  that  may  be  called  scolding,  defeats  the 
end  of  preaching.  It  is  a  misapplication  of  his 
powers,  which  it  also  cripples,  and  teases  away 
his  hearers.  But  he  is  a  good  man,  and  may  per- 
haps outgrow  it. 

Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

April,  1783. 

People  that  are  but  little  acquainted  with  the 
terrors  of  divine  wrath,  are  not  much  afraid  of 
trifling  with  their  Maker.  But  for  my  own  part 
1  would  sooner  take  Empedocle's  leap,  and  fling 
myself  into  Mount  jEtna,  than  I  would  do  it  in 
the  slightest  instance,  were  I  in  circumstances  to 
make  an  election.  In  the  Scripture  we  find  a 
broad  and  clear  exhibition  of  mercy,  it  is  display- 
ed in  every  page.  Wrath  is  in  comparison  but 
slightly  touched  upon,  because  it  is  not  so  much 
a  discovery  of  wrath  as  of  forgiveness.  But  had 
the  displeasure  of  God  been  the  principal  subject 
of  the  book,  and  had  it  circumstantially  set  forth 
that  measure  of  it  only  which  may  be  endured 
even  in  this  life,  the  Christian  world  perhaps 
would  have  been  less  comfortable;  but  I  believe 
presumptuous  meddlers  with  the  Gospel  would 
have  been  less  frequently  met  with.— The  word 
is  a  flaming  sword  ;  and  he  that  touches  it  with 
unhallowed  fingers,  thinking  to  make  a  tool  of  it, 
will  find  that  he  has  burnt  them. 

What  ha,voc  in  Calabria!  every  house  is  built 
upon  the  sand,  whose  inhabitants  have  no  God 


252 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  156. 


or  only  u  false  one.  Solid  and  fluid  are  such  in 
respect  to  each  other-,  but  with  reference  to  the 
jlivinc  power  they  are  equally  fixed,  or  equally 
unstable.  The  inhabitants  of  a  rock  shall  sink, 
while  a  cockboat  shall  save  a  man  alive  in  the 
midst  of  the  fathomless  ocean.  The  Pope  grants 
dispensations  for  folly  and  madness  during  the 
carnival.  But  it  seems  they  are  as  offensive  to 
him,  whose  vicegerent  he  pretends  liimself,  at  that 
season  as  at  any  other.  Were  1  a  Calabrian,  I 
would  not  give  my  papa  at  Rome  one  farthing  for 
his  amplest  indulgence,  for  this  time  forth  for 
ever.  There  is  a  word  that  makes  this  world 
tremble;  and  the  Pope  can  not  countermand  it. 
A  fig  for  such  a  conjuror!  Pharaoh's  conjuror 
had  twice  his  ability. 

BeUeve  me,  my  dear  friend, 

Affectionately  yours,        W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  April  5,  1784. 

1  THANKED  you  in  my  last  for  Johnson;  I  now 
thank  you,  with  more  emphasis,  for  Beattie,  the 
most  agreeable  and  amiable  writer  I  ever  met 
with;  the  only  author  I  have  seen  whose  critical 
and  philosophical  researches  are  diversified  and 
cmbelhshed  by  a  poetical  imagination,  that  makes 
even  the  driest  subject,  and  the  leanest,  a  feast 
for  an  epicure  in  books.  He  is  so  much  at  his 
ease  too,  that  his  own  character  appears  in  every 
page,  and  which  is  very  rare,  we  see  not  only  the 
writer,  but  the  man :  and  that  man  so  gentle,  so 
well-tempered,  so  happy  in  his  reUgion,  and  so 
humane  in  his  philosophy,  that  it  is  necessary  to 
love  him,  if  one  has  any  sense  of  what  is  lovely. 
If  you  have  not  his  poem  called  the  Minstrel,  and 
can  not  borrow  it,  I  must  beg  you  to  buy  it,  for 
me;  for  though  I  can  not  afford  to  deal  largely  in 
so  expensive  a  commodity  as  books,  I  must  afford 
to  purchase  at  least  the  poetical  works  of  Beattie. 
I  have  read  six  of  Blair's  Lectures,  and  what  do 
I  say  of  Blair '?  That  he  is  a  sensible  man,  master 
of  his  subject,  and  excepting  here  and  there  a 
Scotticism,  a  good  writer,  so  far  at  least  as  per- 
spicuity of  expression,  and  method,  contribute  to 
make  one.  But  oh  the  sterility  of  that  man's 
fancy !  if  indeed  he  has  any  such  faculty  belong- 
ing to  him.  Perhaps  philosophers,  or  men  de- 
signed for  such,  are  sometimes  born  without  one; 
or  perhaps  it  withers  for  want  of  exercise.  How- 
ever that  may  be,  Dr.  Blair  has  such  a  brain  as 
Shakspeare  somewhere  describes — "dry  as  the  re- 
mainder biscuit  after  a  voyage." 

I  take  it  for  granted  that  these  good  men  are 
philosophically  correct  (for  they  are  both  agreed 
upon  the  subject)  in  their  account  of  the  origin 
of  language ;  and  if  the  Scripture  had  left  us  in 


the  dark  upon  that  article,  I  should  very  readily 
adopt  their  hypothesis  for  want  of  better  informa- 
tion. I  should  suppose,  for  instance,  that  man 
made  his  first  efllbrt  in  speech  in  the  way  of  an  in- 
terjection, and  that  ah,  or  oh,  being  uttered  with 
wonderful  gesticulation,  and  variety  of  attitude, 
must  have  left  his  powers  of  expression  quite  ex- 
hausted: that  in  a  course  of  time  he  would  in- 
vent names  for  many  things,  but  first  for  the  ob- 
jects of  his  daily  wants.  An  apple  would  conse- 
quently be  called  an  apple,  and  perhaps  not  many 
years  would  ela.pse  before  the  appellation  would 
receive  the  sanction  of  general  use.  In  this  case, 
and  upon  this  supposition,  seeing  one  in  the  hand 
of  another  man,  he  would  exclaim  with  a  most 
moving  pathos,  "  Oh  apple!" — well  and  good — oh 
apple !  is  a  very  affecting  speech,  but  in  the  mean 
time  it  profits  him  nothing.  The  man  that  holds 
it,  eats  it,  and  he  goes  away  with  oh  apple  in  his 
mouth,  and  with  nothing  better.  Reflecting  on 
his  disappointment,  and  that  perhaps  it  arose  from 
his  not  being  more  explicit,  he  contrives  a  term  to 
denote  his  idea  of  transfer  or  gratuitous  commu- 
nication, and  the  next  occasion  that  offers  of  a 
I  similar  kind,  performs  his  part  accordingly.  His 
speech  now  stands  thus,  "  Oh  give  apple!"  The 
apple-holder  perceives  himself  called  upon  to  part 
with  his  fruit,  and,  having  satisfied  his  own  hun- 
ger, is  perhaps  not  unwilling  to  do  so.  But  un- 
fortunately there  is  still  room  for  a  mistake,  and, 
a  third  person  being  present,  he  gives  the  apple 
to  him.  Again  disappointed,  and  again  perceiving 
that  his  language  has  not  all  the  precision  that  is 
requisite,  the  orator  retires  to  his  study,  and  there, 
after  much  deep  thinking,  conceives  that  the  in- 
sertion of  a  pronoun,  whose  office  shall  be  to  sig- 
nify that  he  not  only  wants  the  apple  to  be  given, 
but  given  to  himself,  will  remedy  all  defects,  he 
uses  it  the  next  opportunity,  and  succeeds  to  a 
wonder,  obtains  the  apple,  and  by  his  success  such 
credit  to  his  invention,  that  pronouns  continue 
to  be  in  great  repute  ever  after. 

Now  as  my  two  syllablemongers,  Beattie  and 
Blair,  both  agree  that  language  was  originally  in- 
spired, and  that  the  great  variety  of  languages  we 
find  upon  earth  at  present  took  its  rise  from  the 
confusion  of  tongues  at  Babel,  I  am  not  perfectly 
convinced  that  there  is  any  just  occasion  to  invent 
this  very  ingenious  solution  of  a  difficulty,  which 
Scripture  has  solved '  already.  My  opinion  how- 
ever is,  if  I  may  presume  to  have  an  opinion  of  my 
own  so  different  from  theirs  who  are  so  much 
wiser  than  myself,  that  if  man  had  been  his  own 
teacher,  and  had  acquired  his  words  and  his 
phrases  only  as  necessity  or  convenience  had 
prompted,  his  progress  must  have  been  considera- 
bly slower  than  it  was,  and  in  Homer's  days  the 
production  of  such  a  poem  as  the  Iliad  impossible. 
On  the  contrary,  I  doubt  not  Adam  on  the  verv 


Let.  157,  158. 


LETTERS. 


253 


day  of  his  creation  was  able  to  express  himself  in  not  worthy  of  Virgil's  notice,  because  obvious  to 
terms  both  forcible  and  elegant,  and  that  he  was  the  notice  of  all.  But  here  I  differ  from  him ; 
at  no  loss  for  sublime  diction,  and  logical  combi-  not  being  able  to  conceive  that  wind  and  rain  can 


nation,  when  he  wanted  to  praise  his  Maker. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UN  WIN. 


be  improper  in  the  description  of  a  tempest,  or 
how  wind  and  rain  could  possibly  be  more  poeti- 
cally described.  Virgil  is  indeed  remarkable  for 
finishing  his  periods  well,  and  never  comes  to  a  stop 
but  with  the  utmost  consummate  dignity  of  num- 
bers and  expression  ;  and  in  the  instance  in  ques- 
MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  April  25,  1784.     tion  I  think  his  skill  in  this  respect  is  remarkably 

I  WISH  I  had  both  burning  words,  and  bright  displayed.  The  line  is  perfectly  majectic  in  its 
thoughts.  But  I  have  at  present  neither.  My  march.  As  to  the  wind,  it  is  such  only  as  the 
head  is  not  itself  Having  had  an  unpleasant  word  ingeminant  could  describe,  and  the  words 
night,  and  a  melancholy  day,  and  having  already  densissimus  imher  give  one  an  idea  of  a  shower 
written  a  long  letter,  I  do  not  find  myself  in  point  indeed,  but  of  such  a  shower  as  is  not  very  cota- 
of  spirits  at  all  qualified  either  to  burn  or  shine,  mon,  and  such  a  one  as  only  Virgil  could  have 
The  post  sets  out  early  on  Tuesday.  The  morn-  done  justice  to  by  a  single  epithet.  Far  therefore 
ing  is  the  only  time  of  exercise  with  me.  In  or- '  from  agreeing  with  the  Doctor  in  his  stricture,  I 
der  therefore  to  keep  it  open  for  that  purpose,  and  do  not  think  the  ^neid  contains  a  nobler  line,  or 
to  comply  with  your  desire  of  an  immediate  an- ,  a  description  more  magnificently  finished. 


swer,  1  give  you  as  much  as  I  can  spare  of  the 
present  evening 


I    We  are  glad  that  Dr.  C  has  singled  you 

I  out  upon  this  occasion.  Your  performance  we 
Since  I  despatched  my  last,  Blair  has  crept  a  doubt  not  will  justify  his  choice:  fear  not— you 
little  further  into  my  favour.  As  his  subjects  im-  have  a  heart  that  can  feel  upon  charitable  occa- 
prove,  he  improves  with  them;  but  upon  the  whole  sions,  and  therefore  will  not  fail  you  upon  this, 
I  account  him  a  dry  writer,  useful  no  doubt  as  an  The  burning  words  will  come  fast  enough,  when 
instructor,  but  as  little  entertaining  as  with  so  the  sensibility  is  such  as  yours, 
much  knowledge  it  is  possible  to  be.    His  language  Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 

is  (except  Swift's)  the  least  figurative  I  remember 

to  have  seen,  and  the  few  figures  found  in  it  are  not  ' 
always  happily  employed.    I  take  him  to  be  a 
critic  very  little  animated  by  what  he  reads,  who 
rather  reasons  about  the  beauties  of  an  author,  April  26  1784 

than  really  tastes  them ;  and  who  finds  that  a  pas-  ^j-e  glad  that  your  book  runs.    It  will  not 

sage  is  praiseworthy,  not  because  it  charms  him,  'injeed  satisfy  those  whom  nothing  could  satisfy 
but  because  it  is  accommodated  to  the  laws  of  but  your  accession  to  their  party;  but  the  liberal 
criticism  m  that  case  made  and  provided.  I  have'  say  you  do  well,  and  it  is  in  the  opinion  of 
a  httle  complied  with  your  desire  of  marginal  an- 1  men  only  that  you  can  feel  yourself  inter- 
notations,  and  should  have  dwelt  in  them  luoreigg^gj 

largely,  had  I  read  the  books  to  myself ;  but  being  j  have  lately  been  employed  in  reading  Beattie 
reader  to  the  ladies,  I  have  not  always  time  to  set-  ^nd  Blair's  Lectures.  The  latter  I  have  not  yet 
tie  my  own  opinion  of  a  doubtful  expression,  much  finished.    I  find  the  former  the  most  agreeable  of 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 


less  to  suggest  an  emendation.  I  have  not  cen- 
sured a  particular  observation  in  the  book,  though 
when  I  met  with  it,  it  displeased  me.  I  this  mo- 
ment recollect  it,  and  may  as  well  therefore  note 
it  here.  He  is  commending,  and  deservedly,  that 
most  noble  description  of  a  thunder  storm  in  the 
first  Georgic,  which  ends  with 

Ingeminant  aiistri  et  densissimus  imber. 
Being  in  haste,  I  do  not  refer  to  the  volume  for  his 
very  words,  but  my  memory  will  serve  me  with  the 
matter.  When  poets  describe,  he  says,  they  should 
always  select  such  circumstances  of  the  subject  as 
are  least  obvious,  and  therefore  most  striking.  He 
therefore  admires  the  effects  of  the  thunderbolt 
splitting  mountains,  and  filling  a  nation  with  as- 


the  two,  indeed  the  most  entertaining  writer  upon 
dry  subjects  that  I  ever  met  with.  His  imagina- 
tion is  highly  poetical,  his  language  easy  and  ele- 
gant, and  his  manner  so  familiar,  that  we  seem  to 
be  conversing  with  an  old  friend,  upon  terms  of 
the  most  sociable  intercourse,  while  we  read  him. 
Blair  is,  on  the  contrary,  rather  stiff,  not  that  his 
style  is  pedantic,  but  his  air  is  formal.  He  is  a 
sensible  man,  and  understands  his  subjects,  but 
too  conscious  that  he  is  addressing  the  public,  and 
too  solicitous  about  his  success,  to  indulge  himself 
for  a  moment  in  that  play  of  fancy  which  makes 
the  other  so  agreeable.  In  Blair  we  find  a  scholar, 
in  Beattie  both  a  scholar  and  an  amiable  man ;  in- 
deed so  amiable,  that  I  have  wished  for  his  ao 


tonishment,  but  quarrels  with  the  closing  member ;  quaintance  ever  since  I  read  his  book.  Having 
of  the  period,  as  cxjntaining  particulars  of  a  storm '  never  in  my  life  perused  a  page  uf  Aristotle  I  am 


254 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  159. 


jrlad  to  have  had  an  opportunity  of  learning  more 
tlian  (1  suppose)  he  would  have  taught  me,  from 
tlie  writings  of  two  modern  critics.  I  felt  myself 
too  a  little  disposed  to  compliment  my  own  acumen 
upon  the  occasion.  For  though  the  art  of  writing 
and  composmg  was  never  much  my  study,  I  did 
not  find  that  they  had  any  great  news  to  tell  me. 
They  have  assisted  me  in  putting  my  observations 
into  some  method,  but  have  not  suggested  many, 
of  which  I  was  not  by  some  means  or  other  pre- 
viously apprised.  In  fact,  critics  did  not  origin- 
ally beget  authors.  But  authors  made  critics. 
Common  sense  dictated  to  writers  the  necessity 
of  method,  connexion,  and  thoughts  congruous  to 
the  nature  of  their  subject ;  genius  prompted  them 
with  embellishments,  and  then  came  the  critics. 
Observing  the  good  effects  of  an  attention  to  these 
items,  they  enacted  laws  for  the  observance  of  them 
in  time  to  come,  and,  having  drawn  their  rules  for 
good  writing  from  what  was  actually  well  written, 
boasted  themselves  the  inventors  of  an  art  which 
yet  the  authors  of  the  day  had  already  exempli- 
fied. They  are  however  useful  in  their  way,  giv- 
ing us  at  one  view  a  map  of  the  boundaries  which 
propriety  sets  to  fancy ;  and  serving  as  judges  to 
whom  the  public  may  at  once  appeal,  when  pes- 
tered with  the  vagaries  of  those  who  have  had  the 
hardiness  to  transgress  them. 

The  candidates  for  this  country  have  set  an  ex- 


the  other  freeholders  followed  it :  and  in  five  min- 
utes twenty-eight  out  of  thirty  ragamuffins  were 
safely  lodged  in  gaol.    Adieu,  my  dear  friend. 
We  love  you,  and  are  yours,  W.  i&  M. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  May  3,  1784. 

The  subject  of  face-painting  maybe  considered 
(I  think)  in  two  points  of  view.  First,  there  is 
room  for  dispute  with  respect  to  the  consistency 
of  the  practice  with  good  morals;  and  secondly, 
whether  it  be  on  the  whole  convenient  or  not, 
may  be  a  matter  worthy  of  agitation.  I  set  out 
with  all  the  formality  of  logical  disquisition,  but 
do  not  promise  to  observe  the  same  regularity  any 
further  than  it  may  comport  with  my  purpose  of 
writing  as  fast  as  I  can. 

As  to  the  immorality  of  the  custom,  were  I  in 
France,  I  should  see  none.  On  the  contrary,  it 
seems  in  that  country  to  be  a  symptom  of  modest 
consciousness,  and  a  tacit  confession  of  what  all 
know  to  be  true,  that  French  faces  have  in  fact 
neither  red  nor  white  of  their  own.  This  humble 
acknowledgment  of  a  defect  looks  the  more  like  a 
virtue,  being  found  among  a  people  not  remarka- 
ble for  humility.  Again,  before  we  can  prove  the 
practice  to  be  immoral,  we  m.ust  prove  immorality 
ample  of  economy,  which  other  candidates  would  in  the  design  of  those  who  use  it;  either  that  they 
do  well  to  follow,  having  come  to  an  agreement  on  intend  a  deception,  or  to  kindle  unlawful  desires 
both  sides  to  defray  the  expenses  of  their  voters,  in  the  beholders.  But  the  French  ladies,  so  far 
but  to  open  no  houses  for  the  entertainment  of  the  as  their  purpose  comes  in  question,  must  be  ac- 
rabble;  a  reform,  however,  which  the  rabble  did 'quitted  of  both  these  charges.  Nobody  supposes 
not  at  'all  approve  of,  and  testified  their  dislike  of  their  colour  to  be  natural  for  a  moment,  any  more 
it  by  a  riot.  A  stage  was  built,  from  which  the  than  if  it  were  blue  or  green:  and  this  unambiguous 
orators  had  designed  to  harangue  the  electors,  judgment  of  the  matter  is  owing  to  two  causes: 
This  became  the  first  victim  of  their  fury.  Hav-  first,  to  the  universal  knowledge  we  have,  that 
ing  very  little  curiosity  to  hear  what  gentlemen' French  women  are  naturally  brown  or  yellow, 
could  say,  who  would  give  them  nothing  better  with  very  few  exceptions,  and  secondly,  to  the  in- 
than  words,  they  broke  it  in  pieces,  and  threw  the  artificial  manner  in  which  they  paint :  for  they  do 
fragments  ipon  the  hustings.  The  sheriff,  the 'not,  as  I  am  most  satisfactorily  informed,  even  at- 
members,  the  lawyers,  the  voters,  were  instantly  tempt  an  imitation  of  nature,  but  besmear  them- 
put  to  flight.  They  rallied,  but  were  again  routed  ^  selves  hastily,  and  at  a  venture,  anxious  only  to  lay 
by  a  second  assault,  like  the  former.  They  \  on  enough.  Where  therefore  there  is  no  wanton 
then  proceeded  to  break  the  windows  of  the  intention,  nor  a  wish  to  deceive,  I  can  discover  no 
inn  to  which  they  had  fled ;  and  a  fear  prevaihng  immorality.  But  in  England  (I  am  afraid)  our 
that  at  night  they  would  fire  the  town,  a  proposal  painted  ladies  are  not  clearly  entitled  to  the  same 
was  made  by  the  freeholders  to  face  about  and  en- 1  apology. 


deavour  to  secure  them. 


They  even  imitate  nature  with  such 
At  that  instant  a  rioter, '  exactness,  that  the  whole  public  is  sometimes  di- 


dressed  in  a  merry  Andrew's  jacket,  stepped  for-jvided  into  parties,  who  litigate  with  great  warmth 
ward  and  challenged  the  best  man  among  them.  ^  the  question,  whether  painted  or  nof?  this  was  re- 
Olney  sent  the  hrro  to  the  field,  who  made  him  markably  the  case  with  a  Miss  B  ,  whom  I 


Mr.  A- 


he.  well  remember.    Her  roses  and  lilies  were  never 


repent  of  his  presumption. 
SeizintT  him  by  the  throat,  he  shook  him— he  discovered  to  be  spurious,  tdl  she  attained  an  age, 
threw  him  to  the  earth,  and  made  the  hollowness  that  made  the  supposition  of  their  being  natural 
of  his  skull  resound  by  the  apphcation  of  his  fists,  impossible.  This  anxiety  to  be  not  merely  red 
and  dragged  him  into  custody  without  the  least  and  white,  which  is  all  they  aim  at  in  France, 
damagetohisperson.— Animated  by  this  example,  but  to  be  thought  very  beautiful,  and  nmch  more 


Let.  160. 


LETTERS. 


255 


beautifiil  than  nature  has  made  them,  is  a  symp- 
tom not  very  favourable  to  the  idea  we  would  wish 
to  entertain  of  the  chastity,  purity,  and  modesty 
of  our  country-women.  That  they  are  guilty  of 
a  design  to  deceive,  is  certain.  Otherwise  why  so 
much  arf?  and  if  to  deceive,  wherefore  and  with 
what  purpose  1  Certainly  either  to  gratify  vanity 
of  the  silliest  kind,  or,  which  is  still  more  criminal, 
to  decoy  and  inveigle,  and  carry  on  more  success- 
fully the  business  of  temptation .  Here  therefore 
my  opinion  splits  itself  into  two  opposite  sides 
upon  the  same  question.  I  can  suppose  a  French 
woman,  though  painted  an  inch  deep,  to  be  a  vir- 
tuous, discreet,  excellent  character ;  and  in  no  in- 
stance should  1  think  the  worse  of  one  because 
she  was  painted.  But  an  English  belle  must  par- 
don me,  if  I  have  not  the  same  charity  for  her. 
She  is  at  least  an  impostor,  whether  she  cheats 
me  or  not,  because  she  means  to  do  so ;  and  it  is 
well  if  that  be  all  the  censure  she  deserves. 

This  brings  me  to  my  second  class  of  ideas  upon 
this  topic :  and  here  I  feel  that  I  should  be  fear- 
fully puzzled,  were  I  called  upon  to  recommend 
the  practice  on  the  score  of  convenience.  If  a  hus- 
band chose  that  his  wife  should  paint,  perhaps  it 
might  be  her  duty,  as  well  as  her  interest,  to  com- 
ply. But  I  think  he  would  not  much  consult  his 
own,  for  reasons  that  will  follow.  In  the  first 
place,  she  would  admire  herself  the  more ;  and  in 
the  next,  if  she  managed  the  matter  well,  she 
might  be  more  admired  by  others ;  an  acquisition 
that  might  bring  her  virtue  under  trials,  to  which 
oth*erwise  it  might  never  have  been  exposed.  In 
no  other  case,  however,  can  I  imagine  the  practice 
in  this  country  to  be  either  expedient  or  conve- 
nient. As  a  general  one,  it  certainly  is  not  expe- 
dient, because  in  general  English  women  have  no 
,  occasion  for  it.  A  swarthy  complexion  is  a  rarity 
here ;  and  the  sex,  especially  since  the  inocula- 
tion has  been  so  much  in  use,  have  very  little 
cause  to  complain  that  nature  has  not  been  kind 
to  them  in  the  article  of  complexion.  They  may 
hide  and  spoil  a  good  one,  but  they  can  not  (at 
least  they  hardly  can)  give  themselves  a  better. 
But  even  if  they  could,  there  is  yet  a  tragedy  in 
the  sequel,  which  should  make  them  tremble.  I 
understand  that  in  France,  though  the  use  of 
rouge  be  general,  the  use  of  white  paint  is  far  from 
being  so.  In  England,  she  that  uses  one,  com- 
monly uses  both.  Now  all  white  paints,  or  lotions, 
or  whatever  they  be  called,  are  mercurial,  conse- 
quently poisonous,  consequently  ruinous  in  time 
to  the  constitution.  The  Miss  B— —  above  men- 
tioned was  a  miserable  witness  of  this  truth,  it 
being  certain  that  her  flesh  fell  from  her  bones 

before  she  died.    Lady  C  was  hardly  a  less 

melancholy  proof  of  it;  and  a  London  physician 
perhaps,  were  he  at  liberty  to  blab,  could  publish 

X 


a  bill  of  female  mortality,  of  a  length  that  would 
astonish  us. 

For  these  reasotis,  I  utterly  condemn  the  prac- 
tice, as  it  obtains  in  England:  and  for  a  reason 
superior  to  all  these,  I  must  disapprove  it.  I  can 
not  indeed  discover  that  Scripture  forbids  it  in  so 
many  words.  But  that  anxious  solitude  about  the 
person,  which  such  an  artifice  evidently  betrays, 
is,  I  am  sure,  contrary  to  the  tenor  and  spirit  of  it 
throughcfut.  Show  me  a  woman  with  a  painted 
face,  and  I  will  show  you  a  woman  whose  heart 
is  set  on  things  of  the  earth,  and  not  on  things 
above.  But  this  observation  of  mine  appUes  to  it 
only  when  it  is  an  imitative  art.  For  in  the  use 
of  French  women,  I  think  it  as  innocent  as  in  the 
use  of  the  wild  Indian,  who  draws  a  circle  round 
her  face,  and  makes  two  spots,  perhaps  blue,  per- 
haps white,  in  the  middle  of  it.  Such  are  my 
thoughts  upon  the  matter,    Vive,  valeque. 

Yours  ever,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

May  8,  1784. 
You  do  well  to  make  your  letters  merry  ones, 
though  not  very  merry  yourself,  and  that  both  for 
my  sake  and  your  own;  for  your  own  sake,  be- 
cause it  sometimes  happens,  that  by  assuming  an 
air  of  cheerfulness  we  become  cheerful  in  reality; 
and  for  mine,  because  I  have  always  more  need 
of  a  laugh  than  a  cry,  being  somewhat  disposed 
to  melancholy  by  natural  temperament,  as  well  as 
by  other  causes. 

It  was  long  since,  and  even  in  the  infancy  of 
John  Gilpin,  recommended  to  me  by  a  lady  now 
at  Bristol,  to  write  a  sequel.  But  having  always 
observed  that  authors,  elated  with  the  success  of 
a  first  part,  have  fallen  below  themselves,  when 
they  have  attempted  a  second,  I  had  more  pru- 
dence than  to  take  her  counsel.  I  want  you  to 
read  the  history  of  that  hero,  published  by  Bladon, 
and  to  tell  me  what  it  is  made  of  But  buy  it  not. 
For,  puffed  as  it  is  in  the  papers,  it  can  be  but  a 
bookseller's  job,  and  must  be  dear  at  the  price  of 
two  shillings.  In  the  last  pacquet  but  one  that  I  re- 
ceived from  Johnson,  he  asked  me  if  I  had  any 
improvements  of  John  Gilpin  in  hand,  or  if  I  de- 
signed any;  for  that  to  print  only  the  original 
again  would  be  to  publish  what  has  been  hacknied 
in  every  magazine,  in  every  newspaper,  and  in 
every  street.  I  answered,  that  the  copy  which  I 
sent  him  contained  two  or  three  small  variations 
from  the  first,  except  which  I  had  none  to  pro- 
pose, and  that  if  he  thought  him  now  too  trite  to 
make  a  part  of  my  volume,  I  should  willingly  ac- 
quiesce in  his  judgment.  I  take  it  for  granted 
tjierefore  that  he  will  not  bring  up  the  rear  of  mj 


256 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  161,  162,  163. 


Poems  according  to  my  first  intention,  and  shall 
not  be  sorry  lor  the  omission.  It  may  spring  from 
a  principle  of  pride;  but  spring  it  from  what  it 
may,  I  feel,  and  have  long  felt,  a  disincUnation  to 
a  public  avowal  that  he  is  mine;  and  since  he  be- 
came so  popular,  I  have  felt  it  more  than  ever ; 
not  that  1  should  have  expressed  a  scruple,  if 
Johnson  had  not.  But  a  fear  has  suggested  itself 
to  me,  that  I  might  expose  myself  to  a  charge  of 
vanity  by  admitting  him  into  my  book,  and  that 
some  people  would  impute  it  to  me  as  a  crinie. 
Consider  what  the  world  is  made  of,  and  you  will 
not  find  my  suspicions  chimerical.  Add  to  this, 
that  when,  on  correcting  the  latter  part  of  the 
fifth  book  of  the  Task,  I  came  to  consider  the  so- 
lemnity and  sacred  nature  of  the  subjects  there 
handled,  it  seemed  to  me  an  incongruity  at  the 
least,  not  to  call  it  by  a  hasher  name,  to  follow  up 
such  premises  with  such  a  conclusion.  I  am  well 
content  therefore  with  having  laughed,  and  made 
others  laugh,  and  will  build  my  hopes  of  success, 
as  a  poet,  upon  more  important  matter. 

In  our  printing  business  we  now  jog  on  merrily 
enough.  The  coming  week  will  I  hope  bring  me 
to  an  end  of  the  Task,  and  the  next  fortnight  to 
an  end  of  the  whole.  I  am  glad  to  have  Paley 
on  my  side  in  the  affair  of  education.  He  is  cer- 
tainly on  all  subjects  a  sensible  man,  and  on  such, 
a  wise  one.  But  I  am  mistaken,  if  Tirocinium  do 
not  make  some  of  my  friends  angry,  and  procure 
me  enemies  not  a  few.  There  is  a  sting  in  verse, 
that  prose  neither  has,  nor  can  have;  and  I  do  not 
know  that  schools  in  the  gross,  and  especially  pub- 
lic schools,  have  ever  been  so  pointedly  condemned 
before.  But  they  are  become  a  nuisance,  a  pest, 
an  abomination,  and  it  is  fit  that  the  eyes  and  noses 
of  mankind  should,  if  possible,  be  opened  to  per- 
ceive it. 

This  is  indeed  an  author's  letter;  but  is  it  not 
an  author's  letter  to  his  friend.  If  you  will  be  the 
friend  of  an  author,  you  must  expect  such  letters. 
Come  July,  and  come  yourself,  with  as  many  of 
your  exterior  selves  as  can  possibly  come  with  you. 

Yours,  my  dear  William,  affectionately,  and 
with  your  mother's  remembrances,         W.  C. 

TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

MY  DEAR  FRFEND,  May  22,  1784. 

I  AM  glad  to  have  received  at  last  an  account 
of  Dr.  Johnson's  favourable  opinion  of  my  book. 
I  thought  it  wanting,  and  had  long  since  con- 
cluded that,  not  having  had  the  happiness  to  please 
him,  I  owed  my  ignorance  of  his  sentiments  to  the 
tenderness  of  my  friends  at  Hoxton,  who  would 
not  mortify  me  with  an  account  of  his  disapproba- 
tion. It  occurs  to  me  that  I  owe  him  thanks  for 
interposing  between  me  and  the  resentment  of  the 
Reviewers,  who  seldom  show  mercy  to  an  advocate 


for  evangelical  truth,  whether  in  prose  or  yerse.  I 
therefore  enclose  a  short  acknowledgment,  which, 
if  you  see  no  impropriety  in  the  measure,  you  can 
I  imagine  without  much  diflftculty  convey  to  him 
through  the  hands  of  Mr.  Latrobe.  If  on  any  ac- 
count you  judge  it  an  inexpedient  step,  you  can 
very  easily  suppress  the  letter. 

I  pity  Mr.  Bull.  What  harder  task  can  any 
man  undertake  than  the  management  of  those, 
who  have  reached  the  age  of  manhood  without 
having  ever  felt  the  force  of  authority,  or  passed 
through  any  of  the  preparatory  parts  of  education'? 
I  had  either  forgot,  or  never  adverted  to  the  cir- 
cumstance, that  his  disciples  were  to  be  men.  At 
present,  however,  I  am  not  surprised  that,  being 
such,  they  are  found  disobedient,  untractable,  in- 
solent, and  conceited;  qualities,  that  generally  pre- 
vail in  the  minds  of  adults  in  exact  proportion  to 
their  ignorance.  He  dined  with  us  since  I  re- 
ceived your  last.  It  was  on  Thursday  that  he  was 
here.  He  came  dejected,  burthened,  full  of  com- 
plaints. But  we  sent  him  away  cheerful.  He  is 
very  sensible  of  the  prudence,  delicacy,  and  atten- 
tion to  his  character,  which  the  society  have  dis- 
covered in  their  conduct  towards  him  upon  this 
occasion;  and  indeed  it  does  them  honour;  for  it 
were  past  all  enduring,  if  a  charge  of  insufficiency 
should  obtain  a  moment's  regard,  when  brought 
by  five  such  coxcombs  against  a  man  of  his  erudi- 
tion and  ability.    Lady  Austen  is  gone  to  Bath. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

June  5,  1784. 
When  you  told  me  that  the  critique  upon  my 
volume  was  written,  though  not  by  Dr.  Johnson 
himself,  y6t  by  a  friend  of  his,  to  whom  he  recom- 
mended the  book  and  the  business,  I  inferred  from 
that  expression  that  I  was  indebted  to  him  for  an 
active  interposition  in  my  favour,  and  consequently 
that  he  had  a  right  to  thanks.  But  now  I  concur 
entirely  in  sentiment  with  you,  and  heartily  second 
your  vote  for  the  suppression  of  thanks  which  do 
not  seem  to  be  much  called  for.  Yet  even  now 
were  it  possible  that  I  could  fall  into  his  company, 
I  should  not  think  a  slight  acknowledgment  mis- 
applied. I  was  no  other  way  anxious  about  his 
opinion,  nor  could  be  so,  after  you  and  some  others 
had  given  a  favourable  one,  than  it  was  natural  I 
should  be,  knowing,  as  I  did,  that  his  opinion  had 
been  consulted. 

I  am  affectionately  yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  -^"^^  3,  1784. 

We  rejoice  that  you  had  a  safe  journey,  and 
though  we  should  have  rejoiced  still  more  had  you 


Let.  164. 


LETTERS. 


had  no  occasion  for  a  physician,  we  are  glad  that, 
having  had  need  of  one,  you  had  the  good  fortune 
to  find  him.  Let  us  hear  soon  that  his  advice  has 
proved  effectual,  and  that  you  are  delivered  from 
a.11  ill  symptoms. 

Thanks  for  the  care  you  have  taken  to  furnish 
me  with  a  dictionary.  It  is  rather  strange  that  at 
my  time  of  life,  and  after  a  youth  spent  in  classical 
pursuits,  I  should  want  one;  and  stranger  still 
that,  being  possessed  at  present  of  only  one  Latin 
author  in  the  world,  I  should  think  it  worth  while 
to  purchase  one.  I  say  that  it  is  strange,  and  in- 
deed I  think  it  so  myself.  But  I  have  a  thought 
that  when  my  present  labours  of  the  pen  are  ended, 
I  may  go  to  school  again,  and  refresh  my  spirits 
by  a  little  intercourse  with  the  Mantuan  and  the 
Sabine  bard,  and  perhaps  by  a  reperusal  of  some 
others,  whose  works  we  generally  lay  by  at  that 
period  of  life  when  we  are  best  qualified  to  read 
them,  when,  the  judgment  and  the  taste  being 
formed,  their  beauties  are  least  likely  to  be  over- 
looked. 

This  change  of  wind  and  weather  comforts  me, 
and  I  should  have  enjoyed  the  first  fine  morning 
I  have  seen  this  month  with  a  peculiar  relish, 
if  our  new  tax-maker  had  not  put  me  out  of  tem- 
per. I  am  angry  with  him,  not  only  for  the  mat- 
ter, but  for  the  manner  of  his  proposal.  When 
he  lays  his  impost  upon  horses,  he  is  jocular,  and 
laughs,  though  considering  that  wheels,  and  miles, 
and  grooms,  were  taxed  before,  a  graver  coun- 
tenance upon  the  occasion  would  have  been  more 
decent.  But  he  provoked  me  still  more  by  reason- 
ing as  he  does  on  the  justification  of  the  tax  upon 
candles.  Some  famiUes,  he  says,  will  suffer  little 
by  it — Why^  because  they  are  so  poor,  that  they 
can  not  afford  themselves  more  than  ten  pounds 
in  the  year.  Excellent !  They  can  \Me  but  few, 
therefore  they  will  pay  but  little,  and  consequently 
will  be  but  little  burthened,  an  argument  which 
for  its  cruelty  and  effrontery  seems  worthy  of  a 
hero — but  he  does  not  avail  himself  of  the  whole 
force  of  it,  nor  with  all  his  wisdom  had  sagacity 
enough  to  see  that  it  contains,  when  pushed  to  its 
utmost  extent,  a  free  discharge  and  acquittal  of  the 
poo|r  from  the  payment  of  any  tax  at  all;  a  com- 
modity, being  once  made  too  expensive  for  their 
pockets,  will  cost  them  nothing,  for  they  will  not 
buy  it.  Rejoice  therefore,  O  ye  pennyless!  the 
minister  will  indeed  send  you  to  bed  in  the  dark, 
but  your  remaining  halfpenny  will  be  safe;  in- 
stead of  being  spent  in  the  useless  luxury  of  can- 
dlelight, it  will  buy  you  a  roll  for  breakfast,  which 
you  will  eat  no  doubt  with  gratitude  to  the  man 
who  so  kindly  lessens  the  number  of  your  dis- 
bursements, and,  while  he  seems  to  threaten  your 
money,  saves  it.  I  wish  he  would  remember,  that 
the  halfpenny,  which  government  imposes,  the 
shopkeeper  will  swell  to  two-pence,    I  wish  he 


would  visit  the  miserable  huts  of  our  lace-makers 
at  Olney,  and  see  them  working  in  the  winter 
months,  by  the  light  of  a  farthing  canale,  from  four 
in  the  afternoon  till  midnight :  I  wish  he  had  laid 
his  tax  upon  the  ten  thousand  lamps  that  illumi- 
nate the  Pantheon,  upon  the  flambeaux  that  wait 
upon  ten  thousand  chariots  and  sedans  in  an 
evening,  and  upon  the  wax  candles  that  give  light 
to  ten  thousand  card  tables.  I  wish  in  short  that 
he  would  consider  the  pockets  of  the  poor  as  sa- 
cred, and  that  to  tax  a  people  already  so  necessi- 
tous, is  but  to  discourage  the  little  industry  that  is 
left  among  us,  by  driving  the  laborious  to  despair. 

A  neighbour  of  mine,  in  Silver-end,  keeps  an 
ass ;  the  ass  lives  on  the  other  side  of  the  garden- 
wall,  and  I  am  writing  in  the  green-house :  it  hap- 
pens that  he  is  this  morning  most  musically  dis- 
posed, whether  cheered  by  the  fine  weather,  or  by 
some  new  tune  which  he  has  just  acquired,  or  by 
finding  his  voice  more  harmonious  than  usual.  It 
would  be  cruel  to  mortify  so  fine  a  singer,  there- 
fore I  do  not  tell  him  that  he  interrupts  and  hin- 
ders me,  but  I  venture  to  tell  you  so,  and  to  plead 
his  performance  in  excuse  of  my  abrupt  conclusion. 

I  send  you  the  goldfinches,  with  which  you  will 
do  as  you  see  good.  We  have  an  affectionate  re- 
membrance of  your  last  visit,  and  of  all  our  friends 
at  Stock. 

Believe  me  ever  yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Juhj  5,  1784, 

A  DEARTH  of  materials,  a  consciousness  that  my 
subjects  are  for  the  most  part,  and  must  be  unin- 
teresting and  unimportant,  but  above  all  a  poverty 
of  animal  spirits,  that  makes  writing  such  a  great 
fatigue  to  me,  have  occasioned  my  choice  of  smaller 
paper.  Acquiesce  in  the  justness  of  these  reasons 
for  the  present ;  and  if  ever  the  times  should  mend 
with  me,  I  sincerely  promise  to  amend  with  them. 

Homer  says  on  a  certain  occasion,  that  Jupiter, 
when  he  was  wanted  at  home,  was  gone  to  partake 
of  an  entertainment  provided  for  him  by  the  Ethi- 
opians. If  by  Jupiter  we  understand  the  weather, 
or  the  season,  as  the  ancients  frequently  did,  we 
may  say  that  our  English  Jupiter  has  been  absent 
on  account  of  some  such  invitation:  during  the 
whole  month  of  June  he  left  us  to  experience  al- 
most the  rigours  of  winter.  This  fine  day  how- 
ever affords  us  some  hope  that  the  feast  is  ended, 
and  that  we  shall  enjoy  his  company  without  the 
interference  of  his  Ethiopian  friends  again. 

Is  it  possible  that  the  wise  men  of  antiquity 
could  entertain  a  real  reverence  for  the  fabulous 
rubbish,  which  they  dignified  With  the  name  of 
religion  1  We,  who  have  been  favoured  from  our 
infancy  with  so  clear  a  light,  are  perhaps  hardly 


258 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  165. 


competent  to  decide  the  question,  and  may  strive 
in  vain  to  imagine  the  absurdities  that  even  a  <Tood 
understanding  may  receive  as  truths,  when  totally 
unaided  by  revelation.  It  seems  however  that  men, 
whose  conceptions  upon  other  subjects  were  often 
sublime,  whose  reasoning  powers  were  undoubted- 
ly equal  to  our  own,  and  whose  management  in 
matters  of  jurisprudence  that  required  a  very  in- 
dustrious examination  of  evidence,  was  as  acute  and 
subtle  as  that  of  a  modern  attorney- general,  could 
not  be  the  dupes  of  such  imposture  as  a  child 
among  us  would  detect  and  laugh  at,  Juvenal,  I 
remember,  introduces  one  of  his  satires  with  an 
observation  that  there  were  some  in  his  day  who 
had  the  hardiness  to  laugh  at  the  stories  of  Tarta- 
rus, and  Styx,  and  Charon,  and  of  the  frogs  that 
croak  upon  the  banks  of  Lethe,  giving  his  reader 
at  the  same  time  cause  to- suspect  that  he  was  him- 
self one  of  that  profane  number.  Horace,  on  the 
other  hand,  declares  in  sober  sadness  that  he  would 
not  for  all  the  world  get  into  a  boat  with  a  man 
who  had  divulged  the  Eleusinian  mysteries.  Yet 
we  know  that  those  mysteries,  whatever  they 
might  be,  were  altogether  as  unworthy  to  be  es- 
teemed divine  as  the  mythology  of  the  vulgar. 
How  then  must  we  determine'?  If  Horace  were 
a  good  and  orthodox  heathen,  how  came  Juvenal 
to  be  such  an  ungracious  libertine  in  principle,  as 
to  ridicule  the  doctrines  which  the  other  held  as 
sacred'?  Their  opportunities  of  information,  and 
their  ipental  advantages  were  equal.  I  feel  myself 
rather  inclined  to  believe,  that  Juvenal's  avowed 
infidelity  was  sincere,  and  that  Horace  was  no 
better  than  a  canting  hypocritical  professor. 

You  must  grant  me  a  dispensation  for  saying 
any  thing,  whether  it  be  sense  or  nonsense,  upon 
the  subject  of  politics.  It  is  truly  a  matter  in 
which  I  am  so  little  interested,  that  were  it  not 
that  it  sometimes  serves  me  for  a  theme  when  I 
can  find  no  other,  I  should  never  mention  it.  I 
would  forfeit  a  large  sum  if,  after  advertising  a 
month  in  the  gazette,  the  minister  of  the  day,  who- 
ever he  may  be,  could  discover  a  man  that  cares 
about  him  or  his  measures  so  little  as  I  do.  When 
I  say  that  I  would  forfeit  a  large  sum,  I  mean  to 
have  it  understood  that  I  would  forfeit  such  a  sum, 
if  I  had  it.  If  Mr.  Pitt  be  indeed  a  virtuous  man, 
as  such  I  respect  him.  But  at  the  best,  I  fear, 
that  he  will  have  to  say  at  least  with  ^neas, 

Si  Pergama  dextrsL 
Defend!  possent,  etiam  hac  defensa  fuissent. 

Be  he  what  he  may,  I  do  not  like  his  taxes.  At 
least  I  am  much  disposed  to  quarrel  with  some  of 
them.  The  additional  duties  upon  candles,  by 
which  the  poor  will  be  much  affected,  hurts  me 
most.  He  says  indeed  that  they  will  but  little  feel 
it,  because  even  now  they  can  hardly  afford  the 
use  of  them.  He  had  certainly  put  no  compassion 


into  his  budget,  when  he  produced  from  it  this  tax, 
and  such  an  argument  to  support  it.  Justly  trans- 
lated it  seems  to  amount  to  this — '  Make  the  ne- 
cessaries of  life  too  expensive  for  the  poor  to  reach 
them,  and  you  will  save  their  money.  If  they  buy 
but  few  candles,  they  will  pay  but  little  tax ;  and 
if  they  buy  none,  the  tax,  as  to  them,  will  be  an- 
nihilated.' True.  But,  in  the  mean  time  they 
will  break  their  shins  a:gainst  their  furniture,  if 
they  have  any,  and  will  be  but  little  the  richer, 
when  the  hours,  in  which  they  might  work,  if 
they  could  see,  shall  be  deducted. 

I  have  bought  a  great  dictionary,  and  want  no- 
thing but  Latin  authors  to  finish  me  with  the  use 
of  it.  Had  I  purchased  them  first,  I  had  begun 
at  the  right  end.  But  I  could  not  afford  it.  I  be- 
seech you  admire  my  prudence. 

Vivite,  valete,  et  mementote  nostrum. 

Yours  affectionately,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  JullJ  12,  1784. 

I  THINK  with  you  that  Vinny's  line  is  not  pure. 
If  he  knew  any  authority  that  would  have  justified 
his  substitution  of  a  participle  for  a  substantive, 
he  would  have  done  well  to  have  noted  it  in  the 
margin.  But  I  am  much  incUned  to  think  that 
he  did  not  Poets  are  sometimes  exposed  to  diffi- 
culties insurmountable  by  lawful  means,  whence 
I  imagine  was  originally  derived  that  indulgence 
that  allows  them  the  use  of  what  is  called  the 
poetica  licentia.  But  that  liberty,  I  believe,  con- 
tents itself  with  the  abbreviation  or  protraction  of  a 
word,  or  an  alteration  in  the  quantity  of  a  syllable, 
and  never  presumes  to  trespass  upon  grammatical 
propriety.  I  have  dared  to  attempt  to  correct  my 
master,  but  am  not  bold  enough  to  say  that  I  have 
succeeded.  Neither  am  I  sure  that  my  memory 
serves  me  correctly  with  the  line  that  follows ;  but 
when  I  recollect  the  English,  am  persuaded  that  it 
can  not  differ  much  from  the  true  one.  This  there- 
fore, is  my  edition  of  the  passage — 


Or, 


Basia  amatori  tot  tum  permissa  beato. 

Basia  qu8e  juveni  indulsit  Susanna  beato 
Navarcha  optaret  maximus  esse  sua. 


The  preceding  lines  I  have  utterly  forgotten, 
and  am  consequently  at  a  loss  to  know  whether 
the  distich,  thus  managed,  will  connect  itself  with 
them  easily,  and  as  it  ought. 

We  thank  you  for  the  drawing  of  your  house. 
I  never  knew  my  idea  of  what  I  had  never  seen 
resemble  the  original  so  much.  At  some  time  or 
other  you  have  doubtless  given  me  an  exact  ac- 
count of  it,  and  I  have  retained  the  faithful  im- 


Let.  166,  167. 


LETTERS. 


259 


pression  made  by  your  description.  It  is  a  com 
fortable  abode,  and  the  time  I  hope  will  come  when 
I  shall  enjoy  more  than  the  mere  representation 
of  it. 

I  have  not  yet  read  the  last  Review,  but  dipping 
into  it  I  accidentally  fell  upon  their  account  of 
Hume's  Essay  on  Suicide.  I  am  glad  that  they 
have  liberality  enough  to  condemn  the  licentious- 
ness of  an  author  whom  they  so  much  admire.  1 
say  liberality,  for  there  is  as  much  bigotry  in  the 
world  to  that  man's  errors  as  there  is  in  the  hearts 
of  some  sectaries  to  their  peculiar  modes  and  te- 
nets. He  is  the  Pope  of  thousands,  as  blind  and 
presumptuous  as  himself  God  certainly  infatuates 
those  who  will  not  see.  It  were  otherwise  impos- 
sible, that  a  man  naturally  shrewd  and  sensible, 
and  whose  understanding  has  had  all  the  advan- 
tages of  constant  exercise  and  cultivation,  could 
have  satisfied  himself,  or  have  hoped  to  satisfy 
others  with  such  palpable  sophistry  as  has  not 
even  the  grace  of  fallacy  to  recommend  it.  His 
silly  assertion  that  because  it  would  be  no  sin  to 
divert  the  course  of  the  Danube,  therefore  it  is 
none  to  let  out  a  few  ounces  of  blood  from  an  ar- 
tery, would  justify  not  suicide  only  but  homicide 
also.  For  the  lives  of  ten  thousand  men  are  of 
less  consequence  to  their  country  than  the  course 
of  that  river  to  the  regions  through  which  it  flows. 
Population  would  soon  make  society  amends  for 
the  loss  of  her  ten  thousand  members,  but  the  loss 
of  the  Danube  would  be  felt  by  all  the  millions 
that  dwell  upon  its  banks,  to  all  generations.  But 
the  life  of  a  man  and  the  water  of  a  river  can  never 
come  into  competition  with  each  other  in  point 
of  value,  unless  in  the  estimation  of  an  unprinci- 
pled philosopher. 

I  thank  you  for  your  offer  of  classics.  When 
I  want  I  will  borrow.  Horace  is  my  o^n.  Ho- 
mer, with  a  clavis,  I  have  had  possession  of  some 
years.    They  are  the  property  of  Mr.  Jones.  A 

Virgil,  the  property  of  Mr.  S  ,  I  have  had 

as  long.  I  am  nobody  in  the  affair  of  tenses,  un- 
less when  you  are  present. 


tacle  which  this  world  exhibits,  tragi-comical  as 
the  incidents  of  it  are,  absurd  in  themselves,  but 
terrible  in  their  consequences ; 

Sunt  res  humanae  fiebile  ludibrium. 

An  instance  of  this  deplorable  merriment  has  oc- 
curred in  the  course  of  last  week  at  Olney,  A 
feast  gave  the  occasion  to  a  catastrophe  truly  shock- 
ing. Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  J.  NEWTON. 


Yours  ever,  W.  C, 


TO  THE  REV.  J.  NEWTON. 


MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  July  28,  1784. 

I  MAY  perhaps  be  short,  but  am  not  willing  that 
you  should  go  to  Lymington  without  first  having 
had  a  line  from  me.  I  know  that  place  well,  hav- 
ing spent  six  weeks  there,  above  twenty  years  ago. 
The  town  is  neat,  and  the  country  delightful.  You 
walk  well,  and  will  consequently  find  a  part  of  the 
coast,  called  Half-Chff,  within  the  reach  of  your 
ten  toes.  It  was  a  favourite  walk  of  mine  ;  to  the 
best  of  my  remembrance,  about  three  miles  dis- 
tance from  Lymington.  There  you  may  stand 
upon  the  beach,  and  contemplate  the  Needle-rock. 
At  least  you  might  have  done  so  twenty  years  ago. 
But  since  that  time  I  think  it  is  fallen  from  its 
base,  and  is  drowned,  and  is  no  longer  a  visible 
object  of  contemplation.  I  wish  you  may  pass 
your  time  there  happily,  as  in  all  probability  you 
will,  perhaps  usefully  too  to  others,  undoubtedly  so 
to  yourself 

The  manner  in  which  you  have  been  previously 
made  acquainted  with  Mr.  Gilpin  gives  a  provi- 
dential air  to  your  journey,  and  affords  reason  to 
hope  that  you  may  be  charged  with  a  message  to 
him.  I  admire  him  as  a  biographer.  But  as  Mrs. 
Unwin  and  I  were  talking  of  him  last  night, 
we  could  not  but  wonder  that  a  man  should  see 
so  much  excellence  in  the  lives,  and  so  much  glory 
and  beauty  in  the  deaths  of  the  martyrs,  whom  he 
has  recorded,  and  at  the  same  time  disapprove  the 
principles  that  produced  the  very  conduct  he  ad- 
mired. It  seems  however  a  step  towards  the  truth, 
to  applaud  the  fruits  of  it ;  and  one  can  not  help 
thinking  that  one  step  more  would  put  him  in 
possession  of  the  truth  itself  By  your  means  may 
he  be  enabled  to  take  it ! 

We  are  obliged  to  you  for  the  preference  you 
would  have  given  to  Olney,  had  not  providence 
determined  your  course  another  way.    But  as, 

no  rea- 


July  19,  1784. 
In  those  days  when  Bedlam  was  open  to  the 
cruel  curiosity  of  holiday  ramblers,  I  have  been  a 

visiter  there.  Though  a  boy,  I  was  not  altogether  I  when  we  saw  you  last  summer,  you  gave 
insensible  of  the  misery  of  the  poor  captives,  nor  son  to  expect  you  this,  we  are  the  less  disappointed, 
destitute  of  feeling  for  them.  But  the  madness  of  At  your  age  and  mine,  biennial  visits  have  such  a 
some  of  them  had  such  an  humorous  air,  and  dis-  gap  between  them  that  we  can  not  promise  our- 
played  itself  in  so  many  whimsical  freaks,  that  it  'selves  upon  those  terms  very  numerous  future  in- 
was  impossible  not  to  be  entertained,  at  the  same  terviews.  But  whether  ours  are  to  be  many  or 
time  that  I  was  angry  with  myself  for  being  so.  jfew,  you  will  always  be  welcome  to  me,  for  the 
A  line  of  Bourne's  is  very  expressive  of  the  spec-  'sake  of  the  comfortable  days  that  are  past.  In 

X  2 


260 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  168,  169. 


my  present  state  of  mint!  my  friendship  for  you 
mdeed  is  as  warm  as  ever.  But  I  feci  myself 
very  indifferently  qualified  to  be  your  companion. 
Other  days  than  these  inglorious  and  unprofitable 
ones  are  promised  me,  and  when  I  see  them  I  shall 
rejoice. 

I  saw  the  advertisement  of  your  adversary's  book. 
He  is  happy  at  least  in  this,  that  whether  he  have 
brains  or  none,  he  strikes  without  the  danger  of 
being  stricken  again.  He  could  not  wish  to  en- 
gage in  a  controversy  upon  easier  terms.  The 
other,  whose  publication  is  postponed  till  Christ- 
mas, is  resolved,  I  suppose,  to  do  something.  But 
do  what  he  will  he  can  not  prove  that  you  have 
not  been  aspersed,  or  that  you  have  not  refuted  the 
charge;  which  unless  he  can  do,  I  think  he' will 
do  httle  to  the  purpose. 

Mrs.  Unwin  thinks  of  you,  and  always  with 
a  grateful  recoUedion  of  yours  and  Mrs.  Newton's 
kindness.  She  has  had  a  nervous  fever  lately. 
But  I  hope  she  is  better.  The  weather  forbids 
•walking,  a  prohibition  hurtful  to  us  both. 

We  heartily  wish  you  a  good  journey,  and  are 
affectionately  yours,  W.  C.  and  M.  U. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 


MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Aug.  14,  1784. 

I  GIVE  you  joy  of  a  journey  performed  without 
trouble  or  danger.  You  have  travelled  five  hun- 
dred miles  without  having  encountered  either. 
Some  neighbours  of  ours,  about  a  fortnight  since, 
made  an  excursion  only  to  a  neighbouring  village 
and  brought  home  with  them  fractured  skulls,  and 
broken  limbs,  and  one  of  them  is  dead.  For  my 
own  part,  I  seem  pretty  much  exempted  from  the 
dangers  of  the  road.  Thanks  to  that  tender  in- 
terest and  concern  which  the  legislature  takes  in 
my  security !  Having  no  doubt  their  fears  lest 
so  precious  a  life  should  determine  too  soon,  and 
by  some  untimely  stroke  of  misadventure,  they 
have  made  wheels  and  horses  so  expensive  that  I 
am  not  likely  to  owe  my  death  to  either. 

Your  mother  and  I  continue  to  visit  Weston 
daily,  and  find  in  those  agreeable  bowers  such 
amusement  as  leaves  us  but  little  room  lo  regret 
that  we  can  go  no  further.  Having  touched  that 
theme,  I  can  not  abstain  from  the  pleasure  of  tell- 
ing you  that  our  neighbours  in  that  place,  being 
about  to  leave  it  for  some  time,  an<]  meeting  us 
there  but  a  few  evenings  before  their  departue,  en- 
treated us  during  their  absence  to  consider  the 
garden,  and  all  its  contents,  as  our  own,  and  to 
gather  whatever  we  liked,  without  the  least  scru- 
ple. We  accordingly  picked  strawberries  as  often 
as  we  went,  and  brought  home  as  many  bundles 


Once  more,  by  the  aid  of  Lord  Dartmouth,  I 
find  myself  a  voyager  in  the  Pacific  ocean.  In 
our  last  night's  lecture  we  made  our  acquaintance 
with  the  island  of  Hapaee,  where  we  had  never 
been  before.  The  French  and  ItaUans,  it  seems, 
have  but  little  cause  to  plume  themselves  on  ac- 
count of  their  achievements  in  the  dancing  way ; 
and  we  may  hereafter,  without  much  repining  at 
it,  acknowledge  their  superiority  in  that  art.  They 
are  equalled,  perhaps  excelled  by  savages.  How 
wonderful,  that  without  any  intercourse  with  the 
politer  world,  and  having  made  no  proficiency 
in  any  other  accomplishment,  they  should  in  this 
however  have  made  themselves  such  adepts,  that 
for  regularity  and  grace  of  motion  they  might  even 
be  our  masters.  How  wonderful  too,  that  with  a 
tub  and  a  stick  they  should  be  able  to  produce 
such  harmony,  as  persons  accustomed  to  the  sweet- 
est music  can  not  but  hear  with  pleasure.  Is  it 
not  very  difficult  to  account  for  the  striking  differ- 
ence of  character,  that  obtains  among  the  inhabi- 
tants of  these  islands'?  Many  of  them  are  near 
neighbours  to  each  other.  Their  opportunities  of 
improvement  much  the  same ;  yet  some  of  them 
are  in  a  degree  polite,  discover  symptoms  of  taste, 
and  have  a  sense  of  elegance ;  while  others  are  as 
rude  as  we  naturally  expect  to  find  a  people  who 
have  never  had  any  communication  with  the 
northern  hemisphere.  These  volumes  furnish  much 
matter  of  philosophical  speculation,  and  often  en- 
tertain me  even  while  I  am  not  employed  in  read- 
ing them, 

I  am  sorry  you  have  not  been  able  to  ascertain 
the  doubtful  inteUigence  I  have  received  on  the 
subject  of  court  skirts  and  bosoms.  I  am  now 
every  day  occupied  in  giving  all  the  grace  I  can 
to  my  new  production,  and  in  transcribing  it  I 
shall  soofi  arrive  at  the  passage  that  censures  that 
folly,  which  I  shall  be  loth  to  expunge,  but  which 
I  must  not  spare,  unless  the  criminals  can  be  con- 
victed. The  world  hovvever  is  not  so  unproduc- 
tive of  subjects  of  censure,  but  that  it  may  possi- 
bly supply  me  with  some  other  that  may  serve  me 
as  well. 

If  you  know  any  body  that  is  writing,  or  in- 
tends to  write,  an  epic  poem  on  the  new  regula- 
tion of  franks,  you  may  give  him  my  compliments, 
and  these  two  lines  for  a  beginning — 

Heu  quot  amatores  nunc  torquet  epistola  rata! 
Vectigal  certum,  perituraque  gratia  Franki! 

Yours  faithfully,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 


MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  AugUSt  16,  1784. 

Had  you  not  expressed  a  desire  to  hear  from 
of  honey-suckles  as  served  to  perfume  our  dwelling  me  before  you  take  leave  of  Lymington,  I  certainly 
till  they  returned,  1  should  not  have  answered  you  so  soon.  Know- 


Li:t.  no. 


LETTERS. 


261 


ing  the  place,  and  the  amusements  it  affords,  I  .very  nearly  akin,  though  they  inhabit  countries  so 
should  have  had  more  modesty  than  to  suppose  very  remote  from  each  other, 
myself  capable  of  adding  any  thing  to  your  pre-  Mrs.  Unwin  remembers  to  have  been  in  com- 
sent  entertainments  worthy  to  rank  with  them. 'pany  with  Mr.  Gilpin  at  her  brother's.  She 
I  am  not  however  totally  destitute  of  such  plea-  thoxight  him  very  sensible  and  polite,  and  conse- 
sures  as  an  inland  country  may  pretend  to.    If  quently  very  agreeable. 

my  windows  do  not  command  a  view  of  the  ocean,  We  are  truly  glad  that  Mrs.  Newton  and  your- 
at  least  they  look  out  upon  a  profusion  of  migno-  j  self  are  so  well,  and  that  there  is  reason  to  hope 
nette;  which,  if  it  be  not  so  grand  an  object,  is  that  Eliza  is  better.  You  will  learn  from  this  let- 
however  quite  as  fragrant:  and  if  I  have  not  a:ter  that  we  are  so,  and  that  for  my  own  part  I  am 
hermit  in  a  grotto,  I  have  nevertheless  myself  in  a  ]  not  quite  so  low  in  spirits  as  at  some  times.  Learn 
green-house,  a  less  venerable  figure  perhaps,  but  ^  too,  what  you  knew  before,  that  we  love  you  all, 


not  at  all  less  animated  than  he;  nor  are  we  in  and  that  I  am 
this  nook  altogether  furnished  with  such  means 
of  philosophical  experiment  and  speculation  as  at 
present  the  world  rings  with.  On  Thursday 
morning  last,  we  sent  up  a  balloon  from  Ember- 
ton meadow.  Thrice  it  rose,  and  as  oft  descend- 
ed, and  in  the  evening  it  performed  another  flight 
at  Newport,  where  it  went  up,  and  came  down  no 
more.  Like  the  arrow  discharged  at  the  pigeon 
in  the  Trojan  games,  it  kindled  in  the  air,  and 
was  consumed  in  a  moment.  I  have  not  heard 
what  interpretation  the  soothsayers  have  given  to 
the  omen,  but  shall  wonder  a  little  if  the  Newton 
shepherd  prognosticate  any  thing  less  from  it 
than  the  most  bloody  war  that  was  ever  waged  in 
Europe, 

I  am  reading  Cook's  last  voyage,  and  am  much 
pleased  and  amused  with  it.  It  seems  that  in 
some  of  the  Friendly  isles,  they  excel  so  much  in 
dancing,  and  perform  that  operation  with  such 
exquisite  delicacy  and  grace,  that  they  are  not 
surpassed  even  upon  our  European  stages.  O! 
that  Vestris  had  been  in  the  ship,  that  he  might 
have  seen  himself  outdone  by  a  savage.  The 
paper  indeed  tells  us  that  the  queen  of  France 
has  clapped  this  king  of  capers  up  in  prison,  for 
declining  to  dance  before  her,  on  a  pretence  of 
sickness,  when  in  fact  he  was  in  perfect  health. 
If  this  be  true,  perhaps  he  may  by  this  time  be 
prepared  to  second  such  a  wish  as  mine,  and  to 
think  that  t^ie  durance  he  suffers  would  be  well 
exchanged  for  a  dance  at  Anamooka.  I  should 
however  as  little  have  expected  to  hear  that 
these  islanders  had  such  consummate  skill  in 
an  art,  that  requires  so  much  taste  in  the 
conduct  of  the  person,  as  that  they  were  good 
mathematicians  and  astronomers.  Defective  as 
they  are  in  every  branch  of  knowledge,  and  in 
every  other  species  of  refinement,  it  seems  won- 
derful that  they  should  arrive  at  such  perfection 
in  the  dance,  which  some  of  our  English  gentle- 
men, with  all  the  assistance  of  French  instruction, 
find  it  impossible  to  learn.  We  must  conclude 
therefore  that  particular  nations  have  a  genius  for 
particular  feats,  and  that  our  neighbours  in  France, 


Your  affectionate  friend,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Olney,  Sept.  11,  1784. 

You  have  my  thanks  for  the  inquiries  you  have 
made.  Despairing  however  of  meeting  with  such 
confirmation  of  that  new  mode,  as  would  warrant 
a  general  stricture,  I  had,  before  the  receipt  of 
your  last,  discarded  the  passage  in  which  I  had 
censured  it.  I  am  proceeding  in  my  transcript 
with  all  possible  despatch,  having  nearly  finished 
the  fourth  book,  and  hoping,  by  the  end  of  the 
month,  to  have  completed  the  work.  When 
finished,  that  no  time  may  be  lost,  I  purpose 
taking  the  first  opportunity  to  transmit  it  to  Le- 
man-street;  but  must  beg  that  you  will  give  me 
in  your  next  an  exact  direction,  that  it  may  pro- 
ceed to  the  mark  without  any  hazard  of  a  miscar- 
riage. A  second  transcript  of  it  would  be  a  la- 
bour I  should  very  reluctantly  undertake;  for 
though  I  have  kept  copies  of  all  the  material  al- 
terations, there  are  so  many  minutiae  of  which  I 
have  made  none;  it  is  besides  slavish  work,  and 
of  all  occupations  that  which  I  dislike  the  most.  I 
know  that  you  will  lose  no  time  in  reading  it,  but 
I  must  beg  you  likewise  to  lose  none  in  convey- 
ing it  to  Johnson,  that  if  he  chooses  to  print  it,  it 
may  go  to  the  press  immediately;  if  not,  that  it 
may  be  offered  directly  to  your  friend  Longman, 
or  any  other.  Not  that  I  doubt  Johnson's  accept- 
ance of  it,  for  he  will  find  it  more  ad  captum  po- 
puli  than  the  former.  I  have  not  numbered  the 
lines,  except  of  the  four  first  books,  which  amount 
to  three  thousand  two  hundred  and  seventy-six. 
I  imagine  therefore  that  the  whole  contains  above 
five  thousand.  I  mention  this  circumstance  now, 
because  it  may  save  him  some  trouble  in  casting 
the  size  of  the  book;  and  I  might  possibly  forget  it 
in  another  letter. 

About  a  fortnight  since,  we  had  a  visit  from 

Mr.  ,  whom  I  had  not  seen  many  years.  He 

introduced  himself  to  us  very  politely,  with  many 


and  our  friends  in  the  South  sea,  have  minds  thanks  on  his  own  part,  and  on  the  part  of  his 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  171,  172. 


family,  for  the  amusement  which  my  book  had 
afforded  them.  He  said  he  was  sure  that  it  must 
make  its  way,  and  hoped  that  I  had  not  layed  down 
the  pen.  1  only  told  him  in  general  terms,  that 
the  use  of  the  pen  was  necessary  to  my  well  be- 
ing, but  gave  him  no  hint  of  this  last  production. 
He  said  that  one  passage  in  particular  had  abso- 
lutely electrified  him,  meaning  the  description  of 
the  Briton  in  Table  Talk.  He  seemed  indeed  to 
emit  some  sparks  when  he  mentioned  it.  I  was 
glad  to  have  that  picture  noticed  by  a  man  of  a 
cultivated  mind,  because  1  had  always  thought 
•well  of  it  myself,  and  had  never  heard  it  distin- 
guished before.  Assure  yourself,  my  William, 
and  though  I  would  not  write  thus  freely  on  the 
subject  of  me  or  mine  to  any  but  yourself,  the 
pleasure  I  have  in  doing  it  is  a  most  innocent  one, 
and  partakes  not  in  the  least  degree,  so  far  as  my 
conscience  is  to  be  credited,  of  that  vanity  with 
"which  authors  are  in  general  so  justly  chargeable. 
Whatever  I  do,  I  confess  that  I  most  sincerely 
wish  to  do  it  well,  and  when  I  have  reason  to  hope 
that  I  have  succeeded,  am  pleased  indeed,  but  not 
proud;  for  He,  who  has  placed  every  thing  out 
of  the  reach  of  man,  except  what  he  freely  gives 
liim,  has  made  it  impossible  for  a  reflecting  mind, 
that  knows  this,  to  iadulge  so  silly  a  passion  for  a 
moment.  Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Scft.  11,  1784. 

I  HAVE  never  seen  Dr.  Cotton's  book,  concern- 
ing which  your  sisters  question  me,  nor  did  I 
know,  till  you  mentioned  it,  that  he  had  written 
any  thing  newer  than  his  Visions.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  it  is  so  far  worthy  of  him,  as  to  be  pious 
and  sensible,  and  I  believe  no  man  living  is  better 
qualified  to  write  on  such  subjects  as  his  title 
seems  to  announce.  Some  years  have  passed 
since  I  heard  from  him,  and  considering  his  great 
age,  it  is  probable  that  I  shall  hear  from  him  no 
more;  but  I  shall  always  respect  him.  He  is  truly 
a  philosopher,  according  to  my  judgment  of  the 
character,  every  tittle  of  his  knowledge  in  natural 
subjects  being  connected  in  his  mind  with  the 
firm  belief  of  an  Omnipotent  agent. 

Yours,  &c.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Sept.  18,  1784. 

Following  your  good  example,  I  lay  before  me 
a  sheet  of  my  largest  paper.  It  was  this  moment 
fair  and  unblemished,  but  I  have  begun  to  blot  it, 
and  having  begun  am  not  likely  to  cease  till  1 
have  spoiled  it.   I  have  sent  you  many  a  sheet 


that  in  my  judgment  of  it  has  been  very  unworthy 
of  your  acceptance,  but  my  conscience  was  in 
some  measure  satisfied  by  reflecting,  that  if  it 
were  good  for  nothing,  at  the  same  time  it  cost 
you  nothing,  except  the  trouble  of  reading  it.  But 
the  case  is  altered  now.  You  must  pay  a  solid 
price  for  frothy  matter,  and  though  I  do  not  abso- 
lutely pick  your  pocket,  yet  you  lose  your  money, 
and,  as  the  saying  is,  are  never  the  wiser. 

My  green-house  is  never  so  pleasant  as  when 
we  are  just  upon  the  point  of  being  turned  out  of 
it.  The  gentleness  of  the  autumnal  suns,  and  the 
calmness  of  this  latter  season,  make  it  a  much 
more  agreeable  retreat  than  we  ever  find  it  in  the 
summer;  when,  the  winds  being  generally  brisk, 
we  can  not  cool  it  by  admitting  a  suflacient  quantity 
of  air,  without  being  at  the  same  time  incommoded 
by  it.  But  how  I  sit  with  all  the  windows  and 
the  door  wide  open,  and  am  regaled  with  the  scent 
of  every  flower  in  a  garden  as  full  of  flowers  as  I 
have  known  how  to  make  it.  We  keep  no  bees, 
but  if  I  lived  in  a  hive  I  should  hardly  hear  more 
of  their  music.  All  the  bees  in  the  neighbour- 
hood resort  to  a  bed  of  mignonette,  opposite  to  the 
window,  and  pay  me  for  the  honey  they  get  out 
of  it  by  a  hum,  which,  though  rather  monotonous, 
is  as  agreeable  to  my  ear  as  the  whistling  of  my 
linnets.  All  the  sounds  that  nature  utters  are  de- 
lightful, at  least  in  this  country.  I  should  not  per- 
haps find  the  roaring  of  lions  in  Africa,  or  of  bears 
in  Russia,  very  pleasing;  but  I  know  no  beast  in 
England  whose  voice  I  do  not  account  musical, 
save  and  except  always  the  braying  of  an  ass. 
The  notes  of  all  our  birds  and  fowls  please  me, 
without  one  exception.  I  should  not  indeed  think 
of  keeping  a  goose  in  a  cage,  that  I  might  hang 
him  up  in  the  parlour  for  the  sake  of  his  melody, 
but  a  goose  upon  a  common,  or  in  a  farm  yard,  is 
no  bad  performer;  and  as  to  insects,  if  the  black 
beetle,  and  beetles  indeed  of  all  hues,  will  keep 
out  of  my  way,  I  have  no  objection  to  any  of  the 
rest;  on  the  contrary,  in  whatever  key  they  sing, 
from  the  gnat's  fine  treble,  to  the  base  of  the  hum- 
ble bee,  I  admire  them  all.  Seriously  however  it 
strikes  me  as  a  very  observable  instance  of  provi- 
dential kindness  to  man,  that  such  an  exact  accord 
has  been  contrived  between  his  ear,  and  the  sounds 
with  which,  at  least  in  a  rurul  situation,  it  is  al- 
most every  moment  visited.  All  the  world  is  sen- 
sible of  the  uncomfortable  eflfect  that  certain  sounds 
have  upon  the  nerves,  and  consequently  upon  the 
spirits — And  if  a  sinful  world  had  been  filled  with 
such  as  would  have  curdled  the  blood,  and  have 
made  the  sense  of  hearing  a  perpetual  inconveni- 
ence, I  do  not  know  that  we  should  have  had  a 
right  to  complain.  But  now  the  fields,  the  woods, 
the  gardens,  have  each  their  concert,  and  the  ear 
of  man  is  for  ever  regaled  by  creatures  who  seem 
only  to  please  themselves.   Even  the  ears  that  are 


Let.  173,  174. 


LETTERS. 


deaf  to  the  Gospel  are  continually  entertained, 
though  without  knowing  it,  by  sounds  for  which 
they  are  solely  indebted  to  its  author.  There  is 
somewhere  in  infinite  space  a  world  that  does  not 
roll  within  the  precincts  of  mercy,  and  as  it  is  rea- 
sonable, and  even  scriptural,  to  suppose  that  there 
is  music  in  Heaven,  in  those  dismal  regions  per- 
haps the  reverse  of  it  is  found;  tones  so  dismal,. as 
to  make  wo  itself  more  insupportable,  and  to  acu- 
minate even  despair.  But  my  paper  admonishes 
me  in  good  time  to  draw  the  reins,  and  to  check 
the  descent  of  my  fancy  into  deeps,  with  which 
she  is  but  too  familiar.  Our  best  love  attends  you 
both.  4,  Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  Oct.  3,  1784. 

i\.  POET  can  but  ill  spare  time  for  prose.  The 
truth  is,  I  am  in  haste  to  finish  my  transcript,  that 
you  may  receive  it  time  enough  to  give  it  a  leisure- 
ly reading  before  you  go  to  town ;  which  whether 
I  shall  be  able  to  accomplish,  is  at  present  uncer- 
tain. I  have  the  whole  punctuation  to  settle, 
which  in  blank  verse  is  of  the  last  importance,  and 
C'f  a  species  peculiar  to  that  composition;  for  I 
know  no  use  of  points,  unless  to  direct  the  voice, 
the  management  of  which,  in  the  reading  blank 
verse,  being  more  difficult  than  in  the  reading  of 
any  other  poetry,  requires  perpetual  hints  and  no- 
tices, to  regulate  the  inflections,  cadences,  and 
pauses.  This  however  is  an  affair  that  in  spite 
of  grammarians  must  be  left  pretty  much  ad  libi- 
tum scriptoris.  For  I  suppose  every  author  points 
according  to  his  own  reading.  If  I  can  send  the 
parcel  to  the  wagon  by  one  o'clock  next  Wednes- 
day, you  will  have  it  on  Saturday  the  ninth.  But 
this  is  more  than  I  expect.  Perhaps  I  shall  not 
be  able  to  despatch  it  till  the  eleventh,  in  which 
case  it  will  not  reach  you  till  the  thirteenth.  I 
rather  think,  that  the  latter  of  these  two  periods 
will  obtain,  because,  besides  the  punctuation,  I 
have  the  argument  of  each  book  to  transcribe.  Add 
to  this,  that  in  writing  for  the  printer,  I  ^m  forced 
to  write  my  best,  which  makes  slow  work.  The 
motto  of  the  whole  is — Fit  sur cuius  arbor.  If 
you  can  put  the  author's  name  under  it,  do  so — 
if  not,  it  must  go  without  one.  For  I  know  not 
to  whom  to  ascribe  it.  It  was  a  motto  taken  by  a 
certain  prince  of  Orange,  in  the  year  1733,  but 
not  to  a  poem  of  his  own  writing,  or  indeed  to  any 
poem  at  all,  but,  as  I  think,  to  a  medal. 

Mr.  is  a  Cornish  member,  but  for  what 

place  in  Cornwall  I  know  not.  All  I  know  of  him 
is,  that  I  saw  him  once  clap  his  two  hands  upon  a 
rail,  meaning  to  leap  over  it.  But  he  did  not  think 
the  attempt  a  safe  one,  and  therefor?  took  them 
off  ao-aia.  He  was  in  company  with  Mr.  Throck- 
18 


morton.  With-that  gentleman  we  drank  choct>- 
late,  since  I  wrote  last.  The  occasion  of  our  visit 
was,  as  usual,  a  balloon.  Your  mother  invited 
her,  and  I  him,  and  they  promised  to  return  the 
visit,  but  have  not  yet  performed.  Tout  le  monde 
se  trouvoit  Id,  as  you  may  suppose,  among  the 

rest,  Mrs.  W  ,    She  was  driven  to  the  door 

by  her  son,  a  boy  of  seventeen,  in  a  phaeton, 
drawn  by  four  horses  from  Lilliput.  This  is  an 
ambiguous  expression,  and  should  what  I  write 
now  be  legible  a  thousand  years  hence,  might  puz- 
zle commentators.  Be  it  known  therefore  to  the 
Aldusses  and  the  Stevenses  of  ages  yet  to  come, 

that  I  do  not  mean  to  affirm  that  Mrs.  W  

herself  came  from  Lilliput  that  morning,  or  indeed 
that  she  was  ever  there,  but  merely  to  describe 
the  horses,  as  being  so  diminutive,  that  they  might 
be,  with  propriety,  said  to  be  Lilliputian. 

The  privilege  of  franking  having  been  so  crop- 
ped, I  know  not  in  what  manner  I,  and  my  book- 
seller are  to  settle  the  conveyance  of  proof  sheets 
hither,  and  back  again.  They  must  travel  I  ima- 
gine by  coach,  a  large  quantity  of  them  at  a  time ; 
for,  like  other  authors,  I  find  myself  under  a  poeti- 
cal necessity  of  being  frugal. 

We  love  you  all,  jointly,  and  separately,  as 
usual.  W.  C. 

I  have  not  seen,  nor  shall  see,  the  Dissenter's 
answer  to  Mr.  Newton,  unless  you  can  furnisk 
me  with  it. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Oct.  9,  1784. 

The  pains  you  have  taken  to  disengage  our  cor- 
respondence from  the  expense  with  which  it  was 
threatened,  convincing  me  that  my  letters,  trivial 
as  they  are,  are  yet  acceptable  to  you,  encourage 
me  to  observe  my  usual  punctuality.  You  com- 
plain of  unconnected  thoughts.  I  believe  there  is 
not  a  head  in  the  world  but  might  utter  the  same 
complaint,  and  that  all  would  do  so,  were  they  all 
as  attentive  to  their  own  vagaries,  and  as  honest 
as  yours.  The  description  of  your  meditations  at 
least  suits  mine ;  perhaps  I  can  go  a  step  beyond 
you,  upon  the  same  ground,  and  assert  with  the 
strictest  truth  that  I  not  only  do  not  think  with 
connexion,  but  that  1  frequently  do  not  think  at 
all.  I  am  much  mistaken  if  I  do  not  often  catch 
myself  napping  in  this  way ;  for  when  1  ask  my- 
self what  was  the  last  idea  (as  the  ushers  at  West- 
minster ask  an  idle  boy  what  was  the  last  word,) 
1  am  not  able  to  answer,  but  like  the  boy  in  ques- 
tion, am  obliged  to  stare  and  say  nothing.  This 
may  be  a  very  unphilosophical  account  of  myself, 
and  may  clash  very  much  with  the  general  opinion 
of  the  learned,  that  the  soul  being  an  active  prin- 
ciple,  and  her  activity  consisting  in  thought,  she 


2G4 


CQWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  175. 


must  consequently  always  think.  But  pardon  me, 
messieurs  les  philosophes,  there  arc  moments  when, 
jf  I  think  at  all,  I  am  utterly  unconscious  of  doing 
•so,  and  the  thouglit,  and  the  consciousness  of  it, 
seem  to  me  at  least,  who  am  no  philosopher,  to  be 
inseparable  from  each  other.  Perhaps  however 
we  may  both  be  right;  and  if  you  will  grant  me 
that  I  do  not  always  think,  I  will  in  return  con- 
cede to  you  the  activity  you  contend  for,  and  will 
quaUfy  the  difference  between  us  by  supposing 
that  though  the  soul  be  in  herself  an  active  jjrin- 
ciple,  the  influence  of  her  present  union  with  a 
principle  that  is  not  such,  makes  her  often  dor- 
mant, suspends  her  operations,  and  afi'ects  her  with 
a  sort  of  deliquium,  in  which  she  suffers  a  tem- 
porary loss  of  all  her  functions.  I  have  related  to 
you  my  experience  truly,  and  without  disguise ; 
you  must  therefore  either  admit  my  assertion,  that 
the  soul  does  not  necessarily  always  act,  or  deny 
that  mine  is  a  human  soul:  a  negative  that  I  am 
pure  you  will  not  easily  prove.  So  much  for  a 
dispute  which  1  little  thought  of  being  engaged  in 
to-day. 

Last  night  I  had  a  letter  from  Lord  Dartmouth. 
It  was  to  apprise  me  of  the  safe  arrival  of  Cook's 
last  voyage,  which  he  was  so  kind  as  to  lend  me, 
in  St.  Jame's  Square.  The  reading  of  those  vol- 
umes afforded  me  much  amusement,  and  I  hope 
some  instruction.  No  observation  however  forced 
itself  upon  me  with  more  violence  than  one,  that 
I  could  not  help  making  on  the  death  of  Captain 
Cook.  God  is  a  jealous  God,  and  at  Owhyhee  the 
poor  man  was  content  to  be  worshipped.  From 
that  moment,  the  remarkable  interposition  of  Provi- 
dence in  his  favour,  was  converted  into  an  opposi- 
tion that  thwarted  all  his  purposes.  He  left  the 
scene  of  his  deification,  but  was  driven  back  to  it 
by  a  most  violent  storm,  in  which  he  suffered  more 
than  in  any  that  had  preceded  it.  When  he  de- 
parted he  left  his  worshippers  still  infatuated  with 
an  idea  of  his  godship,  consequently  well  disposed 
to  serve  him.  At  his  return  he  found  them  sul- 
len, distrustful,  and  mysterious.  A  trifling  theft 
was  committed,  which,  by  a  blunder  of  his  own 
in  pursuing  the  thief  after  the  property  had  been 
restored,  was  magnified  to  an  affair  of  the  last 
importance.  One  of  their  favourite  chiefs  was 
killed  too  by  a  blunder.  Nothing,  in  short,  but 
blunder  and  mistake  attended  him,  till  he  fell 
breathless  into  the  water,  and  then  all  was  smooth 
again.  The  world  indeed  will  not  take  notice,  or 
see,  that  the  dispensation  bore  evident  marks  of 
Divine  displeasure;  but  a  mind  I  think  in  any 
degree  spiritual  can  not  overlook  them.  We  know 
from  truth  itself,  that  the  death  of  Herod  was  for 
a  similar  offence.  But  Herod  was  in  no  sense  a 
believer  in  God,  nor  had  enjoyed  half  the  opportu- 
nities with  which  our  poor  countryman  had  been 
favoured.    It  may  be  urged  perhaps  that  he  was 


in  jest,  that  he  meant  nothing  but  his  own  amuse- 
ment, and  that  of  his  companions.  I  doubt  it. 
He  knows  little  of  the  heart,  who  docs  not  know 
that  even  in  a  sensible  man  it  is  flattered  by  every 
species  of  exaltation.  But  be  it  so,  that  he  was 
in  sport — it  was  not  humane,  to  say  no  worse  of 
it,  to  sport  with  the  ignorance  of  his  friends,  to 
mock  their  simplicity,  to  humour  and  acquiesce  in 
their  blind  credulity.  Besides,  though  a  stock  ol 
stone  may  be  worshipped  blameless,  a  baptized 
man  may  not.  He  knows  what  he  does,  and  by 
suffering  such  honours  to  be  paid  him,  incurs  the 
guilt  of  sacrilege.* 

We  are  glad  that  you  are  so*happy  in  your 
church,  in  your  society,  and  in  all  your  connexions. 
I  have  not  left  myself  room  to  say  any  thing  of 
the  love  we  feel  for  you. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UN  WIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  Oct.  10,  1784. 

I  SEND  you  four  quires  of  verse,  which  having 
sent,  I  shall  dismiss  from  my  thoughts,  and  think 
no  more  of,  till  I  see  them  in  print.  I  have  not 
after  all  found  time  or  industry  enough,  to  give  the 
last  hand  to  the  points.  I  believe  however  they 
are  not  very  erroneous,  though  in  so  long  a  work, 
and  in  a  work  that  requires  nicety  in  this  particu- 
lar, some  inaccuracies  will  escape.  Where  you 
find  any,  you  will  oblige  me  by  correcting  them. 

In  some  passages,  especially  in  the  second  book, 
you  will  observe  me  very  satirical.  Writing  on 
such  subjects  I  could  not  be  otherwise.  I  cau. 
write  nothing  without  aiming  at  least  at  usefulness. 
It  were  beneath  my  years  to  do  it,  and  still  more 
dishonourable  to  my  religion.  I  know  that  a  refor- 
mation of  such  abuses  as  I  have  censured  is  not 
to  be  expected  from  the  efforts  of  a  poet ;  but  to 
contemplate  the  world,  its  follies,  its  vices,  its  in- 
difference to  duty,  and  its  strenuous  attachment  to 
what  is  evil,  and  not  to  reprehend,  were  to  ap- 
prove it.  From  this  charge  at  least  I  shall  be 
clear,  for  I  have  neither  tacitly  nor  expressly  flat- 
tered either  its  characters,  or  its  customs.  I  have 
paid  one,  and  only  one  compliment,  which  was  so 
justly  due,  that  I  did  not  know  how  to  withhold  it, 


*  Having  enjoyed,  in  the  year  1772,  the  pleasure  of  convers. 
ing  with  the  illustrious  seaman,  on  board  his  own  ship,  the 
Resolution.  1  can  not  pass  the  pi-esent  letter  without  observing, 
that  I  am  persuaded  my  friend  Cowper  utterly  misappre- 
hended the  behaviour  of  Captain  Cook,  in  the  affair  alluded 
to.  From  the  little  personal  acquaintance,  which  I  had  my. 
self  with  this  humane  and  truly  Christian  navigator,  and 
from  the  whole  tenor  of  his  life,  I  can  not  believe  it  possible 
for  him  to  ha'^e  acted,  under  any  circumstances,  with  such 
impious  arrogance,  as  might  appear  offensive  in  the  eyes  of 
the  Almighty.  Hal^. 


Let.  176. 


LETTERS. 


265 


especially  having  so  fair  an  occasion  (I  forget  my- 
self, there  is  another  in  the  first  book  to  Mr. 
Throckmorton,)  but  the  compliment  I  mean  is  to 

Mr.  .    It  is  however  so  managed,  that 

nobody  but  himself  can  make  the  application,  and 
you,  to  whom  I  disclose  the  secret ;  a  delicacy  on 
my  part,  which  so  much  delicacy  on  his  obliged 
me  to  the  observance  of! 

What  there  is  of  a  religious  cast  in  the  volume  I 
have  thrown  towards  the  end  of  it,  for  two  rea 
sons — first  that  I  might  not  revolt  the  reader  at 
his  entrance — and  secondly,  that  my  best  impres- 
sions might  be  made  last.  "Were  I  to  write  as 
many  volumes  as  Lopez  de  Vega,  or  Voltaire,  not 
one  of  them  would  be  without  this  tincture.  If  the 
world  like  it  not,  so  much  the  worse  for  them.  I 
make  all  the  concessions  I  can,  that  I  may  please 
them,  but  I  will  not  please  them  at  the  expense  of 
my  conscience. 

My  descriptions  are  all  from  nature.  Not  one 
of  them  second-handed.  My  delineations  of  the 
heart  are  from  my  own  experience.  Not  one  of 
them  borrowed  from  books,  or  in  the  least  degree 
conjectural.  In  my  numbers,  which  I  have  varied 
as  much  as  I  could  (for  blank  verse  without  variety 
of  numbers  is  no  better  than  bladder  and  string)  I 
have  imitated  nobody,  th^gh  sometimes,  perhaps, 
there  may  be  an  apparant  resemblance ;  because 
at  the  same  time  that  I  would  not  imitate,  I  have 
not  effectually  differed. 

If  the  work  can  not  boast  a  regular  plan  (in 
which  respect  however  I  do  not  think  it  altogether 
indefensible)  it  may  yet  boast,  that  the  reflections 
are  naturally  suggested  always  by  the  preceding 
passage,  and  that  except  the  fifth  book,  which  is 
rather  of  a  political  aspect,  the  whole  has  one  ten- 
dency; to  discountenance  the  modern  enthusiasm 
after  a  London  life,  and  to  recommend  rural  ease 
and  leisure,  as  friendly  to  the  cause  of  piety  and 
virtue. 

If  it  pleases  you  I  shall  be  happy,  and  collect 
from  your  pleasure  in  it  an  omen  of  its  general 
acceptance.        Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C, 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  Oct.  20,  1784. 

Your  letter  has  relieved  me  from  some  anxiety, 
and  given  me  a  good  deal  of  positive  pleasure.  I 
have  faith  in  your  judgment,  and  an  implicit  confi- 
dence in  the  sincerity  of  your  approbation.  The 
writing  of  so  long  a  poem  is  a  serious  business ; 
and  the  author  must  know  little  of  his  own  heart, 
who  does  not  in  some  degree,  suspect  himself  of 
partiality  to  his  own  production;  and  who  is  he 
that  would  not  be  mortified  by  the  discovery,  that 
he  had  written  five  thousand  fines  in  vain  1  The 
poem  however  which  you  have  in  hand,  will  not  of 


itself  make  a  volume  so  large  as  the  last,  or  as  a 
bookseller  would  wish.  I  say  this,  because  when  I 
had  sent  Johnson  five  thousand  verses,  he  applied 
for  a  thousand  more.  Two  years  since,  I  began  a 
piece  which  grew  to  the  length  of  two  hundred, 
and  there  stopped.  I  have  lately  fesumed  it,  ami 
(I  believe)  shall  finish  it.  But  the  subject  is  fruit- 
ful, and  will  not  be  comprised  in  a  smaller  com- 
pass than  seven  or  eight  hundred  verses.  It  turns 
on  the  question,  whether  an  education  at  school  or 
at  home  be  preferable,  and  I  shall  give  the  prefer- 
ence to  the  latter.  I  mean  that  it  shall  pursue  the 
track  of  the  former.  That  is  to  say,  that  it  shall 
visit  Stock  in  its  way  to  publication.  My  design 
also  is  to  inscribe  it  to  you.  But  you  must  see  it 
first ;  and  if,  after  having  seen  it,  you  should  have  any 
objection,  though  it  should  be  no  bigger  than  the 
tittle  of  an  i,  I  will  deny  myself  that  pleasure,  and 
find  no  fault  with  your  refusal.  I  have  not  been 
without  thoughts  of  adding  John  Gilpin  at  the 
tail  of  all.  He  has  made  a  good  deal  of  noise  jn 
the  world,  and  perhaps  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  show, 
that  though  I  write  generally  with  a  serious  in- 
tention, I  know  how  to  be  occasionally  merry. 
The  Critical  Reviewers  charged  me  with  an  at- 
tempt at  humour.  John  having  been  more  cele- 
brated upon  the  score  of  humour  than  most  pieces 
that  have  appeared  in  modern  days,  may  serve  to 
exonerate  me  from  the  imputation  :  but  in  this  ar- 
ticle I  am  entirely  under  your  judgment,  and  mean 
to  be  set  down  by  it.  All  these  together  will  make 
an  octavo  volume  like  the  last.  I  should  have  told 
you,  that  the  piece  which  now  employs  me,  is  in 
rhyme.  I  do  not  intend  to  write  any  more  blank. 
It  is  more  difficult  than  rhyme,  and  not  so  amusing 
in  the  composition.  If,  when  you  make  the  offer 
of  my  book  to  Johnson,  he  should  stroke  his  chin, 
and  look  up  to  the  ceiling  and  ciy— '  Humph !' — 
anticipate  him  (I  beseech  you)  at  once,  by  say- 
ing,— '  that  you  know  I  should  be  sorry  that  he 
should  undertake  for  me  to  his  own  disadvantage, 
or  that  my  volume  should  be  in  any  degree  pressed 
upon  hirr).  I  make  him  the  offer  merely  because 
I  think  he  would  have  reason  to  complain  of  me, 
if  I  did  not.'  But  that  punctilio  once  satisfied,  it 
is  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me  what  publisher 
sends  me  forth.  If  Longman  should  have  diffi- 
culties, which  is  the  more  probable,  as  I  under- 
stand from  you  that  he  does  not  in  these  cases  see 
with  his  own  eyes,  but  will  consult  a  brother  poet, 
take  no  pains  to  conquer  them.  The  idea  of  be- 
ing hawked  about,  and  especially  of  your  being 
the  hawker,  is  insupportable.  Nichols  (I  liave 
heard)  is  the  most  learned  printer  of  the  present 
day.  He  may  be  a  man  of  taste  as  well  as  learn- 
ing; and  I  suppose  that  you  would  not  want  a 
gentleman  usher  to  introduce  you.  He  prints  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine,  and  may  serve  us,  if  the 
others  should  decline;  if  not,  give  vouiself  no 


266 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  177. 


farther  trouble  about  the  matter.  I  may  possibly 
envy  authors,  who  can  afford  to  publish  at  their 
own  exi)cnsc,  and  in  that  case  should  write  no 
more.  But  the  mortification  would  not  break  my 
heart. 

I  proceed  to  your  corrections,  for  which  I  most 
unaffectedly  thank  you,  adverting  to  them  in  their 
order. 

Page  140. — Truth  generally,  without  the  article 
ihe^  would  not  be  sufficiently  defined.  There  are 
many  sorts  of  truth,  philosophical,  mathematical, 
moral,  &c. ;  and  a  reader  not  much  accustomed  to 
hear  of  religious  or  scriptural  truth,  might  possi- 
bly, and  indeed  easily  doubt  what  truth  was  par- 
ticularly intended.  I  acknowledge  that  grace,  in 
my  use  of  the  word,  does  not  often  occur  in  poet- 
ry. So  neither  does  the  subject  w,hich  1  handle. 
Every  subject  has  its  (?wn  terms,  and  religious 
ones  take  theirs  with  most  propriety  from  the  scrip- 
ture. Thence  I  take  the  word  grace.  The  sar- 
castic use  of  it  in  the  mouths  of  infidels  I  admit, 
but  not  their  authority  to  proscribe  it,  especially 
as  God's  favour  in  the  abstract  has  no  other 
word,  in  all  our  language,  by  which  it  can  be  ex- 


no  flight  from  tljem.  But  solicitations  to  sin,  that 
address  themselves  to  our  bodily  senses,  are,  I  be- 
lieve, seldom  conquered  in  any  other  way. 

I  can  easily  see  that  you  may  have  very  reasona- 
ble objections  to  my  dedicatory  proposal.  You  are 
a  clergyman,  and  I  have  banged  your  order.  You 
arc  a  child  alma  mater,  and  I  have  banged  her 
too.  Lay  yourself  therefore  under  no  constraints 
that  I  do  not  lay  you  under,  but  consider  yourself 
as  perfectly  free. 

With  our  best  love  to  you  all,  I  bid  you  heartily 
farewell.  I  am  tired  of  this  endless  scribblement. 
Adieu!  Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Oct.  30,  1784. 

I  ACCEDE  most  readily  to  the  justness  of  your 
remark  on  the  subject  of  the  truly  Roman  heroism 
of  the  Sandwich  islanders.  Proofs  of  such  prowess 
I  believe  are  seldom  exhibited  by  a  people  who 
have  attained  to  a  high  degree  of  civilization.  Re- 
finement and  profligacy  of  principle  are  too  nearly 
allied,  to  admit  of  any  thing  so  noble ;  and  I  ques- 
tion whether  any  instances  of  faithful  friendship, 
like  that  which  so  mudi  affected  you  in  the  be- 
haviour of  the  poor  savage,  were  produced  even  by 
the  Romans  themselves,  in  the  latter  days  of  the 
empire.  They  had  been  a  nation  whose  virtues  it 
is  impossible  not  to  wonder  at.  But  Greece,  which 
was  to  them  what  France  is  to  us,  a  Pandora's 
box  of  mischief,  reduced  them  to  her  own  standard, 
and  they  naturally  soon  sunk  still  lower.  Religion 
in  this  case  seems  pretty  much  out  of  the  question. 
To  the  production  of  such  heroism,  undebauched 
nature  herself  is  equal.  When  Italy  was  a  land 
of  heroes,  she  knew  no  more  of  the  true  God  than 
her  cicisbeos  and  her  fiddlers  know  now;  and  in- 
deed it  seems  a  matter  of  indifference,  whether  a 
man  be  born  under  a  truth  which  does  not  in- 
fluence him,  or  under  the  actual  influence  of  a 
lie;  or  if  there  be  any  difference  between  the  two 
cases,  it  seems  to  be  rather  in  favour  of  the  latter: 
for  a  false  persuasion,  such  as  the  Mahometan  for 
instance,  may  animate  the  courage,  and  furnish 
motives  for  the  contempt  of  death,  while  despisers 
of  the  true  religion  are  punished  for  their  folly  by 
being  abandoned  to  the  last  degrees  of  depravity. 
Accordingly  we  see  a  Sandwich  islander  sacri- 
ficing himself  to  his  dead  friend,  and  our  Christian 
seamen  and  mariners,  instead  of  being  impressed 
by  a  sense  of  his  generosity,  butchering  him  with 
a  persevering  cruelty  that  will  disgrace  them  for 


Page  150. — Impress  the  mind  faintly,  or  not  at 
all.— I  prefer  this  line,  because  of  the  interrupted 
run  of  it,  having  always  observed  that  a  little  un- 
evenness  of  this  sort,  in  a  long  work,  has  a  good 
effect,  used,  1  mean  sparingly,  and  with  discre- 
tion. 

Page  127. — This  should  have  been  noted  first, 
but  was  overlooked.  Be  pleased  to  alter  for  me 
thus,  with  the  difference  of  only  one  word  from 
the  alteration  proposed  by  you — 

We  too  are  friends  to  royalty.   We  love 
The  king  who  loves  the  law,  respects  his  bounds, 
And  reigns  content  within  them. 

You  observed  probably,  in  your  second  reading, 
that  I  allow  the  life  of  an  animal  to  be  fairly  taken 
away,  when  it  interferes  either  with  the  interest  or 
convenience  of  man.  Consequently  snails,  and  all 
reptiles  that  spoil  our  crops,  either  of  fruit  or  grain, 
may  be  destroyed,  if  we  can  catch  them.  It  gives 
me  real  pleasure,  that  Mrs.  Unwin  so  readily  un- 
derstood me.  Blank  verse,  by  the  unusual  arrange- 
ment of  the  words,  and  by  the  frequent  infusion 
of  one  line  hito  another,  not  less  than  by  the  style, 
which  requires  a  kind  of  tragical  magnificence,  can 
not  be  chargeable  with  much  obscurity,  must  rather 
be  singularly  perspicuous,  to  b^  so  easily  compre 
fended.  It  is  my  labour,  and  my  principal  one 
to  be  as  clear  as  possible.  You  do  not  mistake 
me,  when  you  suppose  that  I  have  great  respect  I  ever :  for  he  was  a  defenceless,  unresisting  enemy, 
for  the  virtue  that  flies  temptation.  It  is  that  sort!  who  meant  nothing  more  than  to  gratify  his  love 
of  prowess  which  the  whole  train  of  scripture  calls :  for  the  deceased.  To  slay  liim  in  such  circum- 
Tis  to  manifest,  when  assailed  by  sensual  evil.  In-  stances  was  to  murder  him,  and  with  every  ttggra- 
terior  mischiefs  must  be  grappled  with.    There  is  \  vation  of  the  crime  that  can  be  imagijicd. 


Let.  178,  179. 


LETTERS. 


267 


I  am  again  at  Johnson's  in  the  shape  of  a  poem 
in  blank  verse,  consisting  of  six  books,  and  called 
The  Task.  I  began  it  about  this  time  twelve- 
month, and  writing  sometimes  an  hour  in  the  day, 
sometimes  half  a  one,  and  sometimes  two  hours, 
have  lately  finished  it.  I  mentioned  it  not  sooner, 
because  almost  to  the  last  I  was  doubtful  whether 
I  should  ever  bring  it  to  a  conclusion,  working 
often  in  such  distress  of  mind,  as,  while  it  spurred 
me  to  the  work,  at  the  same  time  threatened  to 
disqualify  me  for  it.  My  bookseller  I  suppose  will 
be  as  tardy  as  before.  I  do  not  expect  to  be  born 
into  the  world  till  the  month  of  March,  when  I 
and  the  crocuses  shall  peep  together.  You  may 
assure  yourself  that  I  shall  take  my  first  opportu- 
nity to  ^ait  on  you.  I  mean  likewise  to  gratify 
myself  by  obtruding  my  muse  upon  Mr.  Bacon. 

Adieu,  my  dear  friend !  we  are  well,  and  love 
you,  ■  Yours  and  Mrs.  Newton's,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  NoV.  1,  1784. 

Were  I  to  delay  my  answer,  I  must  yet  write 
without  a  frank  at  last,  and  may  as  well  therefore 
write  without  one  now,  especially  feeling,  as  I  do, 
a  desire  to  thank  you  for  your  friendly  offices  so 
well  performed.  I  am  glad  for  your  sake,  as  well 
as  for  my  own,  that  you  succeeded  in  the  first  in- 
stance, and  that  the  first  trouble  proved  the  last.  I 
am  willing  too  to  consider  Johnson's  readiness  to 
accept  a  second  volume  of  mine,  as  an  argument 
that  at  least  he  was  no  loser  by  the  former.  I  col- 
lect from  it  some  reasonable  hope  that  the  volume 
in  question  may  not  wrong  him  neither.  My 
imagination  tells  me  (for  I  know  you  interest  your- 
self in  the  success  of  my  productions)  that  your 
heart  fluttered  when  you  approached  Johnson's 
door,  and  that  it  felt  itself  discharged  of  a  burthen 
when  you  came  out  again.  You  did  well  to  men- 
tion it  at  the  T  s;  they  will  now  know  that 

you  do  not  pretend  a  share  in  my  confidence, 
whatever  be  the  value  of  it,  greater  than  you  ac- 
tually possess.  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Newton  by  the  last 
post,  to  tell  him  that  I  was  gone  to  the  press 
again.  He  will  be  surprised  and  perhaps  not 
pleased.  But  I  think  he  can  not  complain,  for  he 
keeps  his  own  authorly  secrets  without  participating 
them  with  me.  I  do  not  think  myself  in  the  least 
Injured  by  his  reserve;  neither  should  I,  if  he  were 
to  publish  a  whole  Ubrary  without  favouring  me 
with  any  previous  notice  of  his  intentions.  In 
these  cases  it  is  no  violation  of  the  laws  of  friend- 
ship not  to  communicate,  though  there  must  be  a 
friendship  where  the  communication  is  made  But 
many  reasons  may  concur  in  disposing  a  writer  to 
keep  his  work  secret,  and  none  of  them  injurious 

Y 


to  his  friends.  The  influence  of  one  I  have  felt 
myself,  for  which  none  of  them  would  blame  me — 
I  mean  the  desire  of  surprising  agreeably.  And 
if  I  have  denied  myself  this  pleasure  in  your  in- 
stance, it  was  only  to  give  myself  a  greater,  by 
eradicating  from  your  mind  any  little  weeds  of  sus- 
picion, that  might  still  remain  in  it,  that  any  man 
living  is  nearer  to  me  than  yourself  Had  not 
this  consideration  forced  up  the  lid  of  my  strong 
box  like  a  lever,  it  would  have  kept  its  contents 
with  an  invisible  closeness  to  the  last;  and  the  first 
news  that  either  you  or  any  of  my  friends  would 
have  heard  of  the  Task,  they  would  have  received 
from  the  pubHc  papers.  But  you  know  now,  that 
neither  as  a  poet,  nor  a  man,  do  I  give  to  any  ma,n 
a  precedence  in  my  estimation  at  your  expense. 

I  am  proceeding  with  my  new  work  (which  at 
present  I  feel  Inyself  much  inclined  to  call  by  the 
name  of  Tirocinium)  as  fast  as  the  muse  permits. 
It  has  reached  the  length  of  seven  hundred  Unes, 
and  will  probably  receive  an  addition  of  two  or 

three  hundred  more.    When  you  see  Mr.  

perhaps  you  will  not  find  it  difficult  to  procure 
from  him  half  a  dozen  franks,  addressed  to  your- 
self, and  dated  the  fifteenth  of  December,  in  which 
case,  they  will  all  go  to  the  post  filled  with  my 
lucubrations,  on  the  evening  of  that  day.  I  do 
not  name  an  earlier,  because  I  hate  to  be  hurried; 
and  Johnson  can  not  want  it  sooner  than,  thus 
managed,  it  will  reach  him. 

I  am  not  sorry  that  John  Gilpin,  though  hitherto 
he  has  been  nobody's  child,  is  hkely  to  be  owned  at 
last.  Here  and  there  I  can  give  him  a  touch  that 
I  think  will  mend  him,  the  language  in  some 
places  not  being  quite  so  quaint  and  old-fashioned 
as  it  should  be ;  and  in  one  of  the  stanzas  there  is 
a  false  rhyme.  When  I  have  thus  given  the  finis]  i- 
ing  stroke  to  his  figure,  I  mean  to  grace  him  with 
two  mottos,  a  Greek  and  a  Latin  one,  which, 
when  the  world  shall  see  that  I  have  only  a  little 
one  of  three  words  to  the  volume  itself,  and  none 
to  the  books  of  which  it  consists,  they  will  perhaps 
understand  as  a  stricture  upon  that  pompous  dis- 
play of  literature,  with  which  some  authors  take 
occasion  to  crowd  their  titles.  Knox,  in  particu- 
lar, who  is  a  sensible  man  too,  has  not,  I  think, 
fewer  than  half  a  dozen  to  his  Essays. 

Adieu,  W.  C. 


[TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  BULL.] 

November  8,  1784. 
The  Task,  as  you  know,  is  gone  to  the  press: 
since  it  went  I  have  been  employed  in  writing  ano- 
ther poem,  which  I  am  now  transcribing,  and  which 
in  a  short  time  I  design  shall  follow.  It  is  enti- 
tled. Tirocinium,  or  a  Review  of  Schools :  the  bu- 
siness and  purpose  of  it  are,  to  censure  the  want 


268 


COWPER'S  WORKS, 


Let.  180, 181. 


of  discipline,  and  the  scandalous  inattention  to 
morals,  tlii^  obtain  in  them,  especially  in  the  larg- 
est ;  and  to  recommend  private  tuition  as  a  mode 
of  education  preferable  on  all  accounts  ;  to  call  up- 
on fathers  to  become  tutors  of  their  own  sons, 
where  that  is  practicable ;  to  take  home  a  domestic 
tutor,  where  it  is  not ;  and  if  neither  can  be  done, 
to  place  them  under  the  care  of  such  a  man,  as  he 
to  whom  I  am  writing,  some  rural  parson,  whose 
attention  is  limited  to  a  few. 

TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  November,  1784. 

To  condole  with  you  on  the  death  of  a  mother 
aged  eighty-seven  would  be  absurd — rather,  there- 
fore, as  is  reasonable,  I  congratulate  you  on  the 
almost  singular  felicity  of  having  enjoyed  the  com- 
pany of  so  amiable  and  so  near  a  relation  so  long. 
Your  lot  and  mine  in  this  respect  have  been  very 
different,  as  indeed  in  almost  every  other.  Your 
mother  lived  to  see  you  rise,  at  least  to  see  you 
comfortably  estabhshed  in  the  world.  Mine,  dy- 
ing when  I  was  six  years  old,  did  not  live  to  see 
me  sink  in  it.  You  may  remember  with  pleasure, 
while  you  live,  a  blessing  vouchsafed  to  you  so 
long ;  and  I,  while  I  live,  must  regret  a  comfort  of 
which  I  was  deprived  so  early.  I  can  truly  say, 
that  not  a  week  passes  (perhaps  I  might  with  equal 
veracity  say  a  day)  in  which  I  do  not  think  of  her. 
Such  was  the  impression  her  tenderness  made  up- 
on me,  though  the  opportunity  she  had  for  show- 
ing it  was  so  short.  But  the  ways  of  God  are 
equal — and  when  I  reflect  on  the  pangs  she  would 
have  suffered,  had  she  been  a  witness  of  all  mine, 
I  see  more  cause  to  rejoice,  than  to  mourn,  that 
she  was  hidden  in  the  grave  so  soon. 

We  have,  as  you  say,  lost  a  lively  and  sensible 
neighbour  in  Lady  Austen,  but  we  have  been  long 
accustomed  to  a  state  of  retirement  within  one  de- 
gree of  solitude,  and  being  naturally  lovers  of  still 
life,  can  relapse  into  our  former  duality  without 
being  unhappy  at  the  change.  To  me  indeed  a 
third  is  not  necessary,  while  I  can  have  the  com- 
panion I  have  had  these  twenty  years. 

I  am  gone  to  the  press  again ;  a  volume  of  mine 
will  greet  your  hands  some  time  either  in  the  course 
of  the  winter,  or  early  in  the  spring.  You  will 
find  it  perhaps  on  the  whole  more  entertaining  than 
the  former,  as  it  treats  a  great  variety  of  subjects, 
and  those,  at  least  the  most,  of  a  sublunary  kind. 
It  will  consist  of  a  poem  in  six  books,  called  the 
T.isk.  To  which  will  be  added  another,  which  I 
finished  yesterday,  called,  I  beUeve,  Tirocinium,  on 
the  subject  of  education. 

You  perceive  that  I  have  taken  your  advice,  and 
given  the  pen  no  rest.*  W.  C. 

*  On  the  21st  of  this  month  the  writer  commenced  his 
translation  of  Homer. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  NoV.  27,  1784, 

All  the  interest  that  you  take  in  my  new  pub- 
lication, and  all  the  pleas  that  you  urge  in  behalf 
of  your  right  to  my  confidence,  the  moment  I  had 
read  your  letter,  struck  me  as  so  many  proofs  of 
your  regard;  of  a  friendship,  in  which  distance 
and  time  make  no  abatement.  But  it  is  difficult 
to  adjust  opposite  claims  to  the  satisfaction  of  all 
parties.  I  have  done  my  best,  and  must  leave  it 
to  your  candour  to  put  a  just  interpretation  upon 
all  that  has  passed,  and  to  give  me  credit  for  it,  as 
a  certain  truth,  that  whatever  seeming  defects,  in 
point  of  attention  and  attachment  to  you,  my  con- 
duct on  this  occasion  may  have  appeared  to  have 
been  chargeable  with,  I  am  in  reality  as  clear  of 
all  real  ones,  as  you  would  wish  to  find  me. 

I  send  you  enclosed,  in  the  first  place,  a  copy  of 
the  advertisement  to  the  reader,  which  accounts 
for  my  title,  not  otherwise  easily  accounted  for — 
secondly,  what  is  called  an  argument,  or  a  summa- 
ry of  the  contents  of  each  book,  more  circumstan- 
tial and  diffuse  by  far  than  that  which  I  have  sent 
to  the  press.  It  will  give  you  a  pretty  accurate 
acquaintance  with  my  matter,  though  the  tenons 
and  mortises,  by  which  the  several  passages  are 
connected,  and  let  into  each  other,  can  not  be  ex- 
plained in  a  syllabus— and  lastly,  an  extract  as  you 
desired.  The  subject  of  it  I  am  sure  will  please 
you,  and  as  I  have  admitted  into  my  description 
no  images  but  what  are  scriptural,  and  have  aim- 
ed as  exactly  as  I  could  at  the  plain  and  simple 
sublimity  of  the  scripture  language,  I  have  hopes 
the  manner  of  it  may  please  you  too.  As  far  as 
the  numbers  and  diction  are  concerned,  it  may  serve 
pretty  well  for  a  sample  of  the  whole.  But  the 
subjects  being  so  various,  no  single  passage  can  in 
all  respects  be  a  specimen  of  a  book  at  large. 

My  principal  purpose  is  to  allure  the  reader,  by 
character,  by  scenery,  by  imagery,  and  such  poeti- 
cal embellishments,  to  the  reading  of  what  may 
profit  him.  Subordinately  to  this,  to  combat  that 
predeliction  in  favour  of  a  metropolis,  that  beggars 
and  exhausts  the  country,  by  evacuating  it  of  all 
its  principal  inhabitants :  and  collaterally,  and  as 
far  as  is  consistent  with  this  double  intention,  to 
have  a  stroke  at  vice,  vanity,  and  folly,  wherever 
1  find  them.  1  have  not  spared  the  universities. 
A  letter  which  appeared  in  the  General  Evening 
Post  of  Saturday,  said  to  have  been  received  by  a 
general  officer,  and  by  him  sent  to  the  press,  as 
worthy  of  public  notice,  and  which  has  all  the  ap- 
pearance of  authenticity,  would  alone  justify  the 
severest  censure  of  those  bodies,  if  any  such  jus- 
tification were  wanted.  By  way  of  supplement  to 
what  I  have  written  on  this  subject,  I  have  added 
a  poem,  called  Tirocinium,  which  is  in  rhyme.  It 
treats  of  the  scandalous  relaxation  of  that  disci- 


Let.  182, 183. 


LETTERS. 


269 


pline  that  obtains  in  almost  all  schools  universally, 
Dut  especially  in  the  largest,  which  are  so  negli- 
gent in  the  article  of  morals,  that  boys  are  de- 
bauched in  general  the  moment  they  are  capable 
of  being  so.  It  recommends  the  office  of  tutor  to 
the  father,  where  there  is  no  real  impediment ;  the 
expedient  of  a  domestic  tutor,  where  there  is ;  and 
the  disposal  of  boys  into  the  hands  of  a  respectable 
country  clergyman,  who  limits  his  attention  to  two, 
in  all  cases  where  they  can  not  be  conveniently 
educated  at  home.  Mr.  Unwin  happily  affording 
me  an  instance  in  point,  the  poem  is  inscribed  to 
him.  You  will  now  I  hope  command  your  hun- 
ger to  be  patient,  and  be  satisfied  with  the  luncheon 
that  I  send,  till  dinner  comes.  That  piecemeal 
perusal  of  the  work,  sheet  by  sheet,  would  be  so 
disadvantageous  to  the  work  itself,  and  therefore 
so  uncomfortable  to  me,  that  (I  dare  say)  you  will 
wave  your  desire  of  it.  A  poem,  thus  disjointed, 
can  not  possibly  be  fit  for  any  body's  inspection 
but  the  author's. 

TuUy's  rule — '  Nulla  dies  sine  linea^ — will  make 
a  volume  in  less  time  than  one  would  suppose.  I 
adhered  to  it  so  rigidly,  that  though  more  than  once 
I  found  three  lines  as  many  as  I  had  time  to  com- 
pass, still  I  wrote ;  and  finding  occasionally,  and 
as  it  might  happen,  a  more  fluent  vein,  the  abun- 
dance of  one  day  made  me  amends  for  the  barren- 
ness of  the  other.  But  I  do  not  mean  to  write 
blank  verse  again.  Not  having  the  music  of  rhyme, 
it  requires  so  close  an  attention  to  the  pause,  and 
the  cadence,  and  such  a  peculiar  mode  of  expres- 
sion, as  to  render  it,  to  me  at  least,  the  most  diffi- 
cult species  of  poetry  that  I  have  ever  meddled  with. 

I  am  obliged  to  you,  and  to  Mr.  Bacon,  for  your 
kind  remembrance  of  me  when  you  meet.  No  ar- 
tist can  excel  as  he  does,  without  the  finest  feelings ; 
and  every  man  that  has  the  finest  feelings  is,  and 
must  be,  amiable.    Adieu,  my  dear  friend ! 

Affectionately  yours,  W.  C, 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  1784. 

The  slice  which  (you  observe)  has  been  taken 
from  the  top  of  the  sheet,  it  lost  before  I  began  to 
write:  but  being  a  part  of  the  paper  which  is  sel- 
dom used,  I  thought  it  would  be  pity  to  discard  or 
to  degrade  to  meaner  purposes,  the  fair  and  ample 
remnant,  on  account  of  so  immaterial  a  defect.  I 
therefore  have  destined  it  to  be  the  vehicle  of  a  let- 
ter, which  you  will  accept  as  entire,  though  a  law- 
yer perhaps  would,  without  much  difficulty,  prove 
it  to  be  but  a  fragment.  The  best  recompense  I 
can  make  you  for  writing  without  a  frank  is,  to 
propose  it  to  you  to  take  your  revenge  by  return- 
ing an  answer  under  the  same  predicament;  and 
the  best  reason  I  can  give  for  doing  it  is  the  occa- 


sion following.  In  my  last  I  recommended  it  to 
you  to  procure  franks  for  the  conveyance  of  Tiro- 
cinium, dated  on  a  day  therein  mentioned,  and  the 
earliest  which  at  that  time  I  could  venture  to  ap- 
point. It  has  happened  however  that  the  poem  is 
finished  a  month  sooner  than  I  expected,  and  two- 
thirds  of  it  are  at  this  time  fairly  transcribed ;  an 
accident  to  which  the  riders  of  a  Parnassian  steed 
are  liable,  who  never  know,  before  they  mount 
him,  at  what  rate  he  will  choose  to  travel.  If  he 
be  indisposed  to  despatch,  it  is  impossible  to  acce- 
lerate his  pace ;  if  otherwise,  equally  impossible  to 
stop  him.  Therefore  my  errand  to  you  at  this 
time  is  to  cancel  the  former  assignation,  and  to 
inform  you  that  by  whatever  means  you  please, 
and  as  soon  as  you  please,  the  piece  in  question 
will  be  ready  to  attend  you;  for  without  exerting 
any  extraordinary  diligence,  I  shall  have  completed 
the  transcript  in  a  week. 

The  critics  will  never  know»that  four  lines  of  it 
were  composed  while  I  had  a  dose  of  ipecacuanha 
on  my  stomach ;  in  short,  that  I  was  dehvered  of 
the  emetic  and  the  verses  in  the  same  moment. 
Knew  they  this,  they  would  at  least  allow  me  to 
be  a  poet  of  singular  industry,  and  confess  that  I 
lose  no  time.  I  have  heard  of  poets  who  have 
found  cathartics  of  sovereign  use,  when  they  had 
occasion  to  be  particularly  brilliant.  Dryden  al- 
ways used  them,  and  in  commemoration  of  it, 
Bayes  in  the  Rehearsal  is  made  to  inform  the  au- 
dience that  in  a  poetical  emergency  he  always  had 
recourse  to  stewed  prunes.  But  I  am  the  only 
poet  who  has  dared  to  reverse  the  prescription,  and 
whose  enterprise,  having  succeeded  to  admiration, 
warrants  him  to  recommend  an  emetic  to  all  future 
bards,  as  the  most  infallible  means  of  producing  a 
fluent  and  easy  versification. 

My  love  to  all  your  family. 

Adieu,  W.  C. 

TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  NoV.  29,  1784. 

I  AM  happy  that  you  are  pleased,  and  accept  it 
as  an  earnest  that  I  shall  not  at  least  disgust  the 
public.  For  though  I  know  your  partiality  to  me, 
I  know  ar  the  same  time  with  what  laudable  ten- 
derness you  feel  for  your  own  reputation,  and  that 
for  the  sake  of  that  most  delicate  part  of  your  pro- 
perty, though  you  would  not  criticise  me  with  an 
unfriendly  and  undue  severity,  you  would  however 
beware  of  being  satisfied  too  hastily,  and  with  no 
warrantable  cause  of  being  so.  I  called  you  the 
tutor  of  your  two  sons,  in  contemplation  of  the 
certainty  of  that  event — it  is  a  fact  in  suspense, 
not  in  fiction. 

My  principal  errand  to  you  now  is  to  give  you 
information  on  the  following  subject:  The  moment 


270 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  184. 


Mr.  Newton  knew  (and  I  took  care  that  he  should 
learn  it  first  from  me)  that  1  had  communiciated  to 
you  what  1  had  concealed  from  him,  and  that  you 
were  my  authorship's  go-between  with  Johnson 
on  this  occasion,  he  sent  me  a  most  friendly  letter 
indeed,  but  one  in  every  line  of  which  I  could  hear 
the  soft  murmur  of  something  like  mortification, 
that  could  not  be  entirely  suppressed.  It  contained 
nothing  however  that  you  yourself  would  have 
blamed,  or  that  I  had  not  every  reason  to  consider 
as  evidence  of  his  regard  to  me.    He  concluded 
the  subject  with  desiring  to  know  something  of 
my  plan,  to  be  favoured  with  an  extract,  by  way 
of  specimen,  or  (which  he  should  like  better  still) 
•with  wishing  me  to  order  Johnson  to  send  him  a 
proof  as  fast  as  they  were  printed  off.  Determin- 
ing not  to  accede  to  this  last  request  for  many  rea- 
sons (but  especially  because  I  would  no  more  show 
my  poem  piecemeal,  than  I  would  my  house  if  1 
had  one;  the  merits  of  the  structure,  in  either  case 
being  equally  liable  to  suffer  by  such  a  partial 
•view  of  it),  I  have  endeavoured  to  compromise  the 
difference  between  us,  and  to  satisfy  him  without 
disgracing  myself.    The  proof  sheets  I  have  abso- 
lutely though  civilly  refused.  But  I  have  sent  him 
a  copy  of  the  arguments  of  each  book,  more  di- 
lated and  circumstantial  than  those  inserted  in  the 
work ;  and  to  these  I  have  added  an  extract  as  he 
desired;  selecting,  as  most  suited  to  his  taste— 
The  view  of  the  restoration  of  all  things— which 
you  recollect  to  have  seen  near  the  end  of  the  last 
book.    I  hold  it  necessary  to  tell  you  this,  lest,  if 
you  should  call  upon  him,  he  should  startle  you 
by  discovering  a  degree  of  information  upon  the 
subject,  which  you  could  not  otherwise  know  how 
to  reconcile,  or  to  account  for. 

You  have  executed  your  commissions  d  mer- 
veille.  We  not  only  approve,  but  admire.  No 
apology  was  wantuig  for  the  balance  struck  at  the 
bottom,  which  we  accounted  rather  a  beauty  than 
a  deformity.  Pardon  a  poor  poet,  who  can  not 
speak  even  of  pounds,  shiUings,  and  pence,  but  in 
his  own  way. 

I  have  read  Lunardi  with  pleasure.  He  is 
lively,  sensible  young  fellow,  and  I  suppose  a  very 
favourable  sample  of  the  Italians.  When  I  look 
at  his  picture,  I  can  fancy  that  I  see  in  him  that 
good  sense  and  courage  that  no  doubt  were  legible 
in  the  face  of  a  young  Roman,  two  thousand  years 
ago. 

Your  affectionate  W.  C 


TO  THE  REV. 


JOHN  NEWTON. 

Dec.  13,  1784. 


MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

Having  imitated  no  man,  I  may  reasonably 
hope  that. I  shall  not  incur  the  disadvantage  of  a 
comparison  with  my  betters.    Milton's  manner 


was  peculiar.    So  is  Thomson's.    He  that  should 
write  like  either  of  them,  would  in  my  judgment 
deserve  the  name  of  a  copyist,  but  not  a  poet.  A 
judicious  and  sensible  reader  therefore,  like  your- 
self, will  not  say  that  my  manner  is  not  good,  be- 
cause it  does  not  resemble  theirs,  but  will  rather 
consider  what  it  is  in  itself    Blank  verse  is  sus- 
ceptible of  a  much  greater  diversification  of  man- 
ner, than  verse  in  rhyme :  and  why  the  modern 
writers  of  it  have  all  thought  proper  to  cast  their 
numbers  alike,  I  know  not.    Certainly  it  was  not 
necessity  that  compelled  them  to  it.    I  flatter  my- 
self however  that  I  have  avoided  that  sameness 
with  others  which  would  entitle  me  to  nothing  but 
a  share  in  one  common  oblivion  with  them  all.  It 
is  possible  that,  as  a  reviewer  of  my  fornier  volume 
found  cause  to  say  that  he  knew  not  to  what  class 
of  writers  to  refer  me,  the  reviewer  of  this,  whoever 
he  shall  be,  may  see  occasion  to  remark  the  same 
singularity.    At  any  rate,  though  as  little  apt  to 
be  sanguine  as  most  men,  and  more  prone  to  fear 
and  despond,  than  to  overrate  my  own  produc- 
tions, I  am  persuaded  that  I  shall  not  forfeit  any 
thing  by  this  volume  that  I  gained  by  the  last.  As 
to  the  title,  I  take  it  to  be  the  best  that  is  to  be 
had.    It  is  not  possible  that  a  book,  including  such 
a  variety  of  subjects,  and  in  which  no  particular 
one  is  predominant,  should  find  a  title  adapted  to 
them  all.    In  such  a  case,  it  seemed  almost  neces- 
sary to  accommodate  the  name  to  the  incident  that 
gave  birth  to  the  poem;  nor  does  it  appear  to  me, 
that  because  I  performed  more  than  my  task,  there- 
fore the  Task  is  not  a  suitable  title.    A  house 
would  still  be  a  house,  though  the  builder  of  it 
should  make  it  ten  times  as  big  as  he  at  first  in- 
tended.   I  might  indeed,  following  the  example 
of  the  Sunday  newsmonger,  call  it  the  Olio.  But 
I  should  do  myself  wrong:  for  though  it  have 
much  variety,  it  has  I  trust  no  confusion. 

For  the  same  reason  none  of  the  interior  titles 
apply  themselves  to  the  contents  at  large  of  that 
book  to  which  they  belong.  They  are,  every  one 
of  them,  taken  either  from  the  leading  (I  should 
say  the  introductory)  passage  of  that  particular 
book,  or  from  that  which  makes  the  most  conspi- 
cuous figure  in  it.  Had  I  set  off  with  a  design  to 
write  upon  a  gridiron,  and  had  I  actually  written 
near  two  hundred  lines  upon  that  utensil,  as  I 
have  upon  the  Sofa,  the  gridiron  should  have  been 
my  title.  But  the  Sofa  being,  as  I  may  say,  the 
starting  post  from  which  I  addressed  myself  to  the 
long  race  that  I  soon  conceived  a  design  to  run,  it 
acquired  a  just  pre-eminence  in  my  account,  and 
was  very  worthdy  advanced  to  the  titular  honours 
it  enjoys,  its  right  being  at  least  so  far  a  good  one, 
that  no  word  in  the  language  could  pretend  a  bet- 
ter. 

The  Time-piece  appears  to  me  (though  by 
some  accident  the  import  of  the  title  has  escaped 


Let.  185,  186. 


LETTERS. 


271 


you)  to  have  a  degree  of  propriety  beyond  most 
of  them.  The  book  to  which  it  belongs  is  in- 
tended to  strike  the  hour  that  gives  notice  of  ap- 
proaching judgment,  and  dealing  pretty  largely  in 
the  signs  of  the  times,  seems  to  be  denominated, 
as  it  is,  with  a  sufficient  degree  of  accommodation 
to  the  subject. 

As  to  the  word  worm,  it  is  the  very  appellation 
which  Milton  himself,  in  a  certain  passage  of  the 
Paradise  Lost,  gives  to  the  serpent.  Not  having 
the  book  at  hand,  I  can  not  now  refer  to  it,  but  I 
am  sure  of  the  fact.  I  am  mistaken,  too,  if  Shak- 
speare's  Cleopatra  do  not  call  the  asp,  by  which 
she  thought  fit  to  destroy  herself,  by  the  same 
name.  But  not  having  read  the  play  these  five- 
and-twenty  years,  I  will  not  affirm  it.  They  are, 
however,  without  all  doubt  convertible  terms.  A 
worm  is  a  small  serpent,  and  a  serpent  is  a  large 
worm.  And  when  an  epithet  significant  of  the 
most  terrible  species  of  those  creatures  is  adjoined, 
the  idea  is  surely  sufficiently  ascertained.  No  ani- 
mal of  the  vermicular  or  serpentine  kind  is  crested, 
but  the  most  formidable  of  all. 

Yours  affectionately,  W.  C, 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Dec.  18,  1784. 

I  CONDOLE  with  you,  that  you  had  the  trouble 
to  ascend  St.  Paul's  in  vain,  but  at  the  same  time 
congratulate  you,  that  you  escaped  an  ague.  I 
should  be  very  well  pleased  to  have  a  fair  pros- 
pect of  a  balloon  under  sail,  with  a  philosopher  or 
two  on  board,  but  at  the  same  time  should  be  very 
sorry  to  expose  myself,  for  any  length  of  time,  to 
the  rigour  of  the  upper  regions,  at  this  season,  for 
the  sake  of  it.    The  travellers  themselves  I  sup- 

^  pose  are  secured  from  all  injuries  of  the  weather 

by  that  fervency  of  spirit  and  agitation  of  mind, 
which  must  needs  accompany  them  in  their  flight ; 
advantages  which  the  more  composed  and  phleg- 
matic spectator  is  not  equally  possessed  of 

The  inscription  of  the  poem  is  more  your  own 
affair  than  any  other  person's.  You  have,  there- 
fore, an  undoubted  right  to  fashion  it  to  your 

^  mind,  nor  have  I  the  least  objection  to  the  slight 

alteration  that  you  have  made  in  it.  I  inserted 
what  you  have  erased  for  a  reason  that  was  per- 
haps rather  chimerical  than  solid.  I  feared,  how- 
ever, that  the  Reviewers,  or  some  of  my  sagacious 
readers,  not  more  merciful  than  they,  might  sus- 
pect that  there  was  a  secret  design  in  the  wind ; 
and  that  author  and  friend  had  consulted  in  what 
manner  author  might  introduce  friend  to  public 
notice,  as  a  clergyman  every  way  qualified  to  en- 
tertain a  pupil  or  two,  if  perad  venture  any  gen- 
tleman of  fortune  were  in  want  of  a  tutor  for  his 
children.    I  therefore  added  the  words — "  And  of 

x2 


his  two  sons  only" — by  way  of  insinuating,  that 
you  are  perfectly  satisfied  with  your  present 
charge,  and  that  you  do  not  wish  for  more ;  thus 
meaning  to  obviate  an  illiberal  construction,  which 
we  are  both  of  us  incapable  of  deserving.  But 
the  same  caution  not  having  appeared  to  you  to  be 
necessclry,  I  am  very  willing  and  ready  to  suppose 
that  it  is  not  so. 

I  intended  in  my  last  to  have  given  you  my  rea- ' 
sons  for  the  compliment  I  have  paid  Bishop  Bagot, 
lest,  knowing  that  I  have  no  connexion  with  him, 
you  should  suspect  me  of  having  done  it  rather 
too  much  at  a  venture.  In  the  first  place  then,  1 
vvdshed  the  world  to  know  that  I  have  no  objec- 
tion to  a  bishop,  quid  bishop.  In  the  second 
place,  the  brothers  were  all  five  my  schoolfellows, 
and  very  amiable  and  valuable  boys  they  were. 
Thirdly,  Lewis,  the  bishop,  had  been  rudely  and 
coarsely  treated  in  the  Monthly  Review,  on  ac- 
count of  a  sermon,  which  appeared  to  me,  when  1 
read  their  extract  from  it,  to  deserve  the  highest 
commendations,  as  exhibiting  explicit  proof  both 
of  his  good  sense,  and  his  unfeigned  piety.  For 
these  causes  me  thereunto  moving,  I  felt  myself 
happy  in  an  opportunity  to  do  public  honour  to  a 
worthy  man,  who  had  been  pubUcly  traduced; 
and  indeed  the  Reviewers  themselves  have  since 
repented  of  their  aspersions,  and  have  traveled  not 
a  little  out  of  their  way  in  order  to  retract  them, 
having  taken  occasion  by  the  sermon  preached  at 
the  bishop's  visitation  at  Norwich,  to  say  every 
thing  handsome  of  his  lordship,  who,  whatever 
might  be  the  merit  of  the  discourse,  in  that  in- 
stance at  least  could  himself  lay  claim  to  no  other 
than  that  of  being  a  hearer. 

Since  I  wrote,  I  have  had  a  letter  from  Mr, 
Newton,  that  did  not  please  me,  and  returned  an 
answer  to  it,  that  possibly  may  not  have  pleased 
him.  We  shall  come  together  again  soon  (I  sup- 
pose) upon  as  amicable  terms  as  usual.  But  at 
present  he  is  in  a  state  of  mortification.  He 
would  have  been  pleased,  had  the  book  passed  out 
of  his  hand  into  yours,  or  even  out  of  yours  into 
his,  so  that  he  had  previously  had  opportunity 
to  advise  a  measure  which  I  pursued  without  his 
recommendation,  and  had  seen  the  poems  in  manu- 
script. But  my  design  was  to  pay  you  a  whole 
compliment,  and  I  have  (jone  it.  If  he  says  more 
on  the  subject,  I  shall  speak  freely,  and  perhaps 
please  him  less  than  I  have  done  already. 

Yours,  with  our  love  to  all,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Christmas  Eve,  1784. 

I  AM  neither  Mede  nor  Persian,  neither  am  I 
the  son  of  any  such,  but  was  born  at  Great  Berk- 
I  hamsted,  in  Hertfordshire,  and  yet  I  can  neither 


272 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  187. 


find  a  new  title  for  my  book,  nor  please  myself 
with  any  addition  to  the  old  one.  I  am  however 
willing  to  hope  that,  when  the  volume  shall  east 
itself  at  your  feet,  you  will  he  in  some  measure 
reconciled  to  the  name  it  bears,  especially  when 
you  shall  find  it  justified  both  by  the  exordium  of 
the  poem,  and  by  the  conclusion.  But  enough, 
as  you  say  with  great  truth,  of  a  subject  very  un- 
worthy of  so  much  consideration. 

Had  I  heard  any  anecdotes  of  poor  dying  

that  would  have  bid  fair  to  deserve  your  attention, 
I  should  have  sent  them.  The  little  that  he  is  re- 
ported to  have  uttered  of  a  spiritual  import,  was 
not  very  striking.  That  little  however  I  can  give 
you  upon  good  authority.  His  brother  asking 
him  how  he  found  himself,  he  replied,  "  I  am  very 
composed,  and  think  that  1  may  safely  believe  my- 
self entitled  to  a  portion."  The  world  has  had 
much  to  say  in  his  pi;aise,  and  both  prose  and 
verse  have  been  employed  to  celebrate  him  in  the 
Northampton  Mercury.  But  Christians  (I  sup- 
pose) have  judged  it  best  to  be  silent.  If  he  ever 
drank  of  the  fountain  of  life,  he  certainly  drank 
also,  and  often  too  freely,  of  certain  other  streams, 
which  are  not  to  be  bought  without  money  and 
without  price.  He  had  virtues  that  dazzled  the 
natural  eye,  and  failings  that  shocked  the  spirit- 
ual one.    But  iste  dies  indicabit.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,         Olney,  Jan.  15,  1785. 

Your  letters  are  always  welcome.  You  can 
always  either  find  something  to  say,  or  can  amuse 
me  and  yourself  with  a  sociable  and  friendly  way 
of  saying  nothing.  I  never  found  that  a  letter 
was  the  more  easily  written,  because  the  writing 
of  it  had  been  long  delayed.  On  the  contrary, 
experience  has  taught  me  to  answer  soon,  that  I 
may  do  it  without  difficulty.  It  is  in  vain  to  wait 
for  an  accumulation  of  materials- in  a  situation 
such  as  yours  and  mine,  productive  of  few  events. 
At  the  end  of  our  expectations  we  shall  find  our- 
selves as  poor  as  at  the  beginning. 

I  can  hardly  tell  you  with  any  certainty  of  in- 
formation, upon  what  terms  Mr.  Newton  and  I 
may  be  supposed  to  stand  at  present.  A  month 
(I  believe)  has  passed,  since  I  heard  from  him. 
But  my  friseur,  having  been  in  London  in  the 
course  of  this  week,  whence  he  returned  last 
night,  and  having  called  at  Hoxton,  brought  me 
his  love,  and  an  excuse  for  his  silence,  which  (he 
said)  had  been  occasioned  by  the  frequency  of  his 
preachings  at  this  season.  He  was  not  pleased 
that  my  manuscript  was  not  first  transmitted  to 
him,  and  I  have  cause  to  suspect  that  he  was  even 
mortified  at  being  informed,  that  a  certain  in- 


scribed poem  was  not  inscribed  to  himself  But 
we  shall  jumble  together  again,  as  people  that 
have  an  affection  for  each  other  at  bottom,  not- 
withstanding now  and  then  a  slight  disagreement, 
always  do. 

I  know  not  whether  Mr.   has  acted 

in  consequence  of  your  hint,  or  whether,  not 
needing  one,  he  transmitted  to  us  his  bounty,  be- 
fore he  had  received  it.  He  has  however  sent  us 
a  note  for  twenty  pounds ;  with  which  we  have 
performed  wonders,  in  behalf  of  the  ragged  and  the 
starved.  He  is  a  most  extraordinary  young  man, 
and,  though  I  shall  probably  never  see  him,  will 
always  have  a  niche  in  the  museum  of  my  reve- 
rential remembrance. 

The  death  of  Dr.  Johnson  has  set  a  thousand 
scribblers  to  work,  and  me  among  the  rest.  While 
I  lay  in  bed,  waiting  till  I  could  reasonably  hope 
that  the  parlour  might  be  ready  for  me,  I  invoked 
the  muse,  and  composed  the  following  Epitaph.* 

It  is  destined  (I  believe)  to  the  Gentleman's 
Magazine,  which  I  consider  as  a  respectable  repo- 
sitory for  small  matters,  which,  when  intrusted  to 
a  newspaper,  can  expect  but  the  duration  of  a  day. 
But  Nichols  having  at  present  a  small  piece  of 
mine  in  his  hands,  not  yet  printed,  (it  is  called  the 
Poplar  Field,  and  I  suppose  you  have  it)  I  wait 
till  his  obstetrical  aid  has  brought  that  to  light, 
before  I  send  him  a  new  one.  In  his  last  he  pub- 
lished my  epitaph  upon  Tiney;  which  (I  likewise 
imagine)  has  been  long  in  your  collection. 

Not  a  word  yet  from  Johnson.  I  am  easy  how- 
ever upon  the  subject,  being  assured  that  so  long 
as  his  own  interest  is  at  stake,  he  will  not  want  a 
monitor  to  remind  him  of  the  proper  time  to  pub- 
lish. 

You  and  your  family  have  our  sincere  love. 
Forget  not  to  present  my  respectful  compliments 
to  Miss  Unwin,  and,  if  you  have  not  done  it  al- 
ready, thank  her  on  my  part  for  the  very  agreea- 
ble narrative  of  Lunardi.  He  is  a  young  man  (I 
presume)  of  great  good  sense  and  spint,  (his  let- 
ters at  least,  and  his  enterprising  turn,  bespeak 
him  such)  a  man  qualified  to  shine  not  only  among 
the  stars,  but  in  the  more  useful,  though  humbler 
sphere  of  terrestrial  occupation. 

I  have  been  crossing  the  channel  in  a  balloon, 
ever  since  I  read  of  that  achievement  by  Blanch- 
ard.  I  have  an  insatiable  thirst  to  know  the  phi- 
losophical reason,  why  his  vehicle  had  like  to  have 
fallen  into  the  sea,  when  for  aught  that  appears 
the  gas  was  not  at  all  exhausted.  Did  not  the 
extreme  cold  condense  the  inflammable  air,  and 
cause  the  globe  to  collapse  1  Tell  me,  and  be  my 
Apollo  for  ever ! 

Affectionately  yours,         W.  C. 

*  See  Cowper's  Poems. 


Let.  188,  189. 


LETTERS. 


273 


1^0  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Feb.  7,  1785. 

We  live  in  a  state  of  sucli  uninterrupted  retire- 
ment, in  which  incidents  worthy  to  be  recorded 
occur  so  seldom,  that  I  always  sit  down  to  write 
with  a  discouraging  conviction  that  I  have  nothing 
to  say.  The  event  commonly  justifies  the  presage. 
For  when  I  have  filled  my  sheet,  I  find  that  I  have 
said  nothing.  Be  it  known  to  you,  however,  that 
I  may  now  at  least  communicate  a  piece  of  intelli- 
gence to  which  you  will  not  be  altogether  indif- 
ferent, that  I  have  received,  and  returned  to  John- 
son, the  two  first  proof  sheets  of  my  new  publica- 
tion. The  business  was  despatched  indeed  a 
fortnight  ago,  since  when  I  have  heard  from  him 
no  further.  From  such  a  beginning  however  I 
venture  to  prognosticate  the  progress,  and  in  due 
time  the  conclusion,  of  the  matter. 

In  the  last  Gentleman's  Magazine  ray  Poplar 
Field  appears.  I  have  accordingly  sent  up  two 
pieces  more,  a  Latin  translation  of  it,  which  you 
have  never  seen,  and  another  on  a  Rose-bud,  the 
neck  of  which  I  inadvertently  broke,  which,  whe- 
ther you  have  seen  or  not,  I  know  not.  As  fast 
as  Nichols  prints  off  the  poems  I  send  him,  I  send 
him  new  ones.  My  remittance  usually  consists 
of  two;  and  he  publishes  one  of  them  at  a  time. 
I  may  indeed  furnish  him  at  this  rate,  without 
putting  myself  to  any  great  inconvenience.  For 
my  last  supply  was  transmitted  to  him  in  August, 
and  is  but  now  exhausted. 

I  communicate  the  following  anecdote  at  your 
mother's  instance,  who  will  suffer  no  part  of  my 
praise  to  be  sunk  in  oblivion.  A  certain  Lord  has 
hired  a  house  at  Clifton,  in  our  neighbourhood, 
for  a  hunting  seat.  There  he  lives  at  present 
with  his  wife  and  daughter.  They  are  an  exem- 
plary family  in  some  respects,  and  (I  believe)  an 
amiable  one  in  all.  The /^leverend  Mr.  Jones, 
the  curate  of  that  parish,  who  often  dines  with 
them  by  invitation  on  a  Sunday,  recommended  my 
volume  to  their  reading;  and  his  Lordship,  after 
having  perused  a  part  of  it,  expressed  to  the  said 
Mr.  Jones  an  ardent  desire  to  be  acquainted  with 
the  author,  from  motives  which  my  great  modesty 
will  not  suffer  me  to  particularize.  Mr.  Jones, 
however,  like  a  wise  man,  informed  his  Lordship, 
that  for  certain  special  reasons  and  causes  I  had 
declined  going  into  company  for  many  years,  and 
that  therefore  he  must  not  hope  for  my  acquaint- 
ance. His  Lordship  most  civilly  subjoined,  that 
he  was  sorry  for  it.  "  And  is  that  alH"  say  you. 
Now  were  I  to  hear  you  say  so,  I  should  look 
foolish  and  say— "  Yes."— But  having  you  at  a 
distance,  I  snap  my  fingers  at  you,  and  say,—"  No, 

that  is  not  all."— Mr.  ,  who  favours  us  now 

and  then  with  his  company  in  an  evening,  as 


usual,  was  not  long  since  discoursing  with  that 
eloquence  which  is  so  peculiar  to  himself,  on  the 
many  providential  interpositions  that  had  taken 
place  in  his  favour.  "  He  had  wished  for  many 
things  (he  said)  which,  at  the  time  when  he  formed 
those  wishes,  seemed  distant  and  improbable,  some 
of  them  indeed  impossible.  Among  other  wishes 
that  he  had  indulged,  one  was,  that  he  might  be 
connected  with  men  of  genius  and  ability — and  in 
my  connexion  with  this  worthy  gentleman  (said 
he,  turning  to  me,)  that  wish,  I  am  sure,  is  amply 
gratified."  You  may  suppose  that  I  felt  the  sweat 
gush  out  upon  my  forehead,  when  I  heard  this 
speech ;  and  if  you  do,  you  will  not  be  at  all  mis- 
taken. So  much  was  I  delighted  with  the  delica- 
cy of  that  incense. 

Thus  far  I  proceeded  easily  enough ;  and  here 
T  laid  down  my  pen,  and  spent  some  minutes  in 
recollection,  endeavouring  to  find  some  subject, 
with  which  1  might  fill  the  Uttle  blank  that  re- 
mains. But  none  presents  itself  Farewell,  there- 
fore, and  remember  those  who  are  mindful  of  you! 

Present  our  love  to  all  your  comfortable  fire- 
side, and  believe  me  ever  most  affectionately  yours, 

W.C. 

They  that  read  Greek  with  the  accents  would 
pronounce  the  g  in  (bir^im  as  an  ».  But  I  do  not 
hold  with  that  practice,  though  educated  in  it.  I 
should  therefore  utter  it  just  as  I  do  the  Latin 
word  jilio,  taking  the  quantity  for  my  guide. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  March  20,  1785. 

I  THANK  you  for  your  letter.  It  made  me  laugh, 
and  there  are  not  many  things  capable  of  being 
contained  within  the  dimensions  of  a  letter,  for 
which  I  see  cause  to  be  more  thankful.  I  was 
pleased  too  to  see  my  opinion  of  his  Lordship's 
nonchalance  upon  a  subject  that  you  had  so  much 
at  heart,  completely  verified.  I  do  not  know  that 
the  eye  of  a  nobleman  was  ever  dissected.  I  can 
not  help  supposing  however  that,  were  that  organ, 
as  it  exists  in  the  head  of  such  a  personage,  to  be 
accurately  examined,  it  would  be  found  to  differ 
materially  in  its  construction  from  the  eye  of  a 
commoner ;  so  very  diflferent  is  the  view  that  men 
in  an  elevated,  and  in  an  humble  station,  have  o' 
the  same  object.  What  appears  great,  sublime, 
beautiful,  and  important,  to  you  and  to  me,  when 
submitted  to  the  notice  of  my,  lord,  or  his  grace, 
and  submitted  too  with  the  utmost  humility,  is 
either  too  minute  to  be  visible  at  all,  or  if  seen, 
seems  trivial,  and  of  no  account.  My  supposition 
therefore  seems  not  altogether  chimerical. 

In  two  months  I  have  corrected  proof  sheets  to 
the  amount  of  ninety-three  pages,  and  no  more. 


274 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  190. 


In  other  words,  I  have  received  tliree  packets. 

Nothing  is  quick  enough  for  impatience,  and  I      rpQ  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIJJ'. 
suppose  that  the  impatience  of  an  author  has  the 

quickest  of  all  possible  movements.    It  appears  to  my  dear  friend,  Afiril  30,  1785. 

me,  hov^^ever,  that  at  this  rate  vfe  shall  not  publish  I  return  you  tlianks  for  a  letter  so  warm  with 
till  next  autumn.  Should  you  happen  therefore  ,  the  intelligence  of  the  celebrity  of  John  Gilpin, 
to  pass  Johnson's  door,  pop  in  your  head  as  you  I  little  thought,  when  I  mounted  him  upon  my 
go,  and  just  insinuate  to  him,  that,  were  his  re-  Pegasus,  that  he  would  become  so  famous.  I  have 
mittances  rather  more  frequent,  that  frequency  .  learned  also,  from  Mr.  Newton,  that  he  is  equally 
would  be  no  inconvenience  to  me.  I  much  ex- 1  renowned  in  Scotland,  and  that  a  lady  there  had 
pected  one  this  evening,  a  fortnight  having  now  j  undertaken  to  write  a  second  part,  on  the  subject 
elapsed  since  the  arrival  of  the  last.  But  none '  of  Mrs.  Gilpin's  return  to  London,  but  not  suc- 
came,  and  I  felt  myself  a  little  mortified.  I  took  ceeding  in  it  as  she  wished,  she  dropt  it.  He  tells 
up  the  newspaper,  however,  and  read  it.  There  I  me  likewise,  that  the  head  master  of  St.  Paul's 
found  that  the  emperor  and  the  Dutch  are,  after  school  (who  he  is  I  know  not)  has  conceived,  in 
all  their  negotiations,  going  to  war.  Such  reflec- ;  consequence  of  the  entertainment  that  John  has 
tions  as  these  struck  me.  A  great  part  of  Europe  afforded  him,  a  vehement  desire  to  write  to  me. 
is  going  to  be  involved  in  the  greatest  of  all  cala-  Let  us  hope  he  will  alter  his  mind ;  for  should  we 
mities— troops  are  in  n^otion— artillery  is  drawn  to-  even  exchange  civilities  on  the  occasion,  Tiroci 
gether— cabinets  are  busied  in  contriving  schemes  nium  will  spoil  all.  The  great  estimation  how- 
of  blood  and  devastation— thousands  will  perish,  ever  in  which  this  knight  of  the  stone-bottles  is 
who  are  incapable  of  understanding  the  dispute ;  held,  may  turn  out  a  circumstance  propitious  to 
and  thousands,  who,  whatever  the  event  may  be,  the  volume  of  which  his  history  will  make  a  part, 
are  little  more  interested  in  it  than  myself,  will  Those  events  that  prove  the  prelude  to  our  great- 
suffer  unspeakable  hardships  in  the  course  of  the  est  success,  are  often  apparently  trivial  in  them- 
quarrel— Well!  Mr.  Poet,  and  how  then'?  You  selves,  and  such  as  seemed  to  promise  nothing, 
have  composed  certain  verses,  which  you  are  de-  The  disappointment  that  Horace  mentioned  is  re- 
sirous  to  see  in  print,  and  because  the  impression  versed — We  design  a  mug  and  it  proves  a  hogs- 
seems  to  be  delayed,  you  are  displeased,  not  to  say  head.  It  is  a  little  hard  that  I  alone  should  be 
dispirited— be  ashamed  of  yourself!  you  live  in  a  unfurnished  with  a  printed  copy  of  this  facetious 
world  in  which  your  feelings  may  find  worthier  story.  When  you  visit  London  next,  you  must 
suljjects— be  concerned  for  the  havoc  of  nations,  buy  the  most  elegant  impression  of  it,  and  bring 
and  mourn  over  your  retarded  volume  when  you  it  with  you.  I  thank  you  also  for  writing  to  John- 
find  a  dearth  of  more  important  tragedies !  son.    I  likewise  wrote  to  him  myself.    Your  let- 

You  postpone  certain  topics  of  conference  to  our  ter  and  mine  together  have  operated  to  admiration, 
next  meeting.  When  shall  it  take  place  ?  I  do  There  needs  nothing  more  than  that  the  effect  be 
not  wish  for  you  just  now,  because  the  garden  is  a  lasting,  and  the  whole  will  be  soon  printed.  We 
wilderness,  and  so  is  all  the  country  around  us.  now  draw  towards  the  middle  of  the  fifth  book  of 
In  May  we  shall  have  asparagus,  and  weather  in  the  Task.  The  man,  Johnson,  is  like  unto  some 
which  we  may  stroll  to  Weston ;  at  least  we  may  vicious  horses,  that  I  have  known.  They  would 
hope  for  it ;  therefore  come  in  May ;  you  will  find  not  budge  till  they  were  spurred,  and  when  they 
us  happy  to  receive  you,  and  as  much  of  your  fair  were  spurred  they  would  kick— So  did  he— His 
household  as  you  can  bring  with  you.  \  temper  was  somewhat  disconcerted ;  but  his  pace 

We  are  very  sorry  for  your  uncle's  indisposition. '  was  quickened,  and  I  was  contented. 
The  approach  of  summer  seems  however  to  be  in     I  was  very  much  pleased  with  the  following  sen- 
his  favour,  that  season  being  of  all  remedies  for  tence  in  Mr.  Newton's  last—"  I  am  perfectly  sat- 
the  rheumatism  I  believe  the  most  effectual.  isfied  with  the  propriety  of  your  proceeding  as  to 

I  thank  you  for  your  intelligence  concerning  the  the  publication."— Now  therefore  we  are  friends 
celebrity  of  John  Gilpin.  You  may  be  sure  that  again.  Now  he  once  more  inquires  after  the  work, 
it  was  agreeable— but  your  own  feelings  on  occa-  which,  till  he  had  disburdened  himself  of  this  ac- 
sion  of  that  article  pleased  me  most  of  all.  Well,  knowledgment,  neither  he  nor  1,  in  any  of  our 
my  friend,  be  comforted !  You  had  not  an  op-  letters  to  each  other,  ever  mentioned.  Some  side- 
portunity  of  saying  publicly,  "  I  know  the  author."  wind  has  wafted  to  him  a  report  of  those  reasons 
But  the  author  will  say  as  much  for  you  soon,  and  by  which  I  justified  my  conduct.  I  never  made  a 
perhaps  will  feel  in  doing  so  a  gratification  equal  secret  of  them,  but  both  your  mother  and  I  have 
to  your  own.  j  studiously  deposited  them  with  those  who  we 

In  the  affair  6f  face-painting,  I  am  precisely  of  thought  were  most  Ukely  to  transmit  them  to  him, 
your  opinion.  Adieu,  W.  C.    I  They  wanted  only  a  hearing,  which  once  obtained, 


Let.  191,  193. 


LETTERS. 


275 


their  solidity  and  cogency  were  such  that  they 
were  sure  to  prevail. 

You  mention   .    I  formerly  knew  the  ^ 

man  you  mention,  but  his  elder  brother  much  bet- 
ter. We  were  schoolfellows,  and  he  was  one  of  a 
club  of  seven  Westminster  men,  to  which  I  be- 
longed, who  dined  together  every  Thursday.  Should 
it  please  God  to  give  me  ability  to  perform  the 
poet's  part  to  some  purpose,  many  whom  I  once 
called  friends,  but  who  have  since  treated  me  with 
a  most  magnificent  indifference,  will  be  ready  to 
take  me  by  the  hand  again,  and  some,  whom  I 

never  held  in  that  estimation,  will,  like  ,  (who 

was  but  a  boy  when  I  left  London)  boast  of  a  con- 
nexion with  me  which  they  never  had.  Had  I  the 
virtues,  and  graces,  and  accomplishments  of  St. 
Paul  himself,  I  might  have  them  at  Olney,  and 
nobody  would  care  a  button  about  me,  yourself 
and  one  or  two  more  excepted.  Fame  begets 
favour,  and  one  talent,  if  it  be  rubbed  a  little  bright 
by  use  and  practice,  will  procure  a  man  more 
friends  than  a  thousand  virtues.  Dr.  Johnson  (I 
believe)  in  the  life  of  one  of  our  poets,  says,  that 
he  retired  from  the  world  flattering  himself  that  he 
should  be  regretted.  But  the  world  never  missed 
him.  I  think  his  observation  upon  it  is,  that  the 
vacancy  made  by  the  retreat  of  any  individual  is 
soon  filled  up  ;  that  a  man  may  always  be  obscure, 
if  he  chooses  to  be  so ;  and  that  he,  who  neglects 
the  world,  will  be  by  the  world  neglected. 

Your  mother  and  I  walked  yesterday  in  the 
wilderness.  As  we  entered  the  gate,  a  glimpse  of 
something  white,  contained  in  a  little  hole  in  the 
gate-post,  caught  my  eye.  I  looked  again,  and 
discovered  a  bird's  nest,  with  two  tiny  eggs  in  it. 
By  and  by  they  will  be  fledged,  and  tailed,  and  get 
wing-feathers,  and  fly.  My  case  is  somewhat  simi- 
lar to  that  of  the  parent  bird.  My  nest  is  a  little 
nook.  Here  I  brood  and  hatch,  and  in  due  time 
my  progeny  takes  wing  and  whistles. 

We  wait  for  the  time  of  your  coming  with  pleas- 
ant expectation.  Yours  truly,  W.  C. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  June  25,  1785. 

I  WRITE  in  a  nook  that  I  call  my  Boudoir.  It 
is  a  summer-house  not  much  bigger  than  a  sedan 
chair,  the  door  of  which  opens  into  the  garden, 
that  is  now  crowded  with  pinks,  roses,  and  honey- 
suckles, and  the  window  into  my  neighbour's  or- 
chard. It  formerly  served  an  apothecary,  now 
dead,  as  a  smoking-room ;  and  under  my  feet  is  a 
trap-door,  which  once  covered  a  hole  in  the  ground 
where  he  kept  his  bottles.  At  present  however  it 
is  dedicated  to  subhmer  uses.  Having  lined  it 
with  garden  mats,  and  furnished  it  with  a  table 
and  two  chairs,  here  I  write  all  that  I  write  in  the 


summer-time,  whether  to  my  friends,  or  to  the 
public.  It  is  secure  from  all  noise,  and  a  refuge 
from  all  intrusion ;  for  intruders  sometimes  trouble 
me  in  the  wir^ter  evenings  at  Olney.  But  (thanks 
to  my  Boudoir  1)  I  can  now  hide  myself  from  them. 
A  poet's  retreat  is  sacred.  They  acknowledge  the 
truth  of  that  proposition,  and  never  presume  to 
violate  it. 

The  last  sentence  puts  me  in  mind  to  tell  you 
that  I  have  ordered  my  volume  to  your  door.  My 
bookseller  is  the  most  dilatory  of  all  his  fraternity, 
or  you  would  have  received  it  long  since.  It  is 
more  than  a  month  since  I  returned  him  the  last 
proof,  and  consequently  since  the  printing  was 
finished.  1  sent  him  the  manuscript  at  the  be- 
ginning of  last  November,  that  he  might  publish 
while  the  town  was  full,  and  he  will  hit  the  exact 
moment  v^^hen  it  is  entirely  empty.  Patience  (you 
will  perceive)  is  in  no  situation  exempted  from  the 
severest  trials ;  a  remark  that  may  serve  to  comfort 
you  under  the  numberless  trials  of  your  own.* 

W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  Juhj  27,  1785. 

You  and  your  party  left  me  in  a  frame  of  mind 
that  indisposed  me  much  to  company.  I  com- 
forted myself  with  the  hope  that  I  should  spend  a 
silent  day,  in  which  I  should  find  abundant  lei- 
sure to  indulge  sensations  which,  though  of  the 
melancholy  kind,  I  yet  wished  to  nourish.  But 
that  hope  proved  vain.    In  less  than  an  hour  after 

your  departure,  Mr.  made  his  appearance  at 

the  green-house  door.  We  were  obliged  to  ask 
him  to  dinner,  and  he  dined  with  us.  He  is  an 
agreeable,  sensible,  well-bred  young  man,  but  with 
all  his  recommendations,  I  felt  that  on  that  occa- 
sion I  could  have  spared  him.  So  much  better 
are  the  absent,  whom  we  love  much,  than  the 
present  whom  we  love  a  little.  I  have  however 
made  myself  amends  since,  and  nothing  else 
having  interfered,  have  sent  many  a  thought 
after  you. 

You  had  been  gone  two  days  when  a  violent 
thunder-storm  came  over  us.  I  was  passing  out 
of  the  parlour  into  the  hall,  with  Mungo  at  my 
heels,  when  a  flash  seemed  to  fill  the  room  with 
fire.  In  the  same  instant  came  the  clap,  so  that 
the  explosion  was  (I  siippose)  perpendicular  to 
the  roof.  Mungo's  courage  upon  the  tremendous 
occasion  constrained  me  to  smile,  in  spite  of  the 
solemn  impression  that  such  an  event  never  fails 
to  affect  me  with — the  moment  that  he  heard  the 
thunder  (which  was  like  the  burst  of  a  great  gun), 


'  In  this  interval  The  Task  was  published. 


27G 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  193. 


with  a  wrinkled  ibroliciul,  and  with  eyes  directed 
to  the  ccihiifv,  vvliciice  tlie  sound  seemed  to  pro- 
rcvd,  he  barked;  but  lie  barked  exactly  in  concert 
with  the  thunder.  It  thundered  once,  and  he 
harked  once;  and  so  precisely  tlu;  very  instant 
when  the  thunder  happened,  that  both  sounds 
seemed  to  begin  and  to  end  together.  Some  dogs 
will  clap  their  tails  close,  and  sneak  into  a  corner, 
at  such  a  time,  but  Mungo  it  seems  is  of  a  more 
fearless  family.  A  house  at  no  great  distance 
from  ours  was  the  mark  to  which  the  lightning 
was  directed ;  it  knocked  down  the  chimney,  split 
the  building,  and  carried  away  the  corner  of  the 
next  house,  in  which  lay  a  fellow  drunk,  and 
asleep  upon  his  bed — it  roused  and  terrified  him, 
and  he  promises  to  get  drunk  no  more ;  but  I  have 
seen  a  woful  end  of  many  such  conversions.  I 
remember  but  one  such  storm  at  Olney  since  I 
have  known  the  place  J  and  I  am  glad  that  it  did 
not  happen  two  days  sooner  for  the  sake  of  the 
ladies,  who  would  probably,  one  of  them  at  least, 
have  been  alarmed  by  it.  I-  have  received,  since 
you  went,  two  very  flattering  letters  of  thanks, 
one  from  Mr.  Bacon,  and  one  from  Mr.  Barham, 
such  as  might  make  a  lean  poet  plump,  and  an 
humble  poet  proud.  But  being  myself  neither 
lean  nor  humble,  I  know  of  no  other  effect  they 
-had,  than  that  they  pleased  me ;  and  I  communi- 
cate the  intelligence  to  you,  not  without  an  as- 
sured hope  that  you  will  be  pleased  also.  We 
are  now  going  to  walk,  and  thus  far  I  have  writ- 
ten before  I  have  received  your  letter.  Friday. — 
I  must  now  be  as  compact  as  possible.  When  I 
began,  I  designed  four  sides,  but  my  packet  being 
transformed  into  two  single  epistles,  I  can  conse- 
quently afford,  you  but  three.  I  have  filled  a  large 
sheet  with  animadversions  upon  Pope.  I  am 
proceeding  in  my  translation — "  Velis  et  remis, 
omnibus  nervis" — as  Hudibras  has  it;  and  if  God 
give  me  health  and  ability,  will  put  it  into  your 

hands  when  I  see  you  next.    Mr.  h  has  just 

left  us.  He  has  read  my  book,  and,  as  if  fearful 
that  I  had  overlooked  some  of  them  myself,  has 
pointed  out  to  me  all  its  beauties.  1  do  assure 
you  the  man  has  a  very  acute  discernment,  and  a 
taste  that  I  have  no  fault  to  find  with.  I  hope 
that  you  are  of  the  same  opinion. 

Be  not  sorry  that  your  love  of  Christ  was  ex- 
cited in  you  by  a  picture.  Could  a  dog  or  cat 
suggest  to  me  the  thought,  that  Christ  is  precious, 
I  would  not  despise  that  thought  because  a  dog  or 
cat  suggested  it.  The  meanness  of  the  instru- 
ment can  not  debase  the  nobleness  of  the  princi- 
ple. He  that  kneels  before  a  picture  of  Christ,  is  i 
an  idolater.  But  he  in  whose  heart  the  sight  of  a 
picture  kindles  a  warm  remembrance  of  the  Sa-  j 
viour's  sufferings,  must  be  a  Christian.  Suppose 
that  I  dream  as  Gardiner  did,  that  Christ  walks 
before  me,  that  he  turns  arid  smiles  upon  me,  and 


fills  my  soul  with  incfTablc  love  and  joy.  Will  a 
man  tell  me  that  I  am  deceived,  that  I  ought  not 
to  love  or  rejoice  in  him  for  such  a  reason,  be- 
cause a  dream  is  merely  a  picture  drawn  upon 
the  imagination  7  I  hold  not  with  such  divinity. 
To  love  Christ  is  the  greatest  dignity  of  man,  be 
that  afi[ection  wrought  in  him  how  it  may. 

Adieu  !   May  the  blessing  of  God  be  upon  you 
all !    It  is  your  mother's  heart's  wish  and  mine. 
Yours  ever,  W.  C, 

TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  AugUst  27,  1785. 

I  WAS  low  in  spirits  yesterday,  when  your  par- 
cel came  and  raised  them.  Every  proof  of  atten- 
tion and  regard  to  a  man  who  lives  in  a  vinegar 
bottle  is  welcome  from  his  friends  on  the  outside 
of  it — accordingly  your  books  were  welcome  (you 
must  not  forget  by  the  way  that  I  want  the  ori- 
ginal, of  which  you  have  sent  me  the  translation 
only)  and  the  ruffles  from  Miss  Shuttleworth 
most  welcome.  I  am  covetous,  if  ever  man  was, 
of  living  in  the  rejiiembrance  of  absentees  whom 
I  highly  value  and  esteem,  and  consequently  felt 
myself  nmch  gratified  by  her  very  obliging  pre- 
sent. 1  have  had  more  comfort,  far  more  comfort, 
in  the  connexions  that  I  have  formed  within  the 
last  twenty  years,  than  in  the  more  numerous 
ones  that  I  had  before. 

Memorandum — The  latter  are  almost  all  Un- 
wins  or  Unwinisms. 

You  are  entitled  to  my  thanks  also  for  the  fa- 
cetious engravings  of  John  Gilpin.  A  serious 
poem  is  like  a  swan,  it  flies  heavily,  and  never  far, 
but  a  jest  has  the  wings  of  a  swallow,  that  never 
tire,  and  that  carry  it  into  every  nook  and  cor* 
ner.  I  am  perfectly  a  stranger  however  to  the 
reception  that  my  volume  meets  with,  and  I  be- 
lieve in  respect  of  my  nonchalance  upon  that  sub- 
ject, if  authors  would  but  copy  so  fair  an  exam- 
ple, am  a  most  exemplary  character.  I  must  tell 
you  nevertheless,  that  although  the  laurels  that  I 
gain  at  Olney  will  never  minister  much  to  my 
pride,  I  have  acquired  some.    The  Rev.  Mr. 

S   is  my  admirer,  and  thinks  my  second 

volume  superior  to  my  first.  It  ought  to  be  so. 
If  we  do  not  improve  by  practice,  then  nothing 
can  mend  us ;  and  a  man  has  no  more  cause  to  be 
mortified  at  being  told  that  he  has  excelled  him- 
self, than  the  elephant  had,  whose  praise  it  was, 
that  he  was  the  greatest  elephant  in  the  world, 
himself  excepted.  If  it  be  fair  to  judge  of  a  book 
by  an  extract,  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  were  so 
little  edified  by  Johnson's  Journal.  It  is  even 
more  ridiculous  than  was  poor  's  of  flatu- 
lent memory.  The  portion  of  it  given  to  us  in 
this  day's  paper  contains  not  one  sentiment  worth 
one  farthing;  except  the  last,  in  whicli  he  re- 


Let.  194. 


LETTERS. 


277 


solves  to  bind  himself  with  no  more  unbidden 
obligations.  Poor  man!  one  would  think,  that 
to  pray  for  his  dead  wife,  and  to  pinch  himself 
•with  church  fasts,  had  been  almost  the  whole  of 
his  religion.  I  am  sorry  that  he,  who  was  so 
manly  an  advocate  for  the  cause  of  virtue  in  all 
other  places,  was  so  childishly  employed,  and  so 
superstitiously  too,  in  his  closet.  Had  he  studied 
his  Bible  more,  to  which  by  his  own  confession 
he  was  in  great  part  a  stranger,  he  had  known 
better  what  use  to  make  of  his  retired  hours,  and 
had  trifled  less.  His  lucubrations  of  this  sort 
have  rather  the  appearance  of  religious  dotage, 
than  of  any  vigorous  exertions  -towards  God.  It 
will  be  well  if--  the  pubUcation  prove  not  hurtful 
in  its  effects,  by  exposing  the  best  cause,  already 
too  much  despised,  to  ridicule  still  more  profane. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  same  paper  I  find  a  long 
string  of  aphorisms,  and  maxims,  and  rules  for  the 
conduct  of  life,  which,  though  they  appear  not  with 
his  name,  are  so  much  in  his  manner,  with  the 
above-mentioned,  that  I  suspect  them  for  his.  I 
have  not  read  them  all,  but  several  of  them  I  read 
that  were  trivial  enough :  for  the  sake  of  one  how- 
ever I  give  him  the  rest — he  advises  never  to  ban- 
ish hope  entirely,  because  it  is  the  cordial  of  life, 
although  it  be  the  greatest  flatterer  in  the  world. 
Such  a  measure  of  hope  as  may  not  endanger  my 
peace  by  disappointment  I  would  wish  to  cherish 
upon  every  subject,  in  which  I  am  interested. 
But  there  lies  the  diflSculty.  A  cure  however, 
and  the  only  one.  for  all  the  irregularities  both  of 
hope  and  fear,  is  found  in  submission  to  the  will 
of  God.    Happy  they  that  have  it ! 

This  last  sentence  puts  me  in  mind  of  your  re- 
ference to  Blair  in  a  former  letter,  whom  you  there 
permitted  to  be  your  arbiter  to  adjust  the  respective 
claims  of  who  or  that.  I  do  not  rashly  differ  from 
so  great  a  grammarian,  nor  do  at  any  rate  differ 
from  him  altogether — vipon  solemn  occasions,  as 
in  prayer  or  preaching  for  instance,  I  would  be 
strictly  correct,  and  upon  stately  ones,  for  instance 
were  I  writing  an  epic  poem,  I  would  be  so  like- 
wise, but  not  upon  familiar  occasions.  God  who 
heareth  prayer,  is  right.  Hector  who  saw  Patro- 
clus,  is  right.  And  the  man  that  dresses  me  every 
day,  is  in  my  mind  right  also ; — ^because  the  con- 
trary would  give  an  air  of  stiffness  and  pedantry  to 
an  expression,  that  in  respect  of  the  matter  of  it 
can  not  be  too  negligently  made  up. 

Adieu,  my  dear  WilHam!  I  have  scribbled  with 
all  my  might,  which,  breakfast-time  excepted,  has 
been  my  employment  ever  since  I  rose,  and  it  is 
now  past  one.  Yours,  W.  C. 

TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

MY  BEAR  COUSIN,  Oct.  12,  1785. 

It  is  no  new  thing  with  you  to  give  pleasure. 
But  I  will  venture  to  say  that  you  do  not  often 


give  more  than  you  gave  me  this  morning.  When 
I  came  down  to  breakfast,  and  found  upon  the 
table  a  letter  franked  by  my  uncle,  and  when 
opening  that  frank  I  found  that  it  contained  a  let- 
ter from  you,  I  said  within  myself—'  This  is  just 
as  it  should  be.  We  are  all  grown  young  again, 
and  the  days  that  I  thought  I  should  see  no  more, 
are  actually  returned.'  You  perceive  therefore 
that  you  judged  well  when  you  conjectured  that  a 
line  from  you  would  not  be  disagreeable  to  me.  It 
could  not  be  otherwise  than  as  in  fact  it  proved,  a 
most  agreeable  surprise,  for  I  can  truly  boast  of  an 
affection  for  you,  that  neither  years,  nor  interrupt- 
ed intercourse,  have  at  all  abated.  I  need  only 
recollect  how  much  1  valued  you  once,  and  with 
how  much  cause,  immediately  to  feel  a  revival 
of  the  same  value :  if  that  can  be  said  to  revive, 
which  at  the  most  has  only  been  dormant  for 
want  of  employment.  But  I  slander  it  when  I  say 
that  it  has  slept.  A  thousand  times  have  I  re- 
collected a  thousand  scenes,  in  which  our  two 
selves  have  formed  the  whole  of  the  drama,  with 
the  greatest  pleasure;  at  times  too,  when  I  had  no 
reason  to  suppose  that  I  should  ever  hear  from  you 
again.  I  have  laughed  with  you  at  the  Arabian 
Nights'  Entertainments,  which  afforded  us,  as  you 
well  know,  a  fund  of  merriment  that  deserves  never 
to  be  forgot.  I  have  walked  with  you  to  Netley 
Abbey,  and  have  scrambled  with  you  over  hedges 
in  every  direction,  and  many  other  feats  we  have 
performed  together,  upon  the  field  of  my  remem- 
brance, and  all  within  these  few  years.  Should  I 
say  within  this  twelvemonth,  I  should  not  trans- 
gress the  truth.  The  hours  that  I  have  spent 
with  you  were  among  the  pleasantest  of  my  former 
days,  and  are  therefore  chronicled  in  my  mind  so 
deeply  as  to  feel  no  erasure.  Neither  do  I  forget 
my  poor  friend  Sir  Thomas.  I  should  remember 
him  indeed,  at  any  rate,  on  account  of  his  personal 
kindness  to  myself;  but  the  last  testimony  that  he 
gave  of  his  regard  for  you  endears  him  to  me  still 
more.  With  his  uncommon  understanding  (for 
with  many  peculiarities  he  had  more  sense  than 
any  of  his  acquaintance,)  and  with  his  generous 
sensibilities,  it  was  hardly  possible  that  he  should 
not  distinguish  you  as  he  has  done.  As  it  was 
the  last,  so  it  was  the  best  proof  that  he  could  give, 
of  a  judgment  that  never  deceived  him,  when  he 
would  allow  himself  leisure  to  consult  it. 

You  say  that  you  have  often  heard  of  me ;  that 
puzzles  me.  I  can  not  imagine  from  what  quarter, 
but  it  is  no  matter.  I  must  tell  you  however,  my 
cousin,  that  your  informatim  has  been  a  little  de- 
fective. That  I  am  happy  m  my  situation  is  true  ; 
I  live,  and  have  lived  these  twenty  years,  with 
Mrs.  Unwin,  to  whose  affectionate  care  of  me, 
during  the  far  greater  part  of  that  time,  it  is  under 
Providence  owing  that  I  live  at  all.  But  I  do  not 
account  myself  happy  in  having  been  for  thirteen 


278 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  195,  196. 


of  those  years  in  a  state  of  mind,  that  has  made  all 
that  care  and  attention  necessary;  an  attention 
and  a  care  thot  have  injured  her  health,  and  which, 
had  she  not  been  uncommonly  supported,  must 
have  brought  her  to  the  grave.  But  I  will  pass  to 
another  subject;  it  would  be  cruel  to  particularize 
only  to  give  pain,  neither  would  I  by  any  means 
give  a  sable  hue  to  the  first  letter  of  a  correspond- 
ence so  unexpectedly  renewed. 

I  am  delighted  with  what  you  tell  me  of  my 
uncle's  good  health.  To  enjoy  any  measure  of 
cheerfulness  at  so  late  a  day  is  much.  But  to  have 
that  late  day  enlivened  with  the  vivacity  of  youth, 
is  much  more,  and  in  these  postdiluvian  times  a 
rarity  indeed.  Happy  for  the  most  part  are  pa- 
rents who  have  daughters.  Daughters  are  not  apt 
to  outlive  their  natural  affections,  which  a  son  has 
generally  survived  even  before  his  boyish  years 
are  expired.  I  rejoice  particularly  in  my  uncle's 
felicity,  who  has  three  female  descendants  from 
his  little  person,  who  leave  him  nothing  to  wish 
for  upon  that  head. 

My  dear  cousin,  dejection  of  spirits,  which  (I 
suppose)  may  have  prevented  many  a  man  from 
becoming  an  author,  made  me  one.  I  find  con- 
stant employment  necessary,  and  therefore  take 
care  to  be  constantly  employed.  Manual  occupa- 
tions do  not  engage  the  mind  sufficiently,  as  I 
know  by  experience,  having  tried  many.  But 
composition,  especially  of  verse,  absorbs  it  wholly. 
I  write  therefore  generally  three  hours  in  a  morn- 
ing, and  in  an  evening  I  transcribe.  I  read  also, 
but  less  than  I  write,  for  I  must  have  bodily  exer- 
cise, and  therefore  never  pass  a  day  without  it. 

You  ask  me  where  I  have  been  this  summer.  I 
answer,  at  Olney.  Should  you  ask  me  where  I 
spent  the  last  seventeen  summers,  I  should  still 
answer  at  ,01ney.  Ay,  and  the  winters  also;  I 
have  seldom  left  it,  and  except  when  I  attended 
my  brother  in  his  last  illness,  never  I  believe  a 
fortnight  together. 

Adieu,  my  beloved  cousin,  I  shall  not  always  be 
thus  nimble  in  reply,  but  shall  always  have  great 
pleasure  in  answering  you  when  I  can. 

Yours,  my  friend  and  cousin,  W.  C. 


between  both,  my  morning  and  evening  are  for  the 
most  part  completely  engaged.  Add  to  this,  that 
though  my  spirits  are  seldom  so  bad  but  I  can 
write  verse,  they  are  often  at  so  low  an  ebb  as  to 
make  the  production  of  a  letter  impossible.  So 
much  for  a  trespass  which  called  for  some  apology, 
but  for  which  to  apologize  further,  would  be  to 
commit  a  greater  trespass  still. 

I  am  now  in  the  twentieth  book  of  Homer,  and 
shall  assuredly  proceed,  because  the  farther  I  go 
the  more  I  find  myself  justified  in  the  undertaking: 
and  in  due  time,  if  I  live,  shall  assuredly  publish. 
In  the  whole  I  shall  have  composed  about  forty 
thousand  verses,  about  which  forty  thousand  verses 
I  shall  have  taken  great  pains,  on  no  occasion  suf- 
fering a  slovenly  line  to  escape  me.  I  leave  you 
to  guess  therefore  whether,  such  a  labour  once 
achieved,  I  shall  not  determine  to  turn  it  to  some 
account,  and  to  gain  myself  profit  if  I  can,  if  not, 
at  least  some  credit,  for  my  reward. 

I  perfectly  approve  of  your  course  with  John. 
The  most  entertaining  books  are  best  to  begin 
with,  and  none  in  the  world,  so  far  as  entertain- 
ment is  concerned,  deserves  the  preference  to  Ho- 
mer. Neither  do  I  know,  that  there  is  any  where 
to  be  found  Greek  of  easier  construction.  Poetical 
Greek  I  mean ;  and  as  for  prose,  I  should  recom- 
mend Xenophon's  Cyropsedia.  That  also  is  a 
most  amusing  narrative,  and  ten  times  easier  to 
understand  than  the  crabbed  epigrams  and  scrib- 
blements  of  the  minor  poets,  that  are  generally  put 
into  the  hands  of  boys.  I  took  particular  notice 
of  the  neatness  of  John's  Greek  character,  which 
(let  me  tell  you)  deserves  its  share  of  commenda- 
tion; for  to  write  the  language  legibly  is  not  the 
lot  of  every  man  who  can  read  it.  Witness  my- 
self for  one. 

I  like  the  little  ode  of  Huntingford's  that  yot 
sent  me.  In  such  matters  we  do  not  expect  much 
novelty,  or  much  depth  of  thought.  The  expres- 
sion is  all  in  all,  which  to  me  at  least  appears  to 
be  faultless. 

Adieu,  my  dear  Willian^,  !  We  are  well,  and 
you  and  yours  are  ever  the  objects  of  our  aflfection, 

W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

f/lY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  Oct.  22,  1785. 

You  might  well  suppose  that  your  letter  had 
miscarried,  though  in  fact  it  was  duly  received.  1 
am  not  often  so  long  in  arrear,  and  you  may  assure 
yourself  that  when  at  any  time  it  happens  that  I 
am  so,  neither  neglect  nor  idleness  is  the  cause.  I 
have,  as  you  well  know,  a  daily  occupation,  forty 
lines  to  translate,  a  task  which  1  never  excuse  my- 
self when  it  is  possible  to  perform  it.  Equally 
sedulous  1  am  in  the  matter  of  transcribing,  so  that 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN,         Olney,  Nov.  9,  1785. 

Whose  last  most  affectionate  letter  has  run  in 
my  head  ever  since  I  received  it,  and  which  I  now 
sit  down  to  answer  two  days  sooner  than  the  post 
will  serve  me;  I  thank  you  for  it,  and  with  a 
warmth  for  which  I  am  svn-e  you  will  give  me  cre- 
dit, though  I  do  not  spend  many  words  in  describ- 
ing it.  I  do  not  seek  nno  friends,  not  being  alto- 
gopher  sure  that  I  should  find  them,  but  liave  un- 
speakable pleasure  in  being  still  beloved  by  an  old 


Let.  196. 


LETTERS. 


279 


one.  I  hope  that  now  our  correspondence  has  suf- 
fered its  last  interruption ;  and  that  we  shall  go 
down  together  to  the  grave,  chatting  and  chirping 
as  merrily  as  such  a  scene  of  things  as  this  will 
permit. 

I  am  happy  that  my  poems  have  pleased  you. 
My  volume  has  afforded  me  no  such  pleasure  at 
any  time,  either  while  I  was  writing  it,  or  since  its 
publication,  as  I  have  derived  from  yours  and  my 
uncle's  opinion  of  it.  I  make  certain  allowances 
for  partiality,  and  for  that  pecuhar  quickness  of 
taste,  with  which  you  both  reUsh  what  you  like, 
and  after  all  drawbacks,  upon  those  accounts  duly 
made,  find  myself  rich  in  the  measure  of  your  ap- 
probation that  still  remains.  But  upon  all  I  ho- 
nour John  Gilpin,  since  it  was  he  who  first  encou- 
raged you  to  write.  I  made  him  on  purpose  to 
laugh  at,  and  he  served  his  purpose  well ;  but  I  am 
now  in  debt  to  him  for  a  more  valuable  acquisition 
than  all  the  laughter  in  the  world  amounts  to,  the 
recovery  of  my  intercourse  with  you,  which  is  to 
me  inestimable.  My  benevolent  and  generous 
cousin,  when  I  was  once  asked  if  I  wanted  any 
thing,  and  given  delicately  enough  to  understand 
that  the  inquirer  was  ready  to  supply  all  my  occa- 
sions, I  thankfully  and  civilly,  but  positively,  de- 
clined the  favour.  I  neither  suffer,  nor  have  suf- 
fered any  such  inconveniences  as  I  had  not  much 
rather  endure,  than  come  under  obligations  of  that 
sort  to  a  person  comparatively  with  yourself  a 
stranger  to  me.  But  to  you  I  answer  otherwise. 
I  know  you  thoroughly,  and  the  liberality  of  your 
disposition  ;  and  have  that  consummate  canfidence 
in  the  sincerity  of  your  wish  to  serve  me,  that  de- 
livers me  from  all  awkward  constraint,  and  from 
all  fear  of  trespassing  by  acceptance.  To  you, 
therefore,  I  reply,  yes.  Whensoever  and  whatso- 
ever, and  in  what  manner  soever  you  please ;  and 
add  moreover,  that  my  affection  for  the  giver  is 
such,  as  will  increase  to  me  tenfold  the  satisfaction 
that  I  shall  have  in  receiving.  It  is  necessary, 
however,  that  I  should  let  you  a  Uttle  into  the  state 
of  my  finances,  that  you  may  not  suppose  them 
more  narrowly  circumscribed  than  they  are.  Since 
Mrs.  Unwin  and  I  have  lived  at  Olney,  we  have 
had  but  one  purse,  although  during  the  whole  of 
that  time,  till  lately,  her  income  was  nearly  double 
mine.  Her  revenues  indeed  are  now  in  some  mea- 
sure reduced,  and  do  not  much  exceed  my  own ; 
the  worst  consequence  of  this  is,  that  we  are  forc- 
ed to  deny  ourselves  some  things  which  hitherto 
we  have  been  better  able  to  afford,  but  they  are 
such  things  as  neither  life,  nor  the  well-being  of 
life  depend  upon.  My  own  income  has  been  bet- 
ter than  it  is,  but  when  it  was  best,  it  would  not 
have  enabled  me  to  live  as  my  connexions  demand- 
ed that  I  should,  had  it  not  been  combined  with  a 
better  than  itself,  at  least  at  this  end  of  the  king- 
dom. Of  this  I  had  full  proof  during  three  months 
19 


that  I  spent  in  lodgings  at  Huntingdon,  in  which 
time,  by  the  help  of  good  management,  and  a  clear 
notion  of  economical  matters,  I  contrived  to  spend 
the  income  of  a  twelvemonth.  Now,  my  beloved 
cousin,  you  are  in  possession  of  the  whole  case  as 
it  stands.  Strain  no  points  to  your  own  inconve- 
nience or  hurt,  for  there  is  no  need  of  it,  but  in- 
dulge yourself  in  communicating  (no  matter  what) 
that  you  can  spare  without  missing  it,  since  by  so 
doing  you  will  be  sure  to  add  to  the  comforts  of 
my  life  one  of  the  sweetest  that  I  can  enjoy — a 
token  and  proof  of  your  affection. 

In  the  affair  of  my  next  publication,  toward 
which  you  also  offer  me  so  kindly  your  assistance, 
there  will  be  no  need  that  you  should  help  me  in 
the  manner  that  you  propose.  It  will  be  a  large 
work,  consisting,  I  should  imagine,  of  six  volumes 
at  least.  The  twelfth  of  this  month  I  shall  have 
spent  a  year  upon  it,  and  it  will  cost  me  more  than 
another.  I  do  not  love  the  booksellers  well  enough 
to  make  them  a  present  of  such  a  labour,  but  in- 
tend to  publish  by  subscription.  Your  vote  and 
interest,  my  dear  cousin,  upon  the  occasion,  if  you 
please,  but  nothing  more  !  I  will  trouble  you  with 
some  papers  of  proposals,  when  the  time  shall 
come,  and  am  sure  that  you  will  circulate  as  many 
for  me  as  you  can.  Now,  my  dear,  I  am  going  to 
tell  you  a  secret.  It  is  a  great  secret,  that  you 
must  not  whisper  even  to  your  cat.  No  creature 
is  at  this  moment  apprised  of  it  but  Mrs.  Unwin 
and  her  son.  I  am  making  a  new  translation  of 
Homer,  and  am  on  the  point  of  finishing  the 
twenty-first  book  of  the  Iliad.  The  reasons  up- 
on which  I  undertake  this  Herculean  labour,  and 
by  which  I  justify  an  enterprise  in  which  I  seem 
so  effectually  anticipated  by  Pope,  although  in  fact 
he  has  not  anticipated  me  a^  all,  I  may  possibly 
give  you,  if  you  wish  for  them,  when  I  can  find 
nothing  more  interesting  to  say.  A  period  which 
I  do  not  conceive  to  be  very  near !  I  have  not  an- 
swered many  things  in  your  letter,  nor  can  I  do  it 
at  present  for  want  of  room.  I  can  not  believe  but 
that  I  should  know  you,  notwithstanding  all  that 
time  may  have  done.  There  is  not  a  feature  of 
your  face,  could  1  meet  it  upon  the  road  by  itself, 
that  I  should  not  instantly  recollect.  I  should  say, 
that  is  my  cousin's  nose,  or  those  are  her  lips  and 
her  chin,  and  no  woman  upon  earth  can  claim  them 
but  herself  As  for  me,  I  am  a  very  smart  youth 
of  my  years.  I  am  not  indeed  grown  gray  so 
much  as  I  am  grown  bald.  No  matter.  There 
was  more  hair  in  the  world  than  ever  had  the  ho- 
nour to  belong  to  me.  Accordingly  having  found 
just  enough  to  curl  a  little  at  my  ears,  and  to  in- 
termix with  a  little  of  my  own  that  still  hangs  be- 
hind, I  appear,  if  you  see  me  in  the  afternoon,  to 
have  a  very  decent  head-dress,  not  easily  distin- 
guished from  my  natural  growth;  which  being 
worn  with  a  small  bag,  and  a  black  riband  about 


280 


COWPER'f 


'S  WORKS. 


Let.  197,  198,  199. 


my  neck,  continues  to  me  the  charms  of  my  youth, 
even  on  the  verge  of  age.  Away  with  the  fear  of 
writing  too  often. 

Yours,  my  dearest  cousin,  W.  C. 
P.  S.  That  the  view  I  give  you  of  my- 
self may  be  complete,  I  add  the  two  following 
items — That  I  am  in  debt  to  nobody,  and  that  I 
grow  fat. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN, 

I  AM  glad  that  I  always  loved  you  as  I  did.  It 
releases  me  from  any  occasion  to  suspect  that  my 
present  affection  for  you  is  indebted  for  its  exist- 
ence to  any  selfish  considerations.  No,  I  am  sure 
I  love  you  disinteres^;edly,  and  for  your  own  sake, 
because  I  never  thought  of  you  with  any  other 
sensations  than  those  of  the  truest  affection,  even 
while  I  was  under  the  influence  of  a  persuasion 
that  I  should  never  hear  from  you  again.  But 
with  my  present  feelings,  superadded  to  those  that 
I  always  had  for  you,  I  find  it  no  easy  matter  to 
do  justice  to  my  sensations.  I  perceive  myself  in 
a  state  of  mind  similar  to  that  of  the  traveller,  de- 
scribed in  Pope's  Messiah,  who,  as  he  passes  through 
a  sandy  desert,  starts  at  the  sudden  and  unexpect- 
ed sound  of  a  waterfall.  You  have  placed  me  in 
a  situation  new  to  me,  and  in  which  I  feel  myself 
somewhat  puzzled  how  I  ought  to  behave.  At  the 
same  time  that  I  would  not  grieve  you,  by  putting 
a  check  upon  your  bounty,  I  would  be  as  careful 
not  to  abuse  it,  as  if  I  were  a  miser,  and  the  ques- 
tion not  about  your  money,  but  my  own. 

Although  I  do  not  suspect  that  a  secret  to  you, 
my  cousin,  is  any  burthen,  yet  having  maturely 
considered  that  point,  since  I  wrote  my  last,  I  feel 
myself  altogether  disposed  to  release  you  from  the 
injunction,  to  that  effect,  under  which  I  laid  you. 
I  have  now  made  sush  a  progress  in  translation, 
that  I  need  neither  fear  that  I  shall  stop  short  of 
the  end,  nor  that  any  other  rider  of  Pegasus  should 
overtake  me.  Therefore  if  at  any  time  it  should 
fall  fairly  in  your  way,  or  you  should  feel  your- 
self invited  to  say  I  am  so  occupied,  you  have  my 
poetship's  free  permission.  Dr.  Johnson  read,  and 
recommended  my  first  volume.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  '  NoV.  9,  1785. 

You  desired  me  to  return  your  good  brother  the 
bishop's  charge  as  soon  as  I  conveniently  could, 
and  the  weather  having  forbidden  us  to  hope  for 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you,  and  Mrs.  Bagot  with 
yoU;  this  morning,  I  return  it  now,  lest,  as  you 


told  me  that  your  stay  in  this  country  would  be 
short,  you  should  be  gone  before  it  could  reach 
you. 

I  wish,  as  you  do,  that  the  charge  in  question 
could  find  its  way  into  all  the  parsonages  in  the* 
nation.  It  is  so  generally  applicable,  and  yet  so 
pointedly  enforced,  that  it  deserves  the  most  ex- 
tensive spread.  I  find  in  it  the  happiest  mixture 
of  spiritual  authority,  the  meekness  of  a  Christian, 
and  the  good  manners  of  a  gentleman.  It  has 
convinced  me,  that  the  poet,  who,  like  myself, 
shall  take  the  liberty  to  pay  the  author  of  such  val- 
uable admonition  a  compliment,  shall  do  at  least 
as  much  honour  to  himself  as  to  his  subject. 

Yours,  W.  C. 

TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Dec.  24,  1785. 

You  would  have  found  a  letter  from  me  at  Mr. 

 's,  according  to  your  assignation,  had  not 

the  post,  setting  out  two  hours  sooner  than  the 
usual  time,  prevented  me.  The  Odyssey  that  you 
sent  has  but  one  fault,  at  least  but  one  that  I  have 
discovered,  which  is,  that  I  can  not  read  it.  The 
very  attempt,  if  persevered  in,  would  soon  make 
me  as  Wind  as  Homer  was  himself  I  am  now 
in  the  last  book  of  the  lUad ;  shall  be  obliged  to 
you  therefore  for  a  more  legible  one  by  the  first 
opportunity. 

I  wrote  to  Johnson  lately,  desiring  him  to  give 
me  advice  and  information  on  the  subject  of  pro- 
posals for  a  subscription ;  and  he  desired  me  in 
his  answer  not  to  use  that  mode  of  publication, 
but  to  treat  with  him ;  adding,  that  he  could  make 
me  such  offers,  as  (he  believed)  I  should  approve. 
I  have  replied  to  his  letter,  but  abide  by  my  first 
purpose. 

Having  occasion  to  write  to  Mr.  ,  con- 
cerning his  princely  benevolence,  extended  this 
year  also  to  the  poor  of  Olney,  I  put  in  a  good 
word  for  my  poor  self  likewise,  and  have  received 
a  very  obliging  and  encouraging  answer.  He 
promises  me  six  names  in  particular,  that  (he 
says)  will  do  me  no  discredit,  and  expresses  a  wish 
to  be  served  with  papers  as  soon  as  they  shall  be 
printed. 

I  meet  with  encouragement  from  all  quarters, 
such  as  I  find  need  of  indeed  in  an  enterprise  of 
such  length  and  moment,  but  such  as  at  the  same 
time  I  find  effectual.  Homer  is  not  a  poet  to  be 
translated  under  the  disadvantages  of  doubts  and 
dejection. 

Let  me  sing  the  praises  of  the  desk  which  

has  sent  me.  In  general,  it  is  as  elegant  as  possi- 
ble. In  particular,  it  is  of  cedar,  beautifully 
lacquered.    When  put  together,  it  assumes  the 


Let.  200,  201. 


LETTERS, 


281 


form  of  a  handsome  small  chest,  and  contains  all 
sorts  of  accommodations ;  it  is  inlaid  with  ivory, 
and  serves  the  purpose  of  a  reading  desk. 

Your  affectionate,  W.  C. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Dec.  24,  1785. 

Till  I  had  made  such  a  progress  in  rtiy  pre- 
sent undertaking,  as  to  put  it  out  of  all  doubt  that, 
if  I  lived,  I  should  proceed  in,  and  finish  it,  I  kept 
the  matter  to  myself  It  would  have  done  me  lit- 
tle honour  to  have  told  my  friends  that  I  had  an 
arduous  enterprise  in  hand,  if  afterwards  I  must 
have  told  them  that  I  had  dropt  it.  Knowing  it  to 
have  been  universally  the  opinion  of  the  literati,  ever 
since  they  have  allowed  themselves  to  consider  the 
matter  coolly,  that  a  translation,  properly  so  called,  of 
Homer  is,  notwithstanding  what  Pope  has  done 
a  desideratum  in  the  English  language,  it  struck 
me,  that  an  attempt  to  supply  the  deficiency  would 
be  an  honourable  one ;  and  having  made  myself, 
in  former  years,  somewhat  critically  a  master  of 
the  original,  I  was  by  this  double  consideration  in 
duced  to  make  the  attempt  myself  I  am  now 
translating  into  blank  verse  the  last  book  of  the 
Iliad,  and  mean  to  pubUsh  by  subscription. 

W.C 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  Dec.  31,  1785, 

You  have  learned  from  my  last  that  I  am  now 
conducting  myself  upon  the  plan  that  you  recom 
mended  to  me  in  the  summer.  But  since  I  wrote 
it,  I  have  made  still  farther  advances  in  my  nego- 
ciation  with  Johnson.  The  proposals  are  adjusted. 
The  proof-sheet  has  been  printed  off,  corrected, 
and  returned.  They  will  be  sent  abroad  as  soon 
as  I  make  up  a  complete  list  of  the  personages  and 
persons  to  whom  I  would  have  them  sent;  which 
in  a  few  days  I  hope  to  be  able  to  accomplish. 
Johnson  behaves  very  well,  at  least  according  to 
my  conception  of  the  matter,  and  seems  sensible 
that  I  have  dealt  liberally  with  him.  He  wishes 
me  to  be  a  gainer  by  my  labours,  in  his  own 
words,  '  to  put  something  handsome  into  my  pock- 
et,' and  recommends  two  large  quartos  for  the 
whole.  He  would  not  (he  says)  by  any  means 
advise  an  extravagant  price,  and  has  fixed  it  at 
three  guineas ;  the  half,  as  usual,  to  be  paid  at  the 
time  of  subscribing,  the  remainder  on, delivery. 
Five  hundred  names  (he  adds)  at  this  price  will 
put  above  a  thousand  pounds  into  my  purse.  I 
am  doing  my  best  to  obtain  them.  Mr.  Newton 
is  warm  in  my  service,  and  can  do  not  a  little.  I 
have  of  course  written  to  Mr.  Bagot;  who  when 


he  was  here,  with  much  earnestness  and  affection 
intreated  me  to  do  so,  as  soon  as  I  should  have  set- 
tled the  conditions.  If  I  could  get  Sir  Richard 
Sutton's  address,  I  would  write  to  him  also,  though 
I  have  been  but  once  in  his  company  since  I  left 
Westminster,  where  he  and  I  read  the  Ihad  and 
Odyssey  through  together.  I  enclose  Lord  Dart- 
mouth's answer  to  my  application,  which  I  will 
get  you  to  show  to  Lady  Hesketh,  because  it  will 
please  her.  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  can  make  an 
opportunity  to  call  on  her,  during  your  present 
stay  in  town.  You  observe  therefore  that  I  am 
not  wanting  to  myself  He  that  is  so,  has  no  just 
claim  on  the  assistance  of  others,  neither  shall  my- 
self have  cause  to  complain  of  me  in  other  res- 
pects. I  thank  you  for  your  friendly  hints,  and 
precautions,  and  shall  not  fail  to  give  them  the 
guidance  of  my  pen.  I  respect  the  public,  and  I 
respect  myself,  and  had  rather  want  bread  than 
expose  myself  wantonly  to  the  condemnation  of 
either.  I  hate  the  affectation  so  frequently  found 
in  authors,  of  negligence  and  slovenly  slightness; 
and  in  the  present  case  am  sensible  how  necessary 
it  is  to  shun  them,  when  I  undertake  the  vast  and 
invidious  labour  of  doing  better  than  Pope  has 
done  before  me.  I  thank  you  for  all  that  you  have 
said  and  done  in  my  cause,  and  beforehand  for 
all  that  you  shall  say  and  do  hereafter.  I  am  sure 
that  there  will  be  no  deficiency  on  your  part.  In 
particular  I  thank  you  for  taking  such  jealous  care 
of  my  honour  and  respectability,  when  the  man 
you  mention  applied  for  samples  of  my  transla- 
tion. When  I  deal  in  wine,  cloth,  or  cheese,  I 
will  give  samples,  but  of  verse,  never.  No  con- 
sideration would  have  induced  me  to  comply  with 
the  gentleman's  demand,  unless  he  could  have  as- 
sured me  that  his  wife  had  longed. 

I  have  frequently  thought  with  pleasure  of  the 
summer  that  you  have  had  in  your  heart,  while 
you  have  been  employed  in  softening  the  severity 
of  winter  in  behalf  of  so  many  who  must  other- 
wise have  been  exposed  to  it.  I  vdsh  that  you 
could  make  a  general  gaol  delivery,  leaving  only 
those  behind  who  can  not  elsewhere  be  so  properly 
disposed  of    You  never  said  a  better  thing  in 

your  life,  than  when  you  assured  Mr.  

of  the  expediency  of  a  gift  of  bedding  to  the  poor 
of  Olney.  There  is  one  article  of  this  world's  com- 
forts, with  which,  as  Falstaft'  says,  they  are  so 
heinously  unprovided.  When  a  poor  woman,  and 
an  honest  one,  whom  we  know  well,  carried  home 
two  pair  of  blankets,  a  pair  for  herself  and  hus- 
band, and  a  pair  for  her  six  children ;  as  soon  as 
the  children  saw  them  they  jumped  out  of  their 
straw,  caught  them  in  their  arms,  kissed  them, 
blessed  them,  and  danced  for  joy.  An  old  woman, 
a  very  old  one,  the  first  night  that  she  found  her- 
self so  comfortably  covered,  could  not  sleep  a  wink, 
being  kept  awake  by  the  contrary  emotions,  of 


283 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  202,  203. 


transport  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  fear  of  not  be- 
ing thankful  enough  on  the  other. 

It  just  occurs  to  me,  to  say,  that  this  manuscript 
of  mine  will  be  ready  for  the  press,  as  I  hope,  by 
the  end  of  February.  I  shall  have  finished  the 
Iliad  in  about  ten  days,  and  shall  proceed  imme- 
diately to  the  revisal  of  th^  whole.  You  must,  if 
possible,  come  down  to  Olney,  if  it  be  only  that 
you  may  take  the  charge  of  its  safe  delivery  to 
Johnson.  For  if  by  any  accident  it  should  be  lost, 
1  am  undone — the  first  copy  being  but  a  lean 
counterpart  of  the  second. 

Your  mother  joins  with  me  in  love  and  good 
wishes  of  every  kind,  to  you,  and  all  yours. 

Adieu,  W.  C. 


TO  LAPY  HESKETH. 

Jan.  10,  1786. 

It  gave  me  great  pleasure  that  you  found  my 
friend  Unwin,  what  I  was  sure  you  would  find 
him,  a  most  agreeable  man.  I  did  not  usher  him 
in  with  the  marrow-bones  and  cleavers  of  high- 
sounding  panegyric,  both  because  I  was  certain 
that  whatsoever  merit  he  had,  your  discernment 
would  mark  it,  and  because  it  is  possible  to  do  a 
man  material  injury  by  making  his  praise  his  har- 
binger. It  is  easy  to  raise  expectation  to  such  a 
pitch,  that  the  reality,  be  it  ever  so  excellent,  must 
necessarily  fall  below  it. 

I  hold  myself  much  indebted  to  Mr.  , 

of  whom  I  have  the  first  information  from  your- 
self, both  for  his  friendly  disposition  towards  me, 
and  for  the  manner  in  which  he  marks  the  defects 
in  my  volume.  An  author  must  be  tender  indeed 
to  wince  on  being  touched  so  gently.  It  is  un- 
doubtedly as  he  says,  and  as  you  and  my  uncle 
say.  You  can  not  be  all  mistaken,  neither  is  it  at 
all  probable  that  any  of  you  should  be  so.  I  take 
it  for  granted  therefore  that  there  are  inequalities 
in  the  composition,  and  I  do  assure  you,  my  dear, 
most  faithfully,  that  if  it  should  reach  a  second 
edition,  I  will  spare  no  pains  to  improve  it.  It 
may  serve  me  for  an  agreeable  amusement  perhaps 
when  Homer  shall  be  gone  and  done  with.  The 
first  edition  of  poems  has  generally  been  suscep- 
tible of  improvement.  Pope,  I  believe,  never  pub- 
lished one  in  his  life  that  did  not  undergo  varia- 
tions ;  and  his  longest  pieces,  many.  I  will  only 
observe,  that  inequaUties  there  must  be  always, 
and  in  every  work  of  length.  There  are  level 
parts  of  every  subject,  parts  which  we  can  not 
with  propriety  attempt  to  elevate.  They  are  by 
nature  humble,  and  can  only  be  made  to  assume 
an  awkward  and  uncouth  appearance  by  being 
mounted.  But  again  I  take  it  for  granted  that 
this  remark  does  not  apply  to  the  matter  of  your 
objection.    You  were  sufficiently  aware  of  it  be- 


fore, and  have  no  need  that  I  should  suggest  it  as 
an  apology,  could  it  have  served  that  office,  but 
would  have  made  it  for  me  yourself  In  truth, 
my  dear,  had  you  known  in  what  anguish  of  mind 
I  wrote  the  whole  of  that  poem,  and  under  what 
perpetual  interruptions  from  a  cause  that  has 
since  been  removed,  so  that  sometimes  I  had  not 
an  opportunity  of  writing  more  than  three  lines  at 
a  sitting,  you  would  long  since  have  wondered  as 
much  as  I  do  myself,  that  it  turned  out  any  thing 
better  than  Grub-street. 

My  cousin,  give  yourself  no  trouble  to  find  out 
any  of  the  Magi  to  scrutinize  my  Homer.  I  can 
do  without  them;  and  if  I  were  not  conscious  that 
I  have  no  need  of  their  help,  I  would  be  the  first 
to  call  for  it.  Assure  yourself  that  I  intend  to  be 
careful  to  the  utmost  line  of  all  possible  caution, 
both  with  respect  to  language  and  versification. 
I  will  not  send  a  verse  to  the  press,  that  shall  not 
have  undergone  the  strictest  examination. 

A  subscription  is  surely  on  every  account  the 
most  eligible  mode  of  publication.  When  I  shall 
have  emptied  the  purses  of  my  friends,  and  of  their 
friends,  into  my  own,  I  am  still  free  to  levy  contri- 
butions upon  the  world  at  large,  and  I  shall  then 
have  a  fund  to  defray  the  expenses  of  a  new  edi- 
tion. I  have  ordered  Johnson  to  print  the  propo- 
sals immediately,  and  hope  that  they  will  kiss 
your  hands  before  the  week  is  expired. 

I  have  had  the  kindest  letter  from  Josephus  that 
I  ever  had.  He  mentioned  my  purpose  to  one  of 
the  Masters  of  Eton,  who  replied  that  '  such  a 
work  is  much  wanted.' 

Yours  affectionately,       W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAE  WILLIAM,  Jan.  14,  1786. 

I  AM  glad  that  you  have  seen  Lady  Hesketh. 
I  knew  that  you  would  find  her  every  thing  that  is 
amiable  and  elegant.  Else,  being  my  relation,  I 
would  never  have  shown  her  to  you.  She  also  was 
delighted  with  her  visiter,  and  expects  the  greatest 
pleasure  in  seeing  you  again;  but  is  under  some 
apprehensions  that  a  tender  regard  for  the  drum 
of  your  ear  may  keep  you  from  her.  Never  mind  1 
You  have  two  drums;  and  if  she  should  crack 
both,  I  will  buy  you  a  trumpet. 

General' Cowper  having  much  pressed  me  to 
accompany  my  proposals  with  a  specimen,  I  have 
sent  him  one.  It  is  taken  from  the  twenty-fourth 
book  of  the  Iliad,  and  is  part  of  the  interview  be- 
tween Priam  and  Achilles.  Tell  me,  if  it  be  pos- 
sible for  any  man  to  tell  me— why  did  Homer 
leave  off  at  the  burial  of  Hector'?  Is  it  possible 
that  he  could  be  determined  to  it  by  a  conceit,  so 
'  little  worthy  of  him,  as  that,  having  made  the 
'  number  of  his  books  completely  the  alphabetical 


Let.  204,  205. 


LETTERS. 


283 


number,  he  would  not  for  the  joke's  sake  proceed  and  seven  lines,  and  is  taken  from  the  interview 

any  farther  1    Why  did  he  not  give  us  the  death  between  Priam  and  Achilles  in  the  last  book.  I 

of  Achilles,  and  the  destruction  of  Troy  1    Tell  chose  to  extract  from  the  latter  end  of  the  poem, 

ine  also,  if  the  critics,  with  Aristotle  at  their  head,  and  as  near  to  the  close  of  it  as  possible,  that  I 

have  not  found  that  he  left  off  exactly  where  he  might  encourage  a  hope  in  the  readers  of  it,  that 


should ;  and  that  every  epic  poem,  to  all  genera- 
tions, is  bound  to  conclude  with  the  burial  of  Hec- 
tor'? I  do  not  in  the  least  doubt  it.  Therefore, 
if  I  live  to  write  a  dozen  epic  poems,  I  will  always 
take  care  to  bury  Hector,  and  to  bring  all  matters 
at  that  point  to  an  immediate  conclusion. 

I  had  a  truly  kind  letter  from  Mr.  ,  writ- 

I 


if  they  found  it  in  some  degree  worthy  of  their 
approbation,  they  would  find  the  former  parts  of 
their  work  not  less  so.  For  if  a  writer  flags  any 
where,  it  must  be  when  he  is  near  the  end. 

My  subscribers  will  have  an  option  given  them 
in  the  proposals  respecting  the  price.  My  yrede-i 
cessor  in  the  same  business  was  not  quite  so  mo- 
ten  immediately  on  his  recovery  from  the  fever.  I  j  derate. — You  may  say  perhaps  (at  least  if  your 
am  bound  to  honour  James's  powder,  not  only  for  ^  kindness  for  me  did  not  prevent  it  you  would  be 
the  services  it  has  often  rendered  to  myself,  but  ready  to  say)  "  It  is  well — but  do  you  place  your- 
still  more  for  having  been  the  means  of  preserving  I  self  on  a  level  with  Pope  1"    I  answer,  or  rather 


a  life  ten  times  more  valuable  to  society,  than  mine !  should  answer — "  By  no  means — not 


IS  ever  likely  to  be. 


poet; 


but  as  a  translator  of  Homer,  if  I  did  not  expect 


You  say — "  why  should  I  trouble  you  with  my  [  and  believe  that  I  should  even  surpass  him,  why 


troubles T'  I  answer — "why  nof?  What  is  a 
friend  good  for,  if  we  may  not  lay  one  end  of  the 
sack  upon  his  shoulders,  while  we  ourselves  carry 
the  other  1" 

You  see  your  duty  to  God,  and  your  duty  to 


have  I  meddled  with  this  matter  at  alH  If  I  con- 
fess inferiority,  I  reprobate  my  own  undertaking." 

When  I  .can  hear  of  the  rest  of  the  bishops, 
that  they  preach  and  live  as  your  brother  does,  I 
will  think  more  respectfully  of  them  than  I  feel 


your  neighbour:  and  you  practise  both  with  your  i  inclined  to  do  at  present.    They  may  be  learned, 

and  I  know  that  some  of  them  are ;  but  your  bro- 
ther, learned  as  he  is,  has  other  more  powerful  re- 
commendations. Persuade  him  to  publish  his 
poetry,  and  I  promise  you  that  he  shall  find  as 
warm  and  sincere  an  admirer  in  me  as  in  any  man 
that  hves.    Yours,  my  dear  friend. 

Very  affectionately,  W.  C. 


best  ability.  Yet  a  certain  person  accounts  you 
blind.  I  would  that  all  the  world  were  so  blind 
even  as  you  are.  But  there  are  some  in  it,  who, 
like  the  Chinese,  say — "  We  have  two  eyes;  and 
other  nations  have  but  one !"  I  am  glad  however 
that  in  your  one  eye  you  have  sight  enough  to  dis- 
cover that  such  censures  are  not  worth  minding. 

I  thank  you  heartily  for  every  step  you  take  in 
the  advancement  of  my  present  purpose. 

Contrive  to  pay  Lady  H.  a  long  visit,  for  she 
has  a  thousand  things  to  say. 

Yours,  my  dear  William,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Jan.  15,  1786. 

I  HAVE  just  time  to  give  you  a  hasty  line  to 
explain  to  you  the  delay  that  the  publication  of 
ray  proposals  has  unexpectedly  encountered,  and 
at  which  I  suppose  that  you  have  been  somewhat 
surprised. 

I  have  a  near  relation  in  London  and  a  warm 
friend  in  General  Cowper;  he  is  also  a  person  as 
able  as  willing  to  render  me  material  service.  I 
lately  made  him  acquainted  with  my  design  of 
sending  into  the  world  a  new  Translation  of  Ho- 
mer, and  told  him  that  my  papers  would  soon  at- 
tend him.  .  He  soon  after  desired  that  I  would 
annex  to  them  a  specimen  of  the  work.  To  this 
I  at  first  objected,  for  reasons  that  need  not  be 
enumerated  here;  but  at  last  acceded  to  his  ad- 
vice ;  and  accordingly  the  day  before  yesterday 
sent  him  a  specimen 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 


Jan.  23,  1786. 


MY  DEAR  AND  FAITHFUL  FRIEND, 
*  *  *  * 


The  paragraphs  that  I  am  now  beginning  will 
contain  information  of  a  kind  that  I  am  not  very 
fond  of  communicating,  and  on  a  subject  that  I 
am  not  very  fond  of  writing  about.  Only  to  you 
I  will  open  my  budget  without  reserve,  because  1 
know  that  in  what  concerns  my  authorship  you 
take  an  interest  that  demands  my  confidence,  and 
will  be  pleased  with  every  occurrence  that  is  ut 
all  propitious  to  my  endeavours.  Lady  Hesketb, 
who,  had  she  as  many  mouths  as  Virgil's  Fame, 
with  a  tongue  in  each,  would  employ  them  all  in 
my  service,  writes  me  word  that  Dr.  Maty  of  the 
Museum  has  read  my  Task.  I  can  not  even  to 
you  relate  what  he  says  of  it;  though,  when  I  be- 
gan this  story,  I  thought  I  had  courage  enough  to 
tell  it  boldly.  He  designs  however  to  give  his 
opinion  of  it  in  his  next  Monthly  Review ;  and 
being  informed  that  I  was  about  to  finish  a  trans- 
It  consists  of  one  hundred '1?'  on  of  Homer,  asked  her  Ladyship's  leave  to 
2z 


284 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  206. 


mention  the  circumstance  on  that  occasion.  This 
incident  pleases  me  the  more,  bdcausc  I  have  au- 
thentic intelligence  of  his  being  a  critical  character 
in  all  its  forms,  acute,  sour,  and  blunt;  and  so 
incorruptible  withal,  and  so  unsusceptible  of  bias 
from  undue  motives,  that,  as  my  correspondent 
informs  me,  he  would  not  praise  his  own  mother, 
did  he  not  think  she  deserved  it. 

The  said  Task  is  likewise  gone  to  Oxford,  con- 
veyed thither  by  an  intimate  friend  of  Dr.  , 

with  a  purpose  of  putting  it  into  his  hands.  My 
friend,  what  will  they  do  with  me  at  Oxford'?  Will 
they  burn  me  at  Carfax,  or  will  they  anathema- 
tize me  with  bell,  book,  and  candle'?  I  can  say 
with  more  truth  than  Ovid  did— Parve  nec  in- 
video. 

The  said  Dr.  has  been  heard  to  say,  and 

I  give  you  his  own  words  (stop  both  your  ears 
while  I  utter  them)  that  Homer  has  never  been 
translated,  and  that  Pope  was  a  fool."  Very  ir- 
reverent language  to  be.  sure,  but  in  consideration 
of  the  subject  on  which  he  used  them,  we  will  par- 
don it,  even  in  a  dean.  One  of  the  masters  of 
Eton  told  a  friend  of  mine  lately,  that  a  translation 
of  Homer  is  much  wanted.  So  now  you  have  all 
my  news  * 

Yours,  my  dearest  friend,  cordially,  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Olney,  Jan.  31,  1786. 
It  is  very  pleasant,  my  dearest  cousin,  to  re- 
ceive a  present  so  delicately  conveyed  as  that  which 
I  received  so  lately  from  Anonymous ;  but  it  is 
also  very  painful  to '  have  nobody  to  thank  for  it. 
I  find  myself  therefore  driven  by  stress  of  necessity 
to  the  following  resolution,  viz.  that  I  will  consti- 
tute you  my  Thank-receiver  general  for  whatso- 
ever gift  I  shall  receive  hereafter,  as  well  as  for 
those  that  I  have  already  received  from  a  nameless 
benefactor.  I  therefore  thank  you,  my  cousin,  for 
a  most  elegant  present,  including  the  most  elegant 
compliment  that  ever  poet  was  honoured  with;  for 
a  snuff-box  of  tortoise-shell,  with  a  beautiful  land- 
scape on  the  lid  of  it,  glazed  with  crystal,  having 
the  figures  of  three  hares  in  the  fore-ground,  and 
inscribed  above  with  these  words.  The  Peasant's 
Nest— diXid  below  with  these— Tmey,  Puss,  and 
Bess.  For  all  and  every  of  these*!  thank  you, 
and  also  for  standing  proxy  on  this  occasion.  Nor 
must  I  forget  to  thank  you,  that  so  soon  after  I 
had  sent  you  the  first  letter  of  Anonymous,  I  re- 
ceived another  in  the  same  hand.— There,  now  I 
am  a  little  easier. 

I  have  almost  conceived  a  design  to  send  up 
half  a  dozen  stout  country  fellows,  to  tie  by  the  leg 
to  their  respective  bedposts  the  company  that  so 
abridges  your  opportunity  of  writing  to  me.  Your 


letters  are  the  joy  of  my  heart,  and  I  can  not  en- 
dure to  be  robbed,  by  I  know  not  whom,  of  half  my 
treasure.  But  there  is  no  comfort  without  a  draw- 
back, and  therefore  it  is  that  I,  who  have  unknown 
friends,  have  unknown  enemies  also.  Ever  since 
I  wrote  last  I  find  myself  in  better  health,  and,my 
nocturnal  spasms  and  fever  considerably  abated. 
I  intend  to  write  to  Dr.  Kerr  on  Thursday,  that 
I  may  gratify  him  with  an  account  of  my  amend- 
ment ;  for  to  him  I  know  that  it  will  be  a  gratifi- 
cation. Were  he  not  a  physician  I  should  regret 
that  he  Uves  so  distant,  for  he  is  a  most  agreeable 
man;  but  being  what  he  is,  it  would  be  impossible 
to  have  his  company,  even  if  he  were  a  neighbour, 
unless  in  time  of  sickness;  at  which  time,  whatever 
charms  he  might  have  himself,  my  own  must  ne- 
cessarily  lose  much  of  their  effect  on  him. 

When  I  write  to  you,  my  dear,  what  I  have  al- 
ready related  to  the  General,  I  am  always  fearful 
lest  I  should  tell  you  that  for  news  with  which  you 
are  well  acquainted.  For  once  however  I  will 
venture.— On  Wednesday  last  I  received  from 
Johnson  the  MS.  copy  of  a  specimen,  that  I  had 
sent  to  the  General;  and,  enclosed  in  the  same 
cover,  notes  upon  it  by  an  unknown  critic.  John- 
son, in  a  short  letter,  recommended  him  to  me  as 
a  man  of  unquestionable  learning  and  ability.  On 
perusal  and  consideration  of  his  remarks  I  found 
him  such;  and  having  nothing  so  much  at  heart 
as  to  give  all  possible  security  to  yourself  and  the 
General,  that  my  work  shall  not  come  forth  unfin- 
ished, I  answered  Johnson  that  I  would  gladly 
submit  my  MS.  to  his  friend.  He  is  in  truth  a 
very  clever  fellow,  perfectly  a  stranger  to  me,  and 
one  who  I  promise  you  will  not  spare  for  severity 
of  animadversion,  where  he  shall  find  occasion.  It 
is  impossible  for  you,  my  dearest  Cousin,  to  ex- 
press a  wish  that  I  do  not  equally  feel  a  wish^to 
gratify.  You  are  desirous  that  Maty  should  see 
a  book  of  my  Homer,  and  for  that  reason  if  Maty 
will  see  a  book  of  it,  he  shall  be  welcome,  although 
time  is  likely  to  be  precious,  and  consequently  any 
delay  that  is  not  absolutely  necessary,  as  much  as 
possible  to  be  avoided.  I  am  now  revising  the 
Iliad.  It  is  a  business  that  will  cost  me  four 
months,  perhaps  five;  for  I  compare  the  very 
words  as  I  go,  and  if  much  alteration  should  oc- 
cur, must  transcribe  the  whole.  The  first  book  I 
have  almost  transcribed  already.  To  these  five 
months  Johnson  says  that  nine  more  must  be  add- 
ed for  printing,  and  upon  my  own  experience  I 
will  venture  to  assure  you,  that  the  tardiness  of 
printers  will  make  those  nine  months  twelve. 
There  is  danger  therefore  that  my  subscribers  may 
think  that  I  make  them  wait  too  long,  and  that 
they  who  know  me  not  may  suspect  a  bubble. 
How  glad  shall  I  be  to  read  it  over  in  an  evening, 
book  by  book,  as  fast  a&  1  settle  the  copy,  to  you, 
and  to  Mrs.  Unwin!   She  has  been  my  touch- 


Let.  207,  208. 


LETTERS, 


285 


stone  always,  and  without  reference  to  her  taste 
and  judgment  I  have  printed  nothing.  With  one 
of  you  at  each  elbow,  I  should  think  myself  the 
happiest  of  all  poets. 

The  General  and  I,  having  broken  the  ice,  are 
upon  the  most  comfortable  terms  of  correspondence. 
He  writes  very  affectionately  to  me,  and  I  say  every 
thing  to  him  that  comes  uppermost.  I  could  not 
write  frequently  to  any  creature  living,  upon  any 
other  terms  than  those.  He  tells  me  of  mfirmities 
that  he  has,  which  makes  him  less  active  than  he 
was:  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  he  has  any  such. 
Alas!  alas!  he  was  young  when  I  saw  him,  only 
twenty  years  ago. 

I  have  the  most  affectionate  letter  imaginable 
from  Colman,  who  writes  to  me  like  a  brother. 
The  Chancellor  is  yet  dumb. 

May  God  have  you  in  his  keeping,  my  beloved 
cousin.  Farewell,  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 


MY  DEAREST  COUSIN,        Olney,  Feb.  9,  1786 

I  HAVE  been  impatient  to  tell  you  that  I  am  im- 
patient to  see  you  again.    Mrs.  Unwin  partakes 
with  me  in  all  my  feelings  upon  this  subject,  and 
longs  also  to  see  you.    I  should  have  told  you  so 
by  the  last  post,  but  have  been  so  completely  oc- 
cupied by  this  tormenting  specimen,  that  it  was 
impossible  to  do  it.    I  sent  the  General  a  letter  on 
Monday,  that  would  distress  and  alarm  him;  I 
sent  him  another  yesterday,  that  will  I  hope  quiet 
him  again.    Johnson  has  apologized  very  civilly 
for  the  multitude  of  his  friend's  strictures;  and  his 
friend  has  promised  to  confine  himself  in  future  to 
a  comparison  of  me  with  the  original,  so  that  (I 
doubt  not)  we  shall  jog  on  merrily  together.  And 
now,  my  dear,  let  me  tell  you  once  more,  that 
your  kindness  in  promising  us  a  visit  has  charmed 
us  both.    I  shall  see  you  again.  I  shall  hear  your 
voice.    We  shall  take  walks  together.    I  wUl 
show  you  my  prospects,  the  hovel,  the  alcove,  the 
Ouse,  and  its  banks,  every  thing  that  I  have  de- 
scribed.   I  anticipate  the  pleasure  of  those  days 
not  very  far  distant,  and  feel  a  part  of  it  at  this 
moment.    Talk  not  of  an  inn!    Mention  it  not 
for  your  life!  We  have  never  had  so  many  visit- 
ers but  we  could  easily  accommodate  them  'all; 
though  we  have  received  Unwin,  and  his  wife, 
and  his  sister,  and  his  son,  all  at  once.    My  dear, 
I  will  not  let  you  come  till  the  end  of  May,  or 
beginning  of  June,  because  before  that  time  my 
greenhouse  will  not  be  ready  to  receive  us,  and  it 
is  the  only  pleasant  room  belonging  to  us.  When 
the  plants  go  out,  we  go  in.  I  line  it  with  mats,  and 
spread  the  floor  with  mats ;  and  there  you  shall  sit 
with  a  bed  of  mignonette  at  your  side,  and  a  hedge 
of  Honeysuckles,  roses,  and  jasmine;  and  I  wiU 


make  you  a  bouquet  of  myrtle  every  day.  Sooner 
than  the  time  I  mention  the  country  will  not  be 
in  complete  beauty.    And  I  will  tell  you  what 
you  shall  find  at  your  first  entrance.  Imprimis, 
as  soon  as  you  have  entered  the  vestibule,  if  you 
cast  a  look  on  either  side  of  you,  you  shall  see  on 
the  right  hand  a  box  of  my  making.    It  is  the 
box  in  which  have  been  lodged  all  my  hares,  and 
in  which  lodges  Puss  at  present.    But  he,  poor 
fellow,  is  worn  out  with  age,  and  promises  to  die 
before  you  can  see  him.    On  the  right  hand, 
stands  a  cup-board,  the  work  of  the  same  author; 
it  was  once  a  dove-cage,  but  I  transformed  it. 
Opposite  to  you  stands  a  table,  which  I  also  made. 
But  a  merciless  servant  having  scrubbed  it  until 
it  became  paralytic,  it  serves  no  purpose  now  but 
of  ornament;  and  all  my  clean  shoes  stand  under 
it.    On  the  left  hand,  at  the  farther  end  of  this 
superb  vestibule,  you  will  find  the  door  of  the 
parlour,  into  which  I  will  conduct  you,  and  where 
I  will  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  Unwin,  unless  we 
should  meet  her  before,  and  where  we  will  be  as 
happy  as  the  day  is  long.    Order  yourself,  my 
cousin,  to  the  Swan  at  Newport,  and  there  you 
shall  find  me  ready  to  conduct  you  to  Olney. 

My  dear,  I  have  told  Homer  what  you  say 
about  casks  and  urns,  and  have  asked  him,  whe- 
ther he  is  sure  that  it  is  a  cask,  in  which  Jupiter 
keeps  his  wine.  He  swears  that  it  is  a  cask,  and 
that  it  will  never  be  any  thing  better  than  a  cask 
to  eternity.  So  if  the  god  is  content  with  it,  we 
must  even  wonder  at  his  taste,  and  be  so  too. 
Adieu!  my  dearest,  dearest  cousin,  W,  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN,  ,     Olney,  Feb.  11,  1786, 

It  must  be  (1  suppose)  a  fortnight  or  thereabout 
since  I  wrote  last,  I  feel  myself  so  alert  and  so 
ready  to  write  again.  Be  that  as  it  may,  here  I 
come  We  talk  of  nobody  but  you.  What  we 
will  do  with  you  when  we  get  you,  where  you 
shall  walk,  where  you  shall  sleep,  in  short  every 
thing  that  bears  the  remotest  relation  to  your  well- 
being  at  Olney,  occupies  all  our  talkmg  tune, 
which  is  all  that  I  do  not  spend  at  Troy. 

I  have  every  reason  for  writing  to  you  as  often 
as  I  can,  but  I  have  a  particular  reason  for  doing 
it  now.  1  want  to  tell  you  that  by  the  Diligence 
on  Wednesday  next,  I  mean  to  send  you  a  qmre 
of  my  Homer  for  Maty's  perusal.  It  will  contain 
the  first  book,  and  as  much  of  the  second  as  brings 
'us  to  the  catalogue  of  the  ships,  andis  every  mor- 
'sel  of  the  revised  copy  that  I  have  transcribed. 
My  dearest  cousin,  read  it  yourself,  let  the  Gene- 
ral read  it,  do  what  you  please  with  it,  so  that  it 
reach  Johnson  in  due  time.  But  let  Maty  ho 
the  only  critic  that  has  any  thing  to  do  with  it. 


286 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Thfi  vexation,  tlie  perplexity,  that  attends  a  mul- 
tiplicity of  criticisms  by  various  hands,  many  of 
which  are  sure  to  be  futile,  many  of  them  ill- 
founded,  and  some  of  them  contradictory  to  others, 
is  inconceivable,  except  by  the  autlior,  whose  ill- 
lated  work  happens  to  be  the  subject  of  them. 
This  also  appears  to  be  self-evident,  that  if  a 
work  have  passed  under  the  review  of  one  man 
of  taste  and  learning,  and  have  had  the  good  for- 
tune to  please  him,  his  approbation  gives  security 
for  that  of  all  others  qualified  like  himself  I 
speak  thus,  my  dear,  after  having  just  escaped 
from  such  a  storm  of  trouble,  occasioned  by  end- ! 
less  remarks,  hints,  suggestions,  and  objections,  as 
drove  me  also  to  despair,  and  to  the  very  verge  of 
a  resolution  to  drop  my  undertaking  for  ever. 
With  infinite  difficulty  I  at  last  sifted  the  chaff 
from  the  wheat,  availed  myself  of  what  appeared 
to  me  to  be  just,  and  rejected  the  rest,  but  not  till 
the  labour  and  anxiety  had  nearly  undone  all  that 
Kerr  had  been  doing  for  me.    My  beloved  cousin, 
trust  me  for  it,  as  you  safely  may,  that  temper' 
vanity,  and  self-importance,  had  nothing  to  do  in 
all  this  distress  that  I  suffered.    It  was  merely 
the  effect  of  an  alarm,  that  I  could  not  help  taking, 
when  I  compared  the  great  trouble  I  had  with  a 
few  lines  only,  thus  handled,  with  that  which  I 
foresaw-  such  handling  of  the  whole  must  neces- 
sarily give  me.    I  felt  beforehand  that  my  consti- 
tution would  not  bear  it.    I  shall  send  up  this 
second  specimen  in  a  box,  that  I  have  made  on 
purpose;  and  when  Maty  has  done  with  the  copy, 
and  you  have  done  with  it  yourself,  then  you 
must  return  it  in  said  box  to  my  translatorship. 
Though  Johnson's  friend  has  teased  me  sadly,  I 
verily  believe  that  I  shall  have  no  more  such  cause 
to  complain  of  him.    We  now  understand  one 
another,  ^nd  I  firmly  believe  that  I  might  have 
gone  the  world  through,  before  I  had  found  his 
equal  in  an  accurate  and  familiar  acquaintance 
with  the  original. 

A  letter  to  Mr.  Urban  in  the  late  Gentleman's 
Magazine,  of  which  I's  book  is  the  subject,  pleases 
me  more  than  any  thing  I  have  seen  in  the  way 
of  eulogium  yet.    J  have  no  guess  of  the  author. 

I  do  not  wish  to  remind  the  Chancellor  of  his 
promise.  Ask  you  why,  my  cousin'?  Because  I 
suppose  it  would  be  impossible.  He  has  no  doubt 
forgotten  it  entirely,  and  would  be  obliged  to  take 
my  word  for  the  truth  of  it,  which  I  could  not 

bear.    We  drank  tea  together  with  Mrs.  C  e, 

and  her  sister,  in  King-street,  Bloomsbury,  and 
there  was  the  promise  made.  I  said — "  Thurlow 
I  am  nobody,  and  shall  be  always  nobody,  and 
you  will  be  Chancellor.  You  shall  provide  for 
me  when  you  are."    He  smiled,  and  replied 


Let.  209. 


four  years  have  passed  since  the  day  of  the  date 
thereof;  and  to  mention  it  now  would  be  to  up- 
braid him  with  inattention  to  his  blighted  troth. 
IVeither  do  I  suppose  he  could  easily  serve  such 
a  creature  as  I  am,  if  he  would. 

Adieu,  whom  I  love  entirely,  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 


,  r  ,    =  I 

surely  will."  "These  ladies,"  said  I,  "are  wit- 
nesses." He  still  smiled,  and  said—"  Let  them  be 
80,  for  I  will  certainly  do  it."    But  alas!  twenty- 


MY  DEAREST  COUSIN,       Olneij,  Feb.  19,  1786 

Since  so  it  must  be,  so  it  shall  be.    If  you  will 
not  sleep  under  the  roof  of  a  friend,  may  you 
never  sleep  under  the  roof  of  an  enemy !   An  ene- 
my however  you  will  not  presently  find.  Mrs. 
Unwin  bids  me  mention  her  affectionately,  and 
tell  you  that  she  willingly  gives  up  a  part,  for  the 
sake  of  the  rest,  willingly,  at  least  as  far  as  wil- 
hngly  may  consist  with  some  reluctance;  I  feel  my 
reluctance  too.    Our  design  was,  that  you  should 
have  slept  in  the  room  that  serves  me  for  a  study, 
and  Its  having  been  occupied  by  you  would  have 
been  an  additional  recommendation  of  it  to  me. 
But  all  reluctances  are  superseded  by  the  thought 
of  seeing  you:  and  because  we  have  nothing  so 
much  at  heart  as  the  wish  to  see  you  happy  and 
comfortable,  we  are  desirous  therefore  to  accommo- 
date you  to  your  own  mind,  and  not  to  ours.  Mrs, 
Unwin  has  already  secured  for  you  an  apartment,' 
or  rather  two,  just  such  as  we  could  wish.  The 
house  in  which  you  will  find  them  is  within  thirty 
yards  of  our  own,  and  opposite  to  it.    The  whole 
affair  is  thus  commodiously  adjusted;  and  now  1 
have  nothing  to  do  but  to  wish  for  June;  and 
June,  my  cousin,  was  never  so  wished  for,  since 
June  was  made.    I  shall  have  a  thousand  things 
to  hear,  and  a  thousand  to  say,  and  they  will  all 
rush  into  my  mind  together,  till  it  will  be  so 
crowded,  with  things  impatient  to  be  said,  that 
for  some  time  I  shall  say  nothing.    But  no  mat- 
ter—sooner or  later  they  will  all  come  out;  and 
since  we  shall  have  you  the  longer  for  not  having 
you  under  our  own  roof  (a  circumstance,  that, 
more  than  any  thing,  reconciles  us  to  that  mea- 
sure), they  will  stand  the  better  chance.  After 
so  long  a  separation,  a  separation  that  of  late 
seemed  likely  to  last  for  life,  we  shall  meet  each 
other  as  alive  from  the  dead ;  and  for  my  own  part 
I  can  truly  say,  that  I  have  not  a  friend  in  the 
other  world,  whose  resurrection  would  give  me 
greater  pleasure. 

I  am  truly  happy,  my  dear,  in  having  pleased 
you  with  what  you  have  seen  of  my  Homer.  I 
wish  that  all  English  readers  had  your  unsophisti- 
cated, or  rather  unadulterated  taste,  and  could 
reUsh  simplicity  like  you.  But  I  am  well  aware 
that  in  this  respect  I  am  under  a  disadvantage, 
and  that  many,  especially  many  ladies,  missing 
many  turns  and  prettinesses  of  expression,  that 


.Let.  210,.  211. 


LETTERS. 


287 


they  have  admired  in  Pope,  will  account  my  trans-  not  his  consolations  from  you.  I  know  by  expe- 
Iktion  in  those  particulars  defective.  But  I  com-  rience  that  they  are  neither  few  nor  small ;  and 
fort  myself  with  the  thought,  that  in  reality  it  is  though  I  feel  for  you  as  I  never  felt  for  man  before, 
no  defect;  on  the  contrary,  that  the  want  of  all  yet  do  I  sincerely  rejoice  in  this,  that  whereas 


there  is  but  one  true  comforter  in  the  universe, 
under  afflictions  such  as  yours,  you  both  know  him, 
and  know  where  to  seek  him.  I  thought  you  a 
man  the  most  happily  mated,  that  I  had  ever  seen, 
and  had  great  pleasure  in  your  felicity.  Pardon 
me,  if  now  I  feel  a  wish  that,  short  as  my  acquaint- 
ance with  her  was,  I  had  never  seen  her.  I  should 
have  mourned  with  you,  but  not  as  I  do  now. 
Mrs.  Unwin  sympathizes  with  you  also'  most  sin- 
cerely, and  you  neither  are,  nor  will  be  soon  for- 
gotten in  such  prayers  as  we  can  make  at  Olney. 
1  will  not  detain  you  longer  now,  my  poor  afflicted 
friend,  than  to  commit  you  to  the  tender  mercy 
of  God,  and  to  bid  you  a  sorrowful  adieu ! 

Adieu!  ever  yours,  W.  C, 


such  embellishments  as  do  not  belong  to  the  on 
ginal  will  be  one  of  its  principal  merits  with  per 
son^  indeed  capable  of  reUshing  Homer.  He  is 
the  best  poet  that  ever  lived  for  many  reasons,  but 
for  none  more  than  for  that  ma,jestic  plainness  that 
distinguishes  him  from  all  others.  As  an  accom- 
plished person  moves  gracefully  without  thinking 
of  it,  in  like  manner  the  dignity  of  Homer  seems 
to'  cost  him  no  labour.  It  was  natural  to  him  to 
say  great  things,  and  to  say  them  well,  and  httle 
ornaments  were  beneath  his  notice.  If  Maty,  my 
dearest  cousin,  should  return  to  you  my  copy  with 
any  such  strictures  as  may  make  it  necessary  for 
me  to  see  it  again,  before  it  goes  to  Johnson,  in 
that  case  you  shall  send  it  to  me,  otherwise  to 
Johnson  immediately;  for  he  writes  me  word  he 
wishes  his  friend  to  go  to  work  upon  it  as  soon  as 
possible.  When  you  come,  my  dear,  we  will 
hang  all  these  critics  together.  For  they  have 
worried  me  without  remorse  or  conscience.  At 
least  one  of  them  has.  I  had  actually  murdered 
more  than  a  few  of  the  best  lines  in  the  specimen, 
in  compUance  with  his  requisitions,  but  plucked 
up  my  courage  at  last,  and  in  that  very  last  oppor-  j  a  proof  of  it,  T  make  you  a  covenant,  that  I  would 
tunity  that  I  had,  recovered  them  to  Ufe  again  by  I  hardly  have  made  to  them  all  united.  I  do  not 
restoring  the  original  reading.  At  the  same  time  j  indeed  absolutely  covenant,  promise,  and  agree, 
I  readily  confess  that  the  specimen  is  the  better!  that  I  will  discard  all  my  elisions,  but  I  hereby 
for  all  this  discipline  its  author  has  undergone ; .  bind  myself  to  dismiss  as  many  of  them  as,  with- 
but  then  it  has  been  more  indebted  for  its  improve-  out  sacrificing  energy  to  sound,  I  can.  It  is  in- 
ment  to  that  pointed  accuracy  of  examination,  to  cumbent  upon  me  in  the  mean  time  to  say  some- 
which  I  was  myself  excited,  than  to  any  proposed ,  thing  in  justification  of  the  few  that  I  shall  retam, 
amendments  from  Mr.  Critic;  for  as  sure  as  you!  ^^^^  ^  "^^y  '^^"^  ^  P^^^  mounted  rather  on  a 
are  my  cousin,  whom  I  long  to  see  at  Olney,  so  |  mule  than  on  Pegasus.  In  the  first  place.  The, 
surely  would  he  have  done  me  irritable  mischief,  ji^  a  barbarism.  We  are  mdebted  for  it  to  the 
if  I  would  have  given  him  leave.  !  Celts,  or  the  Goths,  or  to  the  Saxons,  or  perhaps 

My  friend  Bagot  writes  to  me  in  a  most  friend- !  to  them  all.  In  the  two  best  languages  tnat  ever 
ly  strain,  and  calls  loudly  upon  me  for  original  j  were  spoken,  the  Greek  and  the  Latm,  there  is  no 
poetry.  When  I  shall  have  done  with  Homer, !  similar  incumbrance  of  expression  to  be  found, 
probably  he  will  not  call  in  vain.  Having  found  Secondly,  The  perpetual  use  of  it  m  our  language 
the  prime  feather  of  a  swan  on  the  banks  of  the  is  to  us  miserable  poets  attended  with  two  great 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Olney,  March  6,  1786. 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN, 

Your  opinion  has  more  weight  with  me  than 
that  of  all  the  critics  in  the  world ;  and  to  give  you 


smug  and  silver  Trent,  he  keeps  it  for  me. 

Adieu,  dear  cousin,  W. 


inconveniences.    Our  verse  consisting  only  of  ten 
syllables,  it  not  unfrequently  happens  that  a  fifth 
part  of  a  line  is  to  be  engrossed,  and  necessarily 
I  am  sorry  that  the  General  has  such  indifterent  ^^^^  (unless  elision  prevents  it)  by  this  abominable 
health.    He  must  npt  die.    1  can  by  no  means  intruder;  and,  which  is  worse  in  my  account,  open 


spare  a  person  so  kind  to  me. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT 
•  Olney,  Feb.  27,  1786, 


vowels  are  continually  the  consequence — The  ele- 
ment—The air,  &c.  Thirdly,  the  French,  who 
are  equally  with  the  English  chargeable  with  bar- 
barism in  this  particular,  dispose  of  their  Le  and 
their  La  without  ceremony,  and  always  take  care 
that  they  shall  be  absorbed,  both  in  verse  and  in 
may  God  prose,  in  the  vowel  that  immediately  follows  them. 


Alas!  alas!  my  dear,  dear  friend 
himself  comfort  you!  I  will  not  be  so  absurd  as  to  Fourthly,  and  I  believe  lastly,  (and  for  your  sake 
attempt  it.    By  the  close  of  your  letter  it  should  I  wish  it  may  prove  so)  the  practice  of  cutting 
seem,  that  in  this  hour  of  great  trial  he  withholds .  short 


The  is  warranted  by  Milton,  who  of  jill 


288 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  !212. 


English  poets  that  ever  lived,  had  certainly  the 
finest  car.  Dr.  Warton  indeed  has  dared  to  say 
that  he  had  a  bad  one;  for  which  he  deserves,  as 
far  as  critical  demerit  can  deserve  it,  to  lose  his 
own.  I  thought  I  had  done,  but  there  is  still  a 
fifthly  behind,  and  it  is  this,  that  the  custom  of 
abbreviating  The  belongs  to  the  style  in  which, 
in  my  advertisement  annexed  to  the  specimen,  1 
profess  to  write.  The  use  of  that  style  would  have 
warranted  me  in  the  practice  of  much  gueater  li- 
berty of  this  sort  than  I  ever  intended  to  take.  In 
perfect  consistence  with  that  style  I  might  say, 
r  th'  tempest,  V  th'  door-way,  &c.,  which  however 
I  would  not  allow  myself  to  do,  because  I  was 
aware  that  it  WQuld  be  objected  to,  and  with  rea- 
son. But  it  seems  to  me  for  the  causes  above  said 
that  when  I  shorten  T/ie,  before  a  vowel,  or  before 
wh^  as  in  the  hne  ^ou  mention, 

"Than  th'  whole  broad  Hellespont  in  all  its  parts," 

my  license  is  not  equally  exceptionable,  because 
W  though  he  rank  as  a  consonant  in  the  word 
whole,  is  not  allowed  to  announce  himself  to  the 
ear;  and  H  is  an  aspirate.  But  as  I  said  at  the 
beginning,  so  say  I  still,  I  am  most  willing  to  con- 
form myself  to  your  very  sensible  observation,  that 
it  is  necessary,  if  we  would  please,  to  consult  the 
taste  of  our  own  day;  neither  would  I  have  pelted 
you,  my  dearest  cousin,  with  any  part  of  this  vol- 
ley of  good  reasons,  had  I  not  designed  them  as  an 
answer  to  those  objections  which  you  say  you  have 
heard  from  others.  But  1  only  mention  them. 
Though  satisfactory  to  myself,  I  waive  them,  and 
will  allow  to  The  his  whole  dimensions,  whenso- 
ever it  can  be  done. 


will  of  course  pass  into  your  hands  before  they 
are  sent  to  Johnson.  The  quire  that  I  sent  is 
now  in  the  hands  of  Johnson's  friend.  I  intended 
to  have  told  you  in  my  last,  but  forgot  it,  that  John- 
son behaves  very  handsomely  in  the  affair  of  my 
two  volumes.  He  a(;ts  with  a  liberality  not  often 
found  in  persons  of  his  occupation,  and  to  mention 
it,  when  occasion  calls  me  to  it,  is  a  justice  due  to 
him. 

I  am  very  much  pleased  with  Mr.  Stanley's  let- 
ter— several  compliments  were  paid  me,  on  the 
subject  of  that  first  volume,  by  my  own  friends ; 
but  I  do  not  recollect  that  I  ever  knew  the  opinion 
of  a  stranger  about  it  before,  whether  favourable 
or  otherwise ;  I  only  heard  by  a  side  wind,  that 
it  was  very  much  read  in  Scotland,  and  more  than 
here. 

Farewell,  my  dearest  cousin,  v/hom  we  expect, 
of  whom  we  talk  continually,  and  whom  we  con- 
tinually long  for.  W.  C. 

Your  anxious  wishes  for  my  success  delight  me, 
and  you  may  rest  assured,  my  dear,  that  I  have  all 
the  ambition  on  the  subject  that  you  can  wish  me 
to  feel.  I  more  than  admire  my  author.  I  often 
stand  astonished  at  his  beauties.  I  am  for  ever 
amused  with  the  translation  of  him,  and  I  have 
received  a  thousand  encouragements.  These  are 
all  so  many  happy  omens,  that  I  hope  shall  be 
verified  by  the  event. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN 


MY  DKAR  FRIEND,  March  13,  1786. 

I  SEEM  to  be  about  to  write  to  you,  but  I  foresee 
Thou  only  critic  of  my  verse  that  is  to  be  found '  that  it  will  not  be  a  letter,  but  a  scrap  that  I 

shall  send  you.  I  could  tell  you  things  that,  know- 
ing how  much  you  interest  yourself  in  my  suc- 
cess, I  am  sure  would  please  you,  but  every  mo- 
ment of  my  leisure  is  necessarily  spent  at  Troy. 
I  am  revising  my  translation,  and  bestowing  on  it 
more  la,bour  than  at  first.    At  the  repeated  solici- 


in  all  the  earth,  whom  I  love,  what  shall  I  say  in 
answer  to  your  own  objection  to  that 


"  Softly  he  plac'd  his  hand 
On  the  old  man's  hand,  and  push'd  it  gently  aviray  7" 


I  can  say  neither  more  nor  less  than  this,  that 
when  our  dear  friend,  the  General,  sent  me  his  |  tation  of  General  Cowper,  who  had  doubtless  irre- 
opinion  of  the  specimen,  quoting  those  very  few  |  fragable  reason  on  his  side,  I  have  put  my  book 
words  from  it,  he  added,  "With  this  part  I  was 'into  the  hands  of  the  most  extraordinary  critic 
particularly  pleased ;  there  is  nothing  in  poetry  j  that  I  have  ever  heard  of.  He  is  a  Swiss ;  has 
more  descriptive."  Such  were  his  very  words,  j  an  accurate  knowledge  of  English,  and  for  his 
Taste,  my  dear,  is  various:  there  is  nothing  so  knowledge  of  Homer  has,  I  verily  believe,  no  fel- 
various ;  and  even  between  the  persons  of  the  best :  low.  Johnson  recommended  him  to  me.  I  am 
taste  there  are  diversities  of  opinion  on  the  same  I  to  send  him  the  quires  as  fast  as  I  finish  them  off, 
subject,  for  which  it  is  not  possible  to  account.  So  and  the  first  is  now  in  his  hands.  I  have  the  corn- 
much  for  these  matters.  1  fort  to  be  able  to  tell  you,  that  he  is  very  much 
You  advise  me  to  consult  the  General,  and  to  pleased  with  what  he  has  seen.  Johnson  wrote 
confide  in  him.  I  follow  your  advice,  and  have  to  me  lately  on  purpose  to  tell  me  so.  Things 
done  both.  By  the  last  post  I  asked  his  permis- j  having  taken  this  turn,  I  fear  that  I  must  beg  a' 
ftion  to  send  him  the  books  of  my  Homer,  as  fast  release  from  my  engagement  to  put  the  MS.  into 
as  1  should  finish  them  off.  I  shall  be  glad  of  his  your  hands.  I  am  bound  to  print  as  soon  as  three 
remarks,  and  more  glad  tlian  of  any  thing,  to  do  hundred  shall  have  subscribed,  and  consequently 
lhat  which  I  hope  maybe  agreeable  to  him.  They  have  not  an  hour  to  spare. 


Let.  213, 214. 


LETTERS. 


289 


People  generally  love  to  go  where  they  are  ad- 
mircvi,  yet  lady  Hesketh  complains  of  not  having 
seen  you.  Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

April  5,  1786. 
I  DID,  as  you  suppose,  bestow  all  possible  con- 
sideration on  the  subject  of  an  apology  for  my 
Homerican  undertaking.  I  turned  the  matter 
about  in  ray  mind  an  hundred  different  ways,  and 
in  every  way  in  which  it  would  present  itself 
found  it  an  impracticable  business.  It  is  impossi- 
ble for  me,  with  what  delicacy  soever  I  may  man- 
age it,  to  state  the  objections  that  lie  against  Pope's 
translation,  without  incurring  odium,  and  the  im- 
putation of  arrogance;  foreseeing  this  danger,  I 
choose  to  say  nothing.  W.  C. 

P.  S. — You  may  well  wonder  at  my  courage, 
who  have  undertaken  a  work  of  such  enormous 
length.  You  would  wonder  more  if  you  knew 
that  I  translated  the  whole  Iliad  with  no  other 
help  than  a  Clavis.  But  I  have  since  equipped 
myself  better  for  this  immense  journey,  and  am 
revising  the  work  in  company  with  a  good  com- 
mentator. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH, 

Olney,  April  17,  1786. 

MT  DEAREST  COUSIN, 

If  you  wUl  not  quote  Solomon,  my  dearest  cou- 
sin, I  will.  He  says,  and  as  beautifully  as  truly — 
"  Hope  deferred  maketh  the  heart  sick,  but  when 
the  desire  cometh,  it  is  a  tree  of  life !"  I  feel  how 
much  reason  he  had  on  his  side  when  he  made 
this  observation,  and  am  myself  sick  of  your  fort- 
night's delay. 

The  vicarage  was  built  by  Lord  Dartmouth, 
and  was  not  finished  till  some  time  after  we  ar- 
rived at  Olney,  consequently  it  is  new.  It  is  a 
smart  stone  building  well  sashed,  by  much  too 
good  for  the  living,  but  just  what  I  would  wish 
for  you.  It  has,  as  you  justly  concluded  from  my 
premises,  a  garden,  but  rather  calculated  for  use 
than  ornament.  It  is  square,  and  well  walled,  but 
has  neither  arbour,  nor  alcove,  nor  other  shade, 
except  the  shadow  of  the  house.  But  we  have 
two  gardens,  which  are  yours.  Between  your 
mansion  and  ours  is  interposed  nothing  but  an 
orchard,  into  which  a  dooi'  opening  out  of  our 
garden  affords  us  the  easiest  communication  imag- 
inable, will  save  the  round-about  by  the  town,  and 
make  both  houses  one.  Your  chamber-windows 
look  over  the  river,  and  over  the  meadows,  to  a ' 


village  called  Emberton,  and  command  the  whole 
length  of  a  long  bridge,  described  by  a  certain  poet, 
together  with  a  view  of  the  road  at  a  distance. 
Should  you  wish  for  books  at  Olney,  you  must 
bring  them  with  you,  or  you  will  wish  in  vain,  for 
I  have  none  but  the  works  of  a  certain  poet,  Cow- 
per,  of  whom  perhaps  you  have  heard,  and  they 
are  as  yet  but  two  volumes.  They  may  multiply 
hereafter,  but  at  present  they  are  no  more. 

You  are  the  first  person  for  whom  I  have  heard 
Mrs.  Unwin  express  such  feehngs  as  she  does  fol 
you.  She  is  not  profuse  in  professions,  nor  for- 
ward to  enter  into  treaties  of  friendship  with  new 
faces,  but  when  her  friendship  is  once  engaged,  it 
may  be  confided  in  even  unto  death.  She  loves 
you  already,  and  how  much  more  will  she  love  you 
before  this  time  twelvemonth !  I  have  indeed  en- 
deavoured to  describe  you  to  her,  but  perfectly  as  I 
have  you  by  heart,  I  am  sensible  that  my  picture 
can  not  do  you  justice.  I  never  saw  one  that  did. 
Be  you  what  you  may,  you  are  much  beloved  and 
will  be  so  at  Olney,  and  Mrs.  U.  expects  you  with 
the  pleasure  that  one  feels  at  the  return  of  a  long 
absent,  dear  relation ;  that  is  to  say,  with  a  pleasure 
such  as  mine.  She  sends  you  her  warmest  affec- 
tions. ^ 

On  Friday  I  received  a  letter  from  dear  Anony- 
mous, apprising  me  of  a  parcel  that  the  coach 
would  bring  me  on  Saturday.  Who  is  there  in 
the  world  that  has,  or  thinks  he  has  reason  to  love 
me  to  the  degree  that  he  does  1  But  it  is  no  mat- 
ter. He  chooses  to  be  unknown,  and  his  choice 
is,  and  ever  shall  be  so  sacred  to  me,  that  if  his 
name  lay  on  the  table  before  me  reversed,  I  would 
not  turn  the  paper  about  that  I  might  read  it. 
Much  as  it  would  gratify  me  to  thank  him,  I  would 
turn  my  eyes  away  from  the  forbidden  disco-very. 
I  long  to  assure  him  that  those  same  eyes,  con- 
cerning which  he  expresses  such  kind  apprehen- 
sions, lest  they  should  suffer  by  this  laborious  un- 
dertaking, are  as  well  as  I  could  expect  them  to 
be,  if  1  were  never  to  touch  either  book  or  pen. 
Subject  to  weakness,  and  occasional  slight  inflam- 
mations, it  is  probable  that  they  will  always  be  j 
but  I  can  not  remember  the  time  when  they  en- 
joyed any  thing  so  like  an  exemption  from  those 
infirmities  as  at  present.  One  would  almost  supr 
pose  that  reading  Homer  were  the  best  ophthalmic 
in  the  world.  I  should  be  happy  to  remove  his 
solicitude  on  the  subject,  but  it  is  a  pleasure  that 
he  will  not  let  me  enjoy.  Well  then,  I  will  be 
content  without  it ;  and  so  content  that,  though  I 
believe  you,  my  dear,  to  be  in  full  possession  of 
all  this  mystery,  you  shall  never  know  me,  while 
you  live,  either  directly,  or  by  hints  of  any  sort, 
attempt  to  extort,  or  to  steal  the  secret  from  you. 
I  should  think  myself  as  justly  punishable  as  the 
Bethshemites,  for  looking  into  the  ark,  which  they 
were  not  allowed  to  touch. 


S90 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  215,  316. 


I  have  not  sent  for  Kerr,  for  Kerr  can  do  no- 
thing but  send  me  to  Bath,  and  to  Bath  I  can  not 
go  for  a  thousand  reasons.  The  summer  will  set 
me  up  again ;  I  grow  fat  every  day,  and  shall  be 
as  big  as  Gog  or  Magog,  or  both  put  together,  be- 
fore you  come. 

I  did  actually  live  three  years  with  Mr.  Chap- 
man, a  solicitor,  that  is  to  say,  I  slept  three  years 
in  his  house,  but  I  lived,  that  is  to  say,  I  spent  my 
days  in  Southampton  Row,  as  you  very  well  re- 
member. There  was  I,  and  the  future  Lord  Chan- 
cellor, constantly  employed  from  morning  to  night 
in  gigghng  and  making  giggle,  instead  of  studyihg 
the  law.  O  fie,  cousin  !  how  could  you  do  so'?  I 
am  pleased  with  Lord  Thurlow's  inquiries  about 
me.  If  he  takes  it  into  that  inimitable  head  of 
his,  he  may  make  a  man  of  me  yet.  I  could  love 
him  heartily  if  he  would  but  deserve  it  at  my 
hands.  That  I  did  so  once  is  certain.  The  Duch- 
ess of  ,  who  in  the  world  set  her  a  going'? 

But  if  all  the  duchesses  in  the  world  were  spin- 
ning, like  so  many  whirligigs,  for  my  benefit,  I 
would  not  stop  them.  It  is  a  noble  thing  to  be  a 
poet,  it  makes  all  the  world  so  Hvely.  I  might 
have  preached  more  sermons  than  even  Tillotson 
did,  and  better,  and  the  world  would  have  been 
still  fast  asleep,  bil  a  volume  of  verse  is  a  fiddle 
that  puts  the  universe  in  motion. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend  and  cousin,  W.  C. 

TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Olney,  April  24,  1786. 

Your  letters  are  so  much  my  comfort  that  I 
often  tremble  lest  by  any  accident  I  should  be  dis- 
appointed; and  the  more  because  you  have  been, 
more  than  once,  so  engaged  in  company  on  the 
writing  day,  that  I  have  had  a  narrow  escape.  Let 
me  give  you  a  piece  of  good  counsel,  my  cousin ; 
follow  my  laudable  example,  write  when  you  can, 
take  Time's  forelock  in  one  hand,  and  a  pen  in 
the  other,  and  so  make  sijre  of  your  opportunity. 
It  is  well  for  me  that  you  write  faster  than  any 
body,  and  more  in  an  hour  than  other  people  in 
two,  else  I  know  not  what  would  become  of  me. 
When  I  read  your  letters  I  hear  you  talk,  and  I 
love  talking  letters  dearly,  especially  from  you. 
Well !  the  middle  of  June  will  not  be  always  a 
thousand  years  off,  and  when  it  comes  I  shall  hear 
you,  and  see  you  too,  and  shall  not  care  a  farthing 
then  if  you  do  not  touch  a  pen  in  a  month.  By 
the  way,  you  must  either  send  me,  or  bring  me 
some  more  paper,  for  before  the  moon  shall  have 
performed  a  few  more  revolutions  I  shall  not  have 
a  scrap  left,  and  tedious  revolutions  they  are  just 
now,  that  is  certain. 

I  give  you  leave  to  be  as  peremptory  as  you 
please,  especially  at  a  distance;  but  when  you  say 


that  you  are  a  Cowper  (and  the  better  it  is  for  the 
Cowpers  that  such  you  are,  and  I  give  them  joy 
of  you,  with  all  my  heart)  you  must  not  forget  that 
I  boast  myself  a  Cowper  too,  and  have  my  hu- 
mours, and  fancies,  and  purposes,  and  determina- 
tions, as  well  as  others  of  my  name,  and  hold  them 
as  fast  as  they  can.  You  indeed  tell  me  how  often 
I  shall  see  you  when  you  come.  A  pretty  story 
truly.  I  am  a  he  Cowper,  my  dear,  and  claim 
the  privileges  that  belong  to  my  noble  sex.  But 
these  matters  shall  be  settled,  as  my  cousin  Aga- 
memnon used  to  say,  at  a  more  convenient  time. 

I  shall  rejoice  to  see  the  letter  you  promise  me, 
for  though  I  met  with  a  morsel  of  praise  last  week, 
I  do  not  know  that  the  week  current  is  likely  to 
produce  me  any,  and  haying  lately  been  pretty 
much  pampered  with  that  diet,  I  expect  to  find 
myself  rather  hungry  by  the  time  when  your  next 
letter  shall  arrive.  It  will  therefore  be  very  op- 
portune.   The  morsel  above  alluded  to,  came  from 

— whom  do  you  think '?    From  ,  but  she 

desires  that  her  authorship  may  be  a  secret.  And 
in  my  answer  I  promised  not  to  divulge  it  except 
to  you.  It  is  a  pretty  copy  of  verses,  neatly  writ- 
ten, and  well  turned,  and  when  you  come  you 
shall  see  them.  I  intend  to  keep  all  pretty  things 
to  myself  till  then,  that  they  may  serve  me  as  a 
bait  to  lure  you  hither  more  effectually.    The  last 

letter  that  I  had  from  I  received  so  many 

years  since,  that  it  seems  as  if  it  had  reached  me 
a  good  while  before  I  was  born. 

I  was  grieved  at  the  heart  that  the  General  could 
not  come,  and  that  illness  was  in  part  the  cause 
that  hindered  him.  I  have  sent  him,  by  his  ex- 
press desire,  a  new  edition  of  the  first  book,  and 
half  the  second.  He  would  not  suflfer  me  to  send 
it  to  you,  my  dear,  lest  you  should  post  it  away 
to  Maty  at  once.  He  did  not  give  that  reason, 
but,  being  shrewd,  [  found  it. 

The  grass  begins  to  grow,  and  the  leaves  to  bud, 
and  every  thing  is  preparing  to  be  beautiful  against 
you  come.  Adieu,  W.  C. 

You  inquire  of  our  walks,  I  perceive,  as  well  as 
of  our  rides.  They  are  beautiful.  You  inquire 
also  concerning  a  cellar.  You  have  two  cellars. 
Oh!  what  years  have  passed  since  we  took  the 
same  walks,  and  drank  out  of  the  same  bottle! 
but  a  few  more  weeks  and  then ! 

TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Olney,  May  8, 178G. 
I  DID  not  at  all  d.  ubt  that  your  tenderness  for 
my  feelings  had  inclined  you  to  suppress  in  your 
letters  to  me  the  intelligence  concerning  Maty's 
critique,  that  yet  reached  me  from  anotlicr  quarter. 
When  I  wrote  to  you  I  had  not  learned  it  from 


Let.  216. 


LETTERS. 


291 


the  General,  but  from  my  friend  Bull,  who  only 
knew  it  by  hearsay.  The  next  post  brought  me 
the  news  of  it  from  the  first-mentioned,  and  the 
critique  itself  enclosed.  Together  with  it  came 
also  a  squib  discharged  against  me  in  the  Public 
Advertiser.  The  General's  letter  found  me  in  one 
of  my  most  melancholy  moods,  and  my  spirits  did 
not  rise  on  the  receipt  of  it.  The  letter  indeed  that 
he  had  cut  from  the  newspaper  gave  me  Uttle  pain, 
both  because  it  contained  nothing  formidable, 
though  written  with  malevolence  enough,  and  be- 
cause a  nameless  author  can  have  no  more  weight 
with  his  readers  than  the  reason  which  he  has  on 
his  side  can  give  him.  But  Maty's  animadversions 
hurt  me  more.  In  part  they  appeared  to  me  un- 
just, and  in  part  ill-natured,  and  yet  the  man  him- 
self being  an  oracle  in  every  body's  account,  I  ap- 
prehended that  he  had  done  me  much  mischief 
"Why  he  says  that  the  translation  is  far  from  ex- 
act, is  best  known  to  himself  For  I  know  it  to 
be  as  exact  as  is  compatible  with  poetry,  and 
prose  translations  of  Homer  are  not  wanted,  the 
world  has  one  already.  But  I  will  not  fill  my  let- 
ter to  you  with  hypercriticisms,  I  will  only  add  an 
extract  from  a  letter  of  Colman's,  that  I  received 
last  Friday,  and  will  then  dismiss  the  subject.  It 
came  accompanied  by  a  copy  of  the  specimen 
which  he  himself  had  amended,  and  with  so  much 
taste  and  candour  that  it  charmed  me.  He  says 
as  follows ; 

'  One  copy  I  have  returned  with  some  remarks, 
prompted  by  my  zeal  for  your  success,  not,  Heaven 
knows,  by  arrogance  or  impertinence.  I  know  no 
other  way  at  once  so  plain  and  so  short,  of  deliver- 
ing my  thoughts  on  the  specimen  of  your  transla- 
tion, which  on  the  whole  I  admire  exceedingly 
thinking  it  breathes  the  spirit,  and  conveys  the 
manner  of  the  original;  though  having  here  neither 
Homer,  nor  Pope's  Homer,  I  can  not  speak  pre 
cisely  of  particular  lines  or  expressions,  or  compare 
your  blank  verse  with  his  rhyme,  except  by  de- 
claring, that  I  think  blank  verse  infinitely  more 
congenial  to  the  magnificent  simplicity  of  Homer's 
hexameters,  than  the  confined  couplets,  and  the 
jingle  of  rhyme 


His  amendments  are  chiefly  bestowed  on  the 
lines  encumbered  with  elisions,  and  I  will  just  take 
this  opportunity  to  tell  you,  my  dear,  because  I 
know  you  to  be  as  much  interested  in  what  I  write 
as  myself,  that  some  of  the  most  offensive  of  those 
elisions  were  occasioned  by  mere  criticism.  I  was 
fairly  hunted  into  them,  by  vexatious  objections 

made  without  end  by  ,  and  his  friend,  and 

altered,  and  altered,  till  at  last  I  did  not  care  how 

I  altered.    Many  thanks  for  's  verses,  which 

deserve  just  the  character  you  give  of  them.  They 
-but  I  would  mumble  her  well 


with  a  view  to  emolument.  I  wrote  those  stanzas 
merely  for  my  own  amusement,  and  they  slept  in 
a  dark  closet  years  after  I  composed  them ;  not  in 
the  least  designed  for  publication.  But  when 
Johnson  had  printed  oflf  the  longer  pieces,  of  which 
the  first  volume  principally  consists,  he  wrote  me 
word  that  he  wanted  yet  two  thousand  lines  to 
swell  it  to  a  proper  size.  On  that  occasion  it  was 
that  I  collected  every  scrap  of  verse  that  I  could 
find,  and  that  among  the  rest.  None  of  the  smaller 
poems  had  been  introduced  or  had  been  published 
at  all  with  my  name,  but  for  this  necessity. 

Just  as  I  wrote  the  last  word  I  was  called  down 
to  Dr.  Kerr,  who  came  to  pay  me  a  voluntary 
visit.  Were  I  sick,  his  cheerful  and  friendly  man- 
ner would  almost  restore  me.  Air  and  exercise 
are  his  theme;  them  he  recommends  as  the  best 
physic  for  me,  and  in  all  weathers.  Come  there- 
fore, my  dear,  and  take  a  little  of  this  good  physic 
with  me,  for  you  will  find  it  beneficial  as  well  as 
I ;  come  and  assist  Mrs.  Unwin  in  the  re-establish- 
ment of  your  cousin's  health.  Air  and  exercise, 
and  she  and  you  together,  will  make  me  a  perfect 
Sampson.  Yqji  will  have  a  good  house  over  your  ' 
head,  comfortable  apartments,  obliging  neighbours, 
good  roads,  a  pleasant  countrj^and  in  us  your 
constant  companions,  two  whoJPill  love  you,  and 
do  already  love  you  dearly,  and  with  all  our  hearts. 
If  you  are  in  any  danger  of  trouble,  it  is  from  my- 
self, if  my  fits  of  dejection  seize  me;  and  as  often  as 
they  do,  you  will  be  grieved  for  me ;  but  perhaps 
by  your  assistance  I  shall  be  able  to  resist  them 
better.  If  there  is  a  creature  under  heaven,  from 
whose  co-operations  with  Mrs.  Unwin  I  can  rea- 
sonably expect  such  a  blessing,  that  creature  is 
yourself  I  was  not  without  such  attacks  when  I 
lived  in  London,  though  at  that  time  they  were 
less  oppressive,  but  in  your  company  I  was  never 
unhappy  a  whole  day  in  all  my  life. 

Of  how  much  importance  is  an  author  to  him- 
self! I  return  to  that  abominable  specimen  again, 
just  to  notice  Maty's  impatient  censure  of  the  re- 
petition that  you  mention.  I  mean  of  the  word 
hand.  In  the  original  there  is  not  a  repetition  of  it. 
But  to  repeat  a  word  in  that  manner,  and  on  such 
an  occasion,  is  by  no  means  what  he  calls  it,  a 
modern  invention.  In  Homer  I  could  show  him 
many  such,  and  in  Virgil  they  abound.  Colman, 
who,  in  his  judgment  of  classical  matters,  is  in- 
ferior to  none,  says,  '  /  knoio  not  why  Maty  objects 
to  this  expression.'  I  could  easily  change  it.  But 
the  case  standing  thus,  I  know  not  whether  my 
proud  stomach  will  condescend  so  low.  '  I  rather 
feel  disinclined  to  it. 

One  evening  last  week,  Mrs.  Unwin  and  I  took 
our  walk  to  Weston,  and  as  we  were  returning 
through  the  grove  opposite  to  the  house,  the 


are  neat  and  easy         ^    .         ^  -  i       ^  j 

if  I  could  get  at  her,  for  allowing  herself  to  sup- 1  Throckmortons  presented  themselves  at  the  door, 
pose  for  a  moment  that  I  praised  the  Chancellor  I  They  are  owners  of  a  house  at  Weston,  at  present 


2A 


293 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  217, 


empty.  It  is  a  very  good  one,  infinitely  superior 
to  ours.  When  we  drank  chocolate  with  them, 
they  both  expressed  their  ardent  desire  that  we 
would  take  it,  wishing  to  have  us  for  nearer  neigh- 
hours.  If  you,  my  cousin,  were  not  so  well  pro- 
\ided  for  as  you  are,  and  at  our  very  elbow,  I  verily 
believe  I  should  have  mustered  up  all  my  rhetoric 
to  recommend  it  to  you.  You  might  have  it  for 
ever  without  danger  of  ejectment,  whereas  your 
possession  of  the  vicarage  depends  on  the  hfe  of  the 
vicar,  who  is  eighty-six.  The  environs  are  most 
beautiful,  and  the  village  itself  one  of  the  prettiest 
I  ever  saw.  Add  to  this,  you  would  step  imme- 
diately into  Mr.  Throckmorton's  pleasure  ground, 
where  you  would  not  soil  your  slipper  even  in  win- 
ter. A  most  unfortunate  mistake  was  made  by 
that  gentleman's  bailiff  in  his  absence.  Just  before 
he  left  Weston  last  year  for  the  winter,  he  gave 
him  orders  to  cut  short  the  tops  of  the  flowering 
shrubs,  that  Uned  a  serpentine  walk  in  a  delightful 
grove,  celebrated  in  my  poetship  in  a  little  piece 
that  you  remember  was  called  the  Shrubbery.  The 
dunce,  misapprehending  the  order,  cut  down  and 
fagoted  up  the  whole  grove,  leaving  neither  tree, 
bush,  nor  twig;  nothing  but  stumps  about  as  high 
as  my  ancle.  T.  told  us  that  she  never  saw 

her  husband  so  H^ry  in  her  life.  I  judged  indeed 
by  his  physiognomy,  which  has  great  sweetness  in 
it,  that  he  is  very  little  addicted  to  that  infernal 
passion.  But  had  he  cudgeled  the  man  for  his 
cruel  blunder,  and  the  havoc  made  in  consequence 
of  it,  I  could  have  excused  him. 

I  felt  myself  really  concerned  for  the  Chancel- 
lor's illness,  and  from  what  I  learned  of  it,  both 
from  the  papers,  and  from  General  Cowper,  con- 
cluded that  he  must  die.  I  am  accordingly  de- 
lighted in  the  same  proportion  with  the  news  of 
his  recovery.  May  he  live,  and  Uve  to  be  still  the 
support  of  government!  If  it  shall  be  his  good 
pleasure  to  render  me  personally  any  material  ser- 
vice, I  have  no  objection  to  it.  But  Heaven  knows, 
that  it  is  impossible  fqr  any  living  wight  to  bestow 
less  thought  on  that  subject  than  myself — May 
God  be  ever  with  you,  mv  beloved  cousin ! 

W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN,       Olney,  May  15,  1786. 

From  this  very  morning  I  begin  to  date  the  last 
month  of  our  long  separation,  and  confidently  and 
most  comfortably  hope  that  before  the  fifteenth 
of  June  shall  present  itself,  we  shall  have  seen 
each  other.  Is  it  not  so '?  And  will  it  not  be  one 
of  the  most  extraordinary  eras  of  my  extraordinary 
life?  A  year  ago,  we  neither  corresponded,  nor 
expected  to  meet  in  this  world.  But  this  world  is 
a  scene  of  marvellous  events,  many  of  them  more 


marvellous  than  fiction  itself  would  dare  to  hazard; 
and  (blessed  be  God!)  they  are  not  all  of  the  dis- 
tressing kind.  Now  and  then  in  the  course  of  an 
existence,  whose  hue  is  for  the  most  part  sable,  a 
day  turns  up  that  makes  amends  for  many  sighs, 
and  many  subjects  of  complaint.  Such  a  day 
shall  I  account  the  day  of  your  arrival  at  Olney. 

Wherefore  is  it  (canst  thou  tell  me'?)  that  to- 
gether with  all  those  delightful  sensations,  to  which 
the  sight  of  a  long  absent  dear  friend  gives  birth, 
there  is  a  mixture  of  something  painful;  flutterings, 
and  tumults,  and  I  know  not  what  accompani- 
ments of  our  pleasure,  that  are  in  fact  perfectly 
foreign  from  the  occasion'?  Such  I  feel  when  I 
think  of  our  meeting;  and  such  I  suppose  feel  you ; 
and  the  nearer  the  crisis  approaches,  the  more  I  am 
sensible  of  them.  I  know  beforehand  that  they 
will  increase  with  every  turn  of  the  wheels,  that 
shall  convey  me  to  Newport,  when  I  shall  set  out 
to  meet  you,  and  that  when  we  actually  meet,  the 
pleasure,  and  this  unaccountable  pain  together, 
will  be  as  much  as  I  shall  be  able  to  support.  I 
am  utterly  at  a  loss  for  the  cause,  and  can  only 
resolve  it  into  that  appointment,  by  which  it  has 
been  foreordained  that  all  human  delights  shall  be 
qualified  and  mingled  with  their  contraries.  For 
there  is  nothing  formidable  in  you.  To  me  at 
least  there  is  nothing  such,  no,  not  even  in  your 
menaces,  unless  when  you  threaten  me  to  write  no 
more.  Nay,  I  verily  believe,  did  I  not  know  you 
to  be  what  you  are,  and  had  less  affection  for  you 
than  I  have,  I  should  have  fewer  of  these  emo- 
tions, of  which  I  would  have  none,  if  I  could  help 
it.  But  a  fig  for  them  all !  Let  us  resolve  to  com- 
bat with,  and  to  conquer  them.  They  are  dreams. 
They  are  illusions  of  the  judgment.  Some  enemy 
that  hates  the  happiness  of  human  kind,  and  is 
ever  industrious  to  dash  it,  works  them  in  us ;  and 
their  being  so  perfectly  unreasonable  as  they  are  is 
a  proof  of  it.  Nothing  that  is  svich  can  be  the 
work  of  a  good  agent.  This  I  know  too  by  ex- 
perience, that,  like  all  other  illusions,  they  exist 
only  by  force  of  imagination,  are  indebted  for  their 
prevalence  to  the  absence  of  their  object,  and  in  a 
few  moments  after  its  appearance  cease.  So  then 
this  a  settled  point,  and  the  case  stands  thus.  You 
will  tremble  as  you  draw  near  to  Newport,  and  so 
shall  I.  But  we  will  both  recollect  that  there  is 
no  reason  why  we  should,  and  this  recollection 
will  at  least  have  some  little  eflfect  in  our  favour. 
We  will  likewise  both  take  the  comfort  of  what  we 
know  to  be  true,  that  the  tumult  will  soon  cease, 
and  the  pleasure  long  survive  the  pain,  even  as 
long  as  I  trust  we  ourselves  shall  survive  it. 

What  you  say  of  Maty  gives  me  all  the  conso- 
lation that  you  intended.  We  both  think  it  highly 
probable  that  you  suggest  the  true  cause  of  his 
displeasure,  when  you  suppose  him  mortified  at 
not  having  had  a  part  of  the  translation  laid  before 


Let.  218. 


LETTERS. 


293 


him,  ere  this  specimen  was  published.  The  Ge- 
neral was  very  much  hurt,  and  calls  his  censure 
harsh  and  unreasonable.  He  likewise  sent  me  a 
consolatory  letter  on  the  occasion,  in  which  he 
took  the  kindest  pains  to  heal  the  wound  that  he 
supposed  I  might  have  suffered.  I  am  not  na- 
turally insensible,  and  the  sensibilities  that  I  had 
by  nature  have  been  wonderfully  enhanced  by  a 
long  series  of  shocks,  given  to  a  frame  of  nerves 
that  was  never  very  athletic.  I  feel  accordingly, 
whether  painful  or  pleasant,  in  the  extreme;  am 
easily  elevated,  and  easily  cast  down.  The  frown 
of  a  critic  freezes  my  poetical  powers,  and  dis- 
courages me  to  a  degree  that  makes  me  ashamed 
of  my  own  weakness.  Yet  I  presently  recover  my 
confidence  again.  The  half  of  what  you  so  kindly 
say  in  your  last  would  at  any  time  restore  my 
spirits,  and,  being  said  by  you,  is  infallible.  I  am 
not  ashamed  to  confess,  that  having  commenced 
an  author,  I  am  most  abundantly  desirous  to  suc- 
ceed as  such.  I  have  (what  perhaps  you  little 
suspect  me  of)  in  my  nature  an  infinite  share  of 
ambition.  But  with  it  I  have  at  the  same  time, 
as  you  well  know,  an  equal  share  of  diffidence. 
Vo  this  combination  of  opposite  qualities  it  has 
been  owing  that,  till  lately,  I  stole  through  life 
without  undertaking  any  thing,  yet  always  wish- 
ing to  distinguish  myself  At  last  I  ventured, 
ventured  too  in  the  only  path  that  at  so  late  a 
period  was  yet  open  to  me ;  and  am  determined, 
if  God  have  not  determined  otherwise,  to  work  my 
way  through  the  obscurity  that  has  been  so  long 
my  portion,  into  notice.  Every  thing  therefore 
that  seems  to  threaten  this  my  favourite  purpose 
with  disappointment,  affects  me  nearly.  I  suppose 
that  all  ambitious  minds  are  in  the  same  predica- 
ment. He  who  seeks  distinction  must  be  sensible 
of  disapprobation,  exactly  in  the  same  proportion 
as  he  desires  applause.  And  now,  my  precious 
cousin,  I  have  unfolded  my  heart  to  you  in  this 
particular,  without  a  speck  of  dissimulation.  Some 
people,  and  good  people  too,  would  blame  me.  But 
you  will  not;  and  they  I  think  would  blame  with- 
out just  cause.  We  certainly  do  not  honour  God 
when  we  bury,  or  when  we  neglect  to  improve,  as 
far  as  we  may,  whatever  talent  he  may  have  be- 
stowed on  us.  whether  it  be  httle  or  much.  In 
natural  things,  as  well  as  in  spiritual,  it  is  a  never- 
failing  truth,  that  to  him  who  hath  (that  is  to  him 
who  occupies  what  he  hath  dili|fently,  and  so  as 
to  increase  it)  more  shall  be  given.  Set  me  down 
therefore,  my  dear,  for  an  industrious  rhymer,  so 
long  as  I  shall  have  the  ability.  For  in  this  only 
way  is  it  possible  for  me,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  either 
to  honour  God,  or  to  serve  man,  or  even  to  serve 
myself 

I  rejoice  to  hear  that  Mr.  Throckmorton  wishes 
to  be  on  a  more  intimate  footing.  I  am  shy,  and 
suspect  that  he  is  not  very  much  otherwise;  and 


the  consequence  has  been  that  we  hate  mutually 
wished  an  acquaintance  without  being  able  to  ac- 
complish it.  Blessings  on  you  for  the  hint  that 
you  dropped  on  the  subject  of  the  house  at  Wes-- 
ton!  For  the  burthen  of  my  song  is — '  Since  we 
have  met  once  again,  let  us  never  be  separated,  aS 
we  have  been,  more.'  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Olney,  May  20,  1786. 

About  three  weeks  since  I  met  your  sister  Ches- 
ter at  Mr.  Throckmorton's,  and  from  her  learned 
that  you  are  at  Blithfield,  and  in  health.  Upon 
the  encouragement  of  this  information  it  is  that  I 
write  now ;  I  should  not  otherwise  have  known 
with  certainty  where  to  find  you,  or  have  been 
equally  free  from  the  fear  of  unseasonable  intru- 
sion. May  God  be  with  you,  my  friend,  and  give 
you  a  just  measure  of  submission  to  his  will !  the 
most  effectual  of  all  remedies  for  the  evils  of  this 
changing  scene.  I  doubt  not  that  he  has  granted 
you  this  blessing  already,  and  may  he  still  con-; 
tinue  it ! 

Now  I  will  talk  a  little  about  myself  For  ex- 
cept myself,  living  in  this  Terr^m  angulo,  what 
can  I  have  to  talk  about  1  In  a  scene  of  perfect 
tranquillity,  and  the  profoundest  silence,  I  am  kick- 
ing up  the  dust  of  heroic  narrative,  and  besieging 
Troy  again.  I  told  you  that  I  had  almost  finished 
the  translation  of  the  Iliad,  and  I  verily  thought 
so.  But  1  was  never  more  mistaken.  By  the 
time  when  I  had  reached  the  end  of  ^he  poem,  the 
first  book  of  my  version  was  a  twelvemonth  old., 
When  I  came  to  consider  it  after  having  laid  it 
by  so  long,  it  did  not  satisfy  me.  I  ^et  myself  toi' 
mend  it,  and  I  did  so.  But  still  it  appeared  to  m& 
improveable,  and  that  nothnig  would  so  effectually 
secure  that  point  as  to  give  the  whole  book  a  new 
translation.  With  the  exception  of  very  few  Unes 
I  have  so  done,  and  was  never  in  my  life  so  con- 
vinced of  the  soundness  of  Horace's  advice  to  pub- 
lish nothing  in  haste;  so  much  advantage  have 
I  derived  from  doing  that  twice  which  I  thought  I 
had  accomplished  notably  at  once.  He  indeed 
recommends  nine  years'  imprisonment  of  your 
verses  before  you  send  them  abroad;  but  the  ninth 
part  of  that  time  is  I  believe  as  much  as  there  is 
need  of  to  open  a  man's  eyes  upon  his  own  defects, 
and  to  secure  him  from  the  danger  of  premature 
self-approbation.  Neither  ought  it  to  be  forgotten 
that  nine  years  make  so  wide  an  interval  between 
the  cup  and  the  lip,  that  a  thousand  things  may- 
fall  out  between.  New  engagements  may  occur, 
which  may  make  the  finishing  of  that  which  a 
poet  has  begun,  impossible.  In  nine  years  he 
may  rise  into  a  situation,  or  he  may  sink  into  one 
highly  incompatible  with  his  purpose.    His  con- 


294 


COWPER'I 


'S  WORKS. 


Let.  219. 


stitution  nwy  break  in  nine  years,  and  sickness 
may  disqualify  him  for  improving  what  he  entcr- 
priscd  in  the  days  of  health.  His  incUnation  may 
change,  and  lie  may  find  some  other  employment 
more  agroeablo,  or  another  poet  may  enter  upon 
the  same  work,  and  get  the  start  of  him.  There- 
fore, my  friend  Horace,  though  I  acknowledge 
your  principle  to  be  good,  I  must  confess  that  I 
think  the  practice  you  would  ground  upon  it  car- 
ried to  an  extreme.  The  rigour  that  I  exercised 
upon  the  first  book,  I  intend  to  exercise  upon  all 
that  follow,  and  Jhiave  now  actually  advanced  into 
the  middle  of  the  seventh,  no  where  admitting 
more  than  one  line  in  fifty  of  the  first  translation. 
You  must  not  imagine  that  I  had  been  careless 
and  hasty  in  the  first  instance.  In  truth  I  had 
not;  but  in  rendering  so  excellent  a  poet  as  Homer 
into  our  language,  there  are  so  many  points  to  be 
attended  to  both  in  resppct  to  language  and  num- 
bers, that  a  first  attempt  must  be  fortunate  indeed 
if  it  does  not  call  aloud  for  a  second.  You  saw 
the  specimen,  and  you  saw  (I  am  sure)  one  great 
fault  in  it ;  I  mean  the  harshness  of  some  of  the 
elisions.  I  did  not  altogether  take  the  blame  of 
these  to  myself,  for  into  some  of  them  I  was  actu- 
ally driven  and  hunted  by  a  series  of  reiterated 
objections  made  hi|a  critical  friend,  whose  scruples 
and  delicacies  teazed  me  out  of  all  ray  patience. 
But  no  such  monsters  will  be  found  in  the  volume. 

Your  brother  Chester  has  furnished  me  with 
Barnes's  Homer,  from  whose  notes  I  collect  here 
and  there  some  useful  information,  and  whose  fair 
and  legible  type  preserves  m.e  from  the  danger  of 
being  as  blind  as  was  my  author.  I  saw  a  sister 
of  yours  at  Mr.  Throckmorton's,  but  I  am  not  good 
at  making  myself  heard  across  a  large  room,  and 
therefore  nothing  passed  between  us.  I  felt  how- 
ever that  she  was  my  friend's  sister,  and  I  much 
esteemed  her  for  your  sake. 

Ever  yours,  W.  C. 

P.  S,  The  swan  is  called  argutus  (I  suppose) 
a  non  arguendo^  and  canorus  a  non  canendo. 
But  whether  he  be  dumb  or  vocal,  more  poetical 
than  the  eagle  or  less,  it  is  no  matter.  A  feather 
of  either,  in  token  of  your  approbation  and  esteem, 
will  never,  you  may  rest  assured,  be  an  offence 
to  me. 

TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Olney,  May  25,  1786. 
I  HAVE  at  length,  my  cousin,  found  my  way  into 
my  summer  abode.  I  believe  that  I  described  it  to 
you  some  time  since,  and  will  therefore  now  leave 
it  undescribed.  I  will  only  say  that  I  am  writing 
in  a  bandbox,  situated,  at  least  in  my  account,  de- 
lightfully, because  it  has  a  window  in  one  side 


that  opens  into  that  orchard,  through  which,  as  I 
am  sitting  here,  I  shall  see  you  often  pass,  and 
which  therefore  I  already  prefer  to  all  the  orchards 
in  the  world.  You  do  well  to  prepare  me  for  all 
possible  delays,  because  in  this  life  all  sorts  of  dis- 
appointments are  possible,  and  I  shall  do  well,  if 
any  such  delay  of  your  journey  should  happen,  to 
practise  that  lesson  of  patience  which  you  incul- 
cate. But  it  is  a  lesson  which,  even  with  you  for 
my  teacher,  I  shall  be  slow  to  learn.  Being  sure 
however  that  you  will  not  procrastinate  without 
cause,  I  will  make  myself  as  easy  as  I  can  about 
it,  and  hope  for  the  best.  To  convince  you  how 
much  I  am  under  discipline,  and  good  advice,  I 
will  lay  aside  a  favourite  measure,  influenced  in 
doing  so  by  nothing  but  the  good  sense  of  your  con- 
trary opinion.  I  had  set  my  heart  on  meeting  you 
at  Newport.  In  my  haste  to  see  you  once  again, 
I  was  willing  to  overlook  many  awkwardnesses  I 
could  not  but  foresee  would  attend  it.  I  put  them 
aside  so  long  as  I  only  foresaw  them  myself,  but 
since  I  find  that  you  foresee  them  too,  I  can  no 
longer  deal  so  shghtly  with  them.  It  is  therefore 
determined  that  we  meet  at  Olney.  Much  I  shall 
feel,  but  I  will  not  die  if  I  can  help  it,  and  I  beg 
that  you  will  take  all  possible  care  to  outlive  it 
likewise,  for  I  know  what  it  is  to  be  balked  in  the 
moment  of  acquisition,  and  should  be  loath  to 
know  it  again. 

Last  Monday  in  the  evening  we  walked  to 
Weston,  according  to  our  usual  custom.  It  hap- 
pened, owing  to  a  mistake  of  time,  that  we  set 
out  half  an  hour  sooner  than  usual.  Thi^  mis- 
take we  discovered  while  we  were  in  the  wilder- 
ness. So,  finding  that  we  had  time  before  us,  at> 
they  say,  Mrs.  Unwin  proposed  that  we  should  gt» 
into  the  village,  and  take  a  view  of  the  house  thai 
I  had  just  mentioned  to  you.  We  did  so,  and 
found  it  such  a  one  as  in  most  respects  would  suit 
you  well.  But  Moses  Brown,  our  vicar,  who,  as 
I  told  you,  is  in  his  eighty-sixth  year,  is  not  bound 
to  die  for  that  reason.  He  said  himself,  when  he 
was  here  last  summer,  that  he  should  live  ten 
years  longer,  and  for  aught  that  appears  so  he 
may.  In  which  case,  for  the  sake  of  its  neai 
neighbourhood  to  us,  the  vicarage  has  charms  for 
me,  that  no  other  place  can  rival.  But  this  and 
a  thousand  things  more,  shall  be  talked  over  when 
you  come. 

We  have  been  industriously  cultivating  our  ac- 
quaintance with  our  Weston  neighbours  since  I 
wrote  last,  and  they  on  their  part  have  been  equally- 
diligent  in  the  same  cause.  I  have  a  notion  that 
we  shall  all  suit  well.  I  see  much  in  them  both 
that  I  admire.  You  know  perhaps  that  they  are 
catholics. 

It  is  a  delightful  bundle  of  praise,  my  cousin, 
that  you  have  sent  me.  All  jasmine  and  laven- 
der.   Whoever  the  lady  is,  she  has  evidently  an 


liKT. 


LETTERS, 


295 


admirable  pen,  and  a  cultivated  mind.  If  a  per- 
son reads,  it  is  no  matter  in  what  language,  and  if 
the  mind  be  informed,  it  is  no  matter  whether 
that  mind  belongs  to  a  man  or  a  woman.  The 
taste  and  the  judgment  will  receive  the  benefit 
alike  in  both.  Long  before  the  Task  was  published 
I  made  an  experiment  one  day,  being  in  a  frolick- 
some  mood,  upon  my  friend.  We  were  walking 
in  the  garden,  and  conversing  on  a  subject  similar 
to  these  lines — 

The  few  that  pray  at  all,  pray  oft  amiss, 
And  seeking  grace  t'  improve  the  present  good, 
Would  urge  a  wiser  suit  than  asking  more. 

1  repeated  them,  and  said  to  him  with  an  air  of 
nonchalance,  "  Do  you  recollect  those  lines'?  1 
have  seen  them  somewhere,  where  are  they  V  He 
'  put  on  a  considering  face,  and  after  some  deliber- 
ation replied—"  O,  I  will  tell  you  where  they  must 
be— in  the  Night  Thoughts."  I  was  glad  my 
trial  turned  out  so  well,  and  did  not  undeceive 
him.  I  mention  this  occurrence  only  in  confirma- 
tion of  the  letter-writer's  opinion,  but  at  the  same 
time  I  do  assure  you,  on  the  faith  of  an  honest 
man,  that  1  never  in  my  life  designed  an  imitation 
of  Young,  or  of  any  other  writer ;  for  mimicry  is 
my  abhorrence,  at  least  in  poetry. 

Assure  yourself,  my  dearest  cousin,  that  both  for 
your  sake,  since  you  make  a  point  of  it,  and  for 
my  own,  I  will  be  as  philosophically  careful  as 
possible,  that  these  fine  nerves  of  mine  shall  not 
be  beyond  measure  agitated  when  you  arrive.  In 
truth,  there  is  much  greater  probability  that  they 
will  be  benefited,  and  greatly  too.  Joy  of  heart, 
from  whatever  occasion  it  may  arise,  is  the  best  of 
all  nervous  medicines ;  and  I  should  not  wonder 
if  such  a  turn  given  to  my  spirits  should  have 
even  a  lasting  effect,  of  the  most  advantageous 
kind,  upon  them.  You  must  not  imagine  neither 
that  I  am  on  the  whole  in  any  great  degree  subject 
to  nervous  affections ;  occasionally  I  am,  and  have 
been  these  many  years,  much  Uable  to  dejection. 
But  at  intervals,  and  sometimes  for  an  interval  of 
weeks,  no  creature  would  suspect  it.  For  I  have 
not  that  which  commonly  is  a  symptom  of  such  a 
case  belonging  to  me :  I  mean  extraordinary  ele- 
vation in  the  absence  of  Mr.  Bluedevil.  When 
I  am  in  the  best  health,  my  tide  of  animal  sprightli- 
ness  flows  with  great  equality,  so  that  I  am  never, 
at  any  time,  exalted  in  proportion  as  I  am  some- 
times depressed.  My  depression  has  a  cause,  and 
if  that  cause  were  to  cease,  I  should  be  as  cheer- 
ful thenceforth,  and  perhaps  for  ever,  as  any  man 
need  be.  But,  as  I  have  often  said,  Mrs.  Unwin 
shall  be  my  expositor. 

Adieu,  my  beloved  cousin.    Gpd  grant  that  our 
friendship  which,  while  we  could  see  each  other, 
never  suftered  a  moment's  interruption,  and  which 
so  long  a  separation  has  not  in  the  least  abated, 
20  2a2 


may  glow  in  us  to  our  last  hour,  and  Be  renewed 
in  a  better  world,  there  to  be  perpetuated  for  ever. 

For  you  must  know,  that  I  should  not  love  you 
half  so  well,  if  I  did  not  believe  you  would  be  my 
friend  to  eternity.  There  is  not  room  enough  for 
friendship  to  unfold  itself  in  full  bloom,  in  such  a 
nook  of  life  as  this.  Therefore  I  am,  and  must, 
and  will  be,  Yours  for  ever,  W,  C, 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Olney,  May  29,  1784. 
Thou  dear,  comfortable  cousin,  whose  letters, 
among  all  that  I  receive,  have  this  property  pecu- 
liarly their  own,  that  I  expect  them  without 
trembUng,  and  never  find  any  thing  thaf'does  not 
give  me  pleasure;  for  which  therefore  I  would 
take  nothing  in  exchange  that  the  world  could 
give  me,  save  and  except  that  for  which  I  must 
exchange  them  soon  (and  happy  shall  I  be  to  do 
so),  your  own  company.  That,  indeed,  is  delayed 
a  little  too  long ;  to  my  impatience  at  least  it  seems 
so,  who  find  the  spring,  backward  as  it  is,  too  for- 
ward because  many  of  its  beauties  will  have  faded 
before  you  will  have  an  opportunity  to  see  them. 
We  took  our  customary  walll^esterday  in  the 
wilderness  at  Weston,  and  saw,  with  regret,  the 
laburnums,  syringas,  and  guelder-roses,  some  of 
them  blown,  and  others  just  upon  the  point  of 
blowing,  and  could  not  help  observing — all  these 
will  be  gone  before  Lady  Hesketh  comes.  Still 
however  there  will  be  roses,  and  jasmine,  and  honey- 
suckle, and  shady  walks,  and  cool  alcoves,  and 
you  will  partake  them  with  us.  But  I  want  you 
to  have  a  share  of  every  thing  that  is  delightful 
here,  and  can  not  bear  that  the  advance  of  the 
season  should  steal  away  a  single  pleasure  before 
you  can  come  to  enjoy  it. 

Every  day  I  think  of  you,  and  almost  all  the 
day  long:  I  will  venture  to  say,  that  even  you 
were  never  so  expected  in  your  life.  I  called  last 
week  at  the  ftuaker's  to  see  the  furniture  of  your 
bed,  the  fame  of  which  had  reached  me.  It  is,  I 
assure  you,  superb,  of  printed  cotton,  and  the  sub- 
ject classical.  Every  morning  you  will  open  your 
eyes  on  Phaeton  kneeling  to  Apollo,  and  implor- 
ing his  father  to  grant  him  the  conduct  of  his 
chariot  for  a  day.  May  your  sleep  be  as  sound  as 
your  bed  will  be  sumptuous,  and  your  nights  at 
least  will  be  well  provided  for. 

I  shall  send  up  the  sixth  and  seventh  books  of 
the  Iliad  shortly,  and  shall  address  them  to  you. 
You  will  forward  them  to  the  General.  I  long  to 
show  you  my  workshop,  and  to  see  you  sitting  on 
the  opposite  side  of  my  table.  We  shall  be  as 
close  packed  as  two  wax  figures  in  an  old  fash- 
ioned picture  frame.  I  am  writing  in  it  now.  It 
is  the  place  in  which  I  fabricate  all  my  verse  in 


296 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  221. 


summer  time.  I  rose  an  hour  sooner  than  usual, 
this  morning,  that  I  might  finish  my  sheet  before 
breakfast,  for  1  must  write  this  day  to  the  General. 

The  grass  under  my  windows  is  all  bespangled 
with  dewdrops,  and  the  birds  are  singing  in  the 
apple  trees,  among  the  blossoms.  Never  poet  had 
a  more  commodious  oratory  in  which  to  invoke 
his  muse. 

I  have  made  your  heart  ache  too  often,  my 
poor  dear  cousin,  with  talking  about  my  fits  of  de- 
jection. Something  has  happened  that  has  led 
me  to  the  subject,  or  I  would  have  mentioned 
them  more  sparingly.  Do  not  suppose,  or  suspect 
that  I  treat  you  with  reserve;  there  is  nothing  in 
which  I  am  concerned  that  you  shall  not  be  made 
acquainted  with.  But  the  tale  is  too  long  for  a 
letter.  I>will  only  add  for  your  present  satisfac- 
tion, that  the  cause  is  not  exterior,  that  it  is  not 
within  the  reach  of  human  aid,  and  that  yet  I 
have  a  hope  myself,  and  Mrs.  Unwin  a  strong 
persuasion  of  its  removal.  I  am  indeed  even  now, 
and  have  been  for  a  considerable  time,  sensible  of 
a  change  for  the  better,  and  expect,  with  good 
reason,  a  comfortable  lift  from  you.  Guess  then, 
my  beloved  cousin,  with  what  wishes  I  look  for- 
ward to  the  time  of  your  arrival,  from  whose  com- 
ing I  promise  myjplf  not  only  pleasure,  but  peace 
of  mind,  at  least  an  additional  share  of  it.  At 
present  it  is  an  uncertain  and  transient  guest 
vsith  me,  but  the  joy  with  which  I  shall  see  and 
converse  with  you  at  Olney,  may  perhaps  make 
it  an  abiding  one.  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Olney,  June  4  and  5,  1786. 
Ah!  my  cousin,  you  begin  already  to  fear  and 
quake.  What  a  hero  am  I,  compared  with  you. 
I  have  no  fears  of  you.  On  the  contrary  am  as 
bold  as  a  lion.  I  wish  that  your  carriage  were 
even  now  at  the  door.  You  should  soon  see  with 
how  much  courage  I  would  face  you.  But  what 
cause  have  you  for  fearl  Am  I  not  your  cousin, 
with  whom  you  have  wandered  in  the  fields  of 
Freemantle,  and  at  Bevis's  Mount  1  who  used  to 
read  to  you,  laugh  with  you,  till  our  sides  have 
ached,  at  any  thing,  or  nothing  1  And  am  J  in 
these  respects  at  all  altered'?  You  will  not  find 
me  so ;  but  just  as  ready  to  laugh,  and  to  wander, 
as  you  ever  knew  me.  A  cloud  perhaps  may 
come  over  me  now  and  then,  for  a  few  hours,  but 
from  clouds  I  was  never  exempted.  And  are  not 
you  the  identical  cousin  with  whom  I  have  per- 
formed all  these  feats'?  The  very  Harriet  whom 
I  saw,  for  the  first  time,  at  De  Grey's,  in  Norfolk- 
street '?  (It  was  on  a  Sunday,  when  you  came 
with  my  uncle  and  aunt  to  drink  tea  there,  and  I 
had  dined  there,  and  was  ^ust  going  back  to  West- 


mmster.)  If  these  things  are  so,  and  I  am  sure 
that  you  can  not  gainsay  a  syllable  of  them  all, 
then  this  consequence  follows;  that  I  do  not  pro- 
mise myself  more  pleasure  from  your  company 
than  I  shall  be  sure  to  find.  Then  you  are  my 
cousin,  in  whom  I  always  delighted,  and  in  whom 
I  doubt  not  that  I  shall  delight  even  to  my  latest 
hour.  But  this  wicked  coach-maker  has  sunk 
my  spirits.  What  a  miserable  thing  it  is  to  de- 
pend, in  any  degree,  for  the  accomplishment  of  a 
wish,  and  that  wish  so  fervent,  on  the  punctuality 
of  a  creature  who  I  suppose  was  never  punctual 
in  his  life !  Do  tell  him,  my  dear,  in  order  to 
quicken  him,  that  if  he  performs  his  promise,  he 
shall  make  my  coach,  when  I  want  one,  and  that 
if  he  performs  it  not,  I  will  most  assuredly  em- 
ploy some  other  man. 

The  Throckmortons  sent  a  note  to  invite  us  to 
dinner — we  went,  and  a  very  agreeable  day  we 
had.  They  made  no  fuss  with  us,  which  I  was 
heartily  glad  to  see,  for  where  I  give  trouble  I  am 
sure  that  I  can  not  be  welcome.  Themselves, 
and  their  chaplain,  and  we,  were  all  the  party. 
After  dinner  we  h^d  much  cheerful  and  pleasant 
talk,  the  particulars  of  which  might  not  perhaps 
be  so  entertaining  upon  paper,  therefore  all  but 
one  I  will  omit,  and  that  I  will  mention  only  be- 
cause it  will  of  itself  be  sufficient  to  give  you  an 
insight  into  their  opinion  on  a  very  important  sub- 
ject— their  own  religion.  I  happened  to  say  that 
in  all  professions  and  trades  mankind  affected  an 
air  of  mystery.  Physicians,  I  observed,  in  par- 
ticular, were  objects  of  that  remark,  who  persist 
in  prescribing  in  Latin,  many  times  no  doubt  to 
the  hazard  of  a  patient's  life,  through  the  igno- 
rance of  an  apothecary.  Mr.  Throckmorton  as- 
sented to  what  I  said,  and  turning  to  his  chaplain, 
to  my  infinite  surprise  observed  to  him,  "  That  is 
just  as  absurd  as  our  praying  in  Latin."  I  could 
have  hugged  him  for  his  liberality,  and  freedom 
from  bigotry,  but  thought  it  rather  more  decent  to 
let  the  matter  pass  without  any  visible  notice.  I 
therefore  heard  it  with  pleasure,  and  kept  my 
pleasure  to  myself  The  two  ladies  in  the  mean 
time  were  tete-a-tete  in  the  drawing-room.  Their 
conversation  turned  principally  (as  I  afterwards 
learned  from  Mrs.  Unwin)  on  a  most  delightful 
topic,  viz.  myself  In  the  first  place,  Mrs.  Throck- 
morton admired  my  book,  from  which  she  quoted 
by  heart  more  than  I  could  repeat,  though  I  so 
lately  wrote  it. 

In  short,  my  dear,  I  can  not  proceed  to  relate 
what  she  said  of  the  book,  and  the  book's  author, 
for  that  abominable  modesty  that  I  can  not  even 
yet  get  rid  of  Let  it  suffice  to  say  that  you,  who 
are  disposed  to  love  every  body  who  speaks  kindly 
of  your  cousin,  will  certainly  love  Mrs.  Throck- 
morton, when  you  shall  be  told  what  she  said  of 
him,  and  that  you  will  be  told  is  equally  certain, 


Let.  222,  223,  221. 


LETTERS. 


29? 


because  it  depends  on  Mrs.  Unwin,  who  will  tell 
you  many  a  good  long  story  for  me,  that  I  am 
not  able  to  tell  for  myself  I  am  however  not  at 
all  in  arrear  to  our  neighbours  in  the  matter  of 
admiration  and  esteem,  but  the  more  I  know 
them,  the  more  I  like  them,  and  have  nearly  an 
affection  for  them  both.  I  am  delighted  that  the 
Task  has  so  large  a  share  of  the  approbation  of 
your  sensible  Suffolk  friend. 

I  received  yesterday  from  the  General  another 
etter  of  T.  S.  An  unknown  auxiliary  having 
started  up  in  my  behalf,  I  believe  I  shall  leave  the 
business  of  answering  to  him,  having  no  leisure 
myself  for  controversy.  He  lies  very  open  to  a 
rev  J  effectual  reply. 

My  dearest  cousin  adieu!  I  hope  to  write  to 
you  but  once  more  before  we  meet.    But  oh !  this 
coachmaker,  and  oh!  this  holyday  week! 
Yours,  with  impatient  desire  to  see  you, 

W.  C, 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 


MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Olney,  June  9,  1784. 

The  little  time  that  I  can  devote  to  any  other 
purpose  than  that  of  poetry  is,  as  you  may  sup- 
pose, stolen.  Homer  is  urgent.  Much  is  done, 
but  much  remains  undone,  and  no  schoolboy  is 
more  attentive  to  the  performance  of  his  daily  task 
than  I  am.  You  will  therefore  excuse  me  if  at 
present  I  am  both  unfrequent  and  short. 

The  paper  tells  me  that  the  Chancellor  has 
elapsed,  and  I  am  truly  sorry  to  hear  it.  The 
first  attack  was  dangerous,  but  a  second  must  be 
more  formidable  still.  It  is  not  probable  that  I 
should  ever  hear  from  him  again  if  he  survive; 
yet  of  the  much  that  I  should  have  felt  for  him, 
had  our  connexion  never  been  interrupted,  I  still 
feel  much.  Every  body  will  feel  the  loss  of  a  man 
whose  abilities  have  made  him  of  such  general 
importance, 

I  correspond  again  with  Colman,  and  upon  the 
most  friendly  footing,  and  find  in  his  instance, 
and  in  some  others,  that  an  intimate  intercourse, 
which  had  been  only  casually  suspended,  not  for- 
feited on  either  side  by  outrage,  is  capable  not 
only  of  revival,  but  of  improvement. 

I  had  a  letter  some  tinie  since  from  your  sister 
Fanny,  that  gave  me  great  pleasure.  Such  no- 
tices from  old  friends  are  always  pleasant,  and  of 
such  pleasures  I  had  received  many  lately.  They 
refresh  the  remembrance  of  early  days,  and  make 
me  young  again.  The  noble  institution  of  the 
Nonsense  Club  will  be  forgotten,  when  we  are 
gone  who  composed  it ;  but  1  often  think  of  your 
most  heroic  line,  written  at  one  of  our  meetings, 
and  especially  thmk  of  it  when  I  am  translating 
Homer — 

"  To  whom  replied  the  Devil  yard-long-tailed" 


There  never  was  any  thing  more  trulj  Grecian 
than  that  triple  epithet,  and  were  it  possible  to 
introduce  it  into  either  Iliad  or  Odyssey,  I  should 
certainly  steal  it.  I  am  now  flushed  with  expec- 
tation of  Lady  Hesketh,  who  spends  the  summer 
with  us.  We  hope  to  see  her  next  week.  "We 
have  found  admirable  lodgings  both  for  her  and 
suite,  and  a  Gluaker  in  this  town,  still  more  ad- 
mirable than  they,  who,  as  if  he  loved  her  as 
much  as  I  do,  furnishes  them  for  her,  with  real 
elegance.  W.  C. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

Olney,  June  19,  1786. 
My  dear  cousin's  arrival  has,  as  it  could  not 
fail  to  do,  made  us  happier  than  we  ever  were  at 
Olney.  Her  great  kindness  in  giving  us  her  com- 
pany is  a  cordial  that  I  shall  feel  the  effect  of,  not 
only  while  she  is  here  but  while  I  live. 

Olney  will  not  be  much  longer  the  place  of  our 
habitation.  At  a  village  two  miles  distant  we 
have  hired  a  house  of  Mr.  Throckmorton,  a  much 
better  than  we  occupy  at  present,  and  yet  not 
more  expensive.  It  is  situated  very  near  to  our 
most  agreeable  landlord,  and  his  agreeable  plea- 
sure grounds.  In  him,  and  in  his  wife,  we  shall 
find  such  companions  as  will  always  make  the 
time  pass  pleasantly  while  they  are  in  the  coun- 
try, and  his  grounds  will  afford  us  good  air,  and 
good  walking  room  in  the  winter;  two  advantages 
which  we  have  not  enjoyed  at  Olney,  where  I 
have  no  neighbour  with  whom  I  can  converse, 
and  where,  seven  months  in  the  year,  I  have  been 
imprisoned  by  dirty  and  impassable  ways,  till 
both  my  health  and  Mrs.  Unwin's  have  suffered 
materially. 

Homer  is  ever  importunate,  and  will  not  sufier 
me  to  spend  half  the  time  with  my  distant  friends 
that  I  would  gladly  give  them.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,  Olney,  July  3,  1784. 

After  a  long  silence  I  begin  again.  A  day 
given  to  my  friends,  is  a  day  taken  from  Homer, 
but  to  such  an  interruption,  now  and  then  occur- 
ring, I  have  no  objection.  Lady  Hesketh  is,  as 
you  observe,  arrived,  and  has  been  with  us  near  a 
fortnight.  She  pleases  every  body,  and  is  pleased 
in  her  turn  with  every  thing  she  finds  at  Olney;  is 
always  cheerful  and  sweet-tempered,  and  knows 
no  pleasure  equal  to  that  of  communicating  plea- 
sure to  us  and  to  all  around  her.  Tl  is  disposi- 
tion in  her  is  the  more  comfortable,  because  it  is 
not  the  humour  of  the  day,  a  sudden  flash  of  be- 
nevolence and  good  spirits,  occasioned  merely  by 


298 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  225. 


a  change  of  scene,  but  it  is  her  natural  turn,  and 
has  governed  all  her  conduct  ever  since  I  knew 
hor  first.  We  are  consequently  happy  in  her  socie- 
ty, and  shall  be  happier  still  to  have  you  to  partake 
with  us  in  our  joy.  I  am  fond  of  the  sound  of 
l»ells,  but  was  never  more  pleased  with  those  of 
Olney  than  when  they  rang  her  into  her  new  ha- 
bitation. It  is  a  compliment  that  our  performers 
upon  those  instruments  have  never  paid  to  any 
other  personage  (Lord  Dartmouth  excepted)  since 
we  knew  the  town.  In  short,  she  is,  as  she  ever 
was,  my  pride  and  my  joy,  and  I  am  delighted 
with  every  thing  that  means  to  do  her  honour. 
Her  first  appearance  was  too  much  for  me ;  my 
spirits,  instead  of  being  gently  raised,  as  1  had  in- 
advertently supposed  they  would  be,  broke  down 
with  me  under  the  pressure  of  too  much  joy,  and 
left  me  flat,  or  rather  rpelancholy,  throughout  the 
day,  to  a  degree  that  was  mortifying  to  myself, 
and  alarming  to  her.  But  I  have  made  amends 
for  this  failure  since,  and  in  point  of  cheerfulness 
have  far  exceeded  her  expectations,  for  she  knew 
that  sable  had  been  my  suit  for  many  years. 

And  now  I  shall  communicate  news  that  will 
give  you  pleasure.  When  you  first  contemplated 
the  front  of  our  abode,  you  were  shocked.  In 
your  eyes  it  had  the  appearance  of  a  prison,  and 
you  sighed  at  the  thought  that  your  mother  lived 
in  it.  Your  view  of  it  was  not  only  just,  but 
prophetic.  It  had  not  only  the  aspect  of  a  place 
built  for  the  purposes  of  incarceration,  but  has  ac- 
tually served  that  purpose  through  a  long,  long 
period,  and  we  have  been  the  prisoners.  But  a 
gaol-delivery  is  at  hand.  The  bolts  and  bars  are 
to  be  loosed,  and  we  shall  escape.  A  very  differ- 
ent mansion,  both  in  point  of  appearance  and  ac- 
commodation, expects  us,  and  the  expense  of  liv- 
ing in  it  not  greater  than  we  are  subjected  to  in 
this.  It  is  situated  at  Weston,  one  of  the  pret- 
tiest villages  in  England,  and  belongs  to  Mr. 
Throckmorton.  We  all  three  dine  with  him  to- 
day by  invitation,  and  shall  survey  it  in  the  after- 
noon, point  out  the  necessary  repairs,  and  finally 
adjust  the  treaty.  I  have  my  cousin's  promise 
that  she  will  never  let  another  year  pass  ^yithout 
a  visit  to  us ;  and  the  house  is  large  enough  to 
take  us,  and  her  suite,  and  her  also,  with  as  many 
of  hers  as  she  shall  choose  to  bring.  The  change 
will  I  hope  prove  advantageous  both  to  your  mo- 
ther and  me  in  all  respects.  Here  we  have  no 
neighbourhood,  there  we  shall  have  most  agreea- 
ble neighbours  in  the  Throckmortons.  Here  we 
have  a  bad  air  in  winter,  impregnated  with  the 
fishy  smelling  fumes  of  the  marsh  miasma;  there 
we  shall  breathe  in  an  atmosphere  untainted. 
Here  we  are  confined  from  September  to  March, 
and  sometimes  longer;  there  we  shall  be  upon  the 
very  verge  of  pleasure-grounds  in  which  we  can 
always  ramble,  and  shall  not  wade  through  al- 


most impassable  dirt  to  get  at  them.  Both  your 
mother's  constitution  and  mine  have  suffered  ma- 
terially by  such  close  and  long  confinement,  and 
it  is  high  time,  unless  we  intend  to.  retreat  into 
the  grave,  that  we  should  seek  out  a  more  whole- 
some residence.  So  far  is  well,  the  rest  is  left  to 
Heaven. 

I  have  hardly  left  myself  room  for  an  answer  to 
your  queries  concerning  my  friend  John,  and  his 
studies.  I  should  recommend  the  civil  war  of 
Caesar,  because  he  wrote  it,  who  ranks  I  believe 
as  the  best  writer,  as  well  as  soldier,  of  his  day 
There  are  books  (I  know  not  what  they  are,  bui 
you  do,  andean  easily  find  them)  that  will  inform 
him  clearly  of  both  the  civil  and  military  manage- 
ment of  the  Romans,  the  several  officers,  I  mean, 
in  both  departments;  and  what  was  the  peculiar 
province  of  each.  The  study  of  some  such  book 
would  I  should  think  prove  a  good  introduction 
to  that  of  Livy,  unless  you  have  a  Livy  with 
notes  to  that  efiect.  A  want  of  intelligence  in 
those  points  has  heretofore  made  the  Roman  his- 
tory very  dark  and  difiicult  to  me ;  therefore  ] 
thus  advise.  Yours  ever,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAQOT. 

Olney,  July  4,  1786. 
I  REJOICE,  my  dear  friend,  that  you  have  at 
last  received  my  proposals,  and  most  cordially 
thank  you  for  all  your  labours,  in  my  service.  1 
have  friends  in  the  world  who,  knowing  that  J 
am  apt  to  be  careless  when  left  to  myself,  are  de- 
termined to  watch  over  me  with  a  jealous  eye 
upon  this  occasion.  The  consequence  will  be, 
that  the  work  will  be  better  executed,  but  more 
tardy  in  the  production.  To  them  I  owe  it,  that 
my  translation,  as  fast  as  it  proceeds,  passes  under 
a  revisal  of  a  most  accurate  discerner  of  all  ble- 
mishes. I  know  not  whether  I  told  you  before,  or 
now  tell  you  for  the  first  time,  that  I  am  in  the 
hands  of  a  very  extraordinary  person.  He  is  in- 
timate with  my  bookseller,  and  voluntarily  offered 
his  service.  I  was  at  first  doubtful  whether  to 
accept  it  or  not;  but  finding  that  my  friends 
abovesaid  were  not  to  be  satisfied  on  any  other 
terms,  though  myself  a  perfect  stranger  to  the 
man  and  his  quaUfications,  except  as  he  was  re- 
commended by  Johnson,  I  at  length  consented, 
and  since  found  great  reason  to  rejoice  that  I  did. 
I  called  him  an  extraordinary  person,  and  such  he 
is.  For  he  is  not  only  versed  in  Homer,  and  accu- 
rate in  his  knowledge  of  the  Greek  to  a  degree  that 
entitles  him  to  that  appellation,  but,  though  a  fo- 
reigner, is  a  perfect  master  of  our  language,  and 
has  exquisite  taste  in  English  poetry.  By  his 
assistance  I  have  improved  many  passages,  sup- 
plied many  oversights,  and  corrected  many  mia- 


Let.  226,  227. 


LETTERS. 


299 


takes,  such  as  will  of  course  escape  the  most  dili- 
gent and  attentive  labourer  in  such  a  work.  I 
ought  to  add,  because  it  affords  the  best  assu- 
rance of  his  zeal  and  fidelity,  that  he  does  not 
toil  for  hire,  nor  will  accept  of  any  premium,  but 
has  entered  on  this  business  merely  for  his 
amusement.  In  the  last  instance  my  sheets  will 
pass  through  the  hands  of  our  old  schoolfellow  Col- 
man,  who  has  engaged  to  correct  the  press,  and 
make  any  little  alterations  that  he  may  see  expe- 
dient. With  all  this  precaution,  little  as  I  in- 
tended it  once,  I  am  now  well  satisfied.  Expe- 
rience has  convinced  me  that  other  eyes  than  my 
own  are  necessary,  in  order  that  so  long  and  ar- 
duous a  task  may  be  finished  as  it  ought,  and  may 
neither  discredit  me,  nor  mortify  and  disappoint 
my  friends.  You,  who  I  know  interest  yourself 
much  and  deeply  in  my  success,  will  I  dare  say 
be  satisfied  with  it  too.  Pope  had  many  aids,  and 
he  who  follows  Pope  ought  not  to  walk  alone. 

Though  I  announce  myself  by  my  very  under- 
taking to  be  one  of  Homer's  most  enraptured  ad- 
mirers, I  am  not  a  blind  one.  Perhaps  the  speech 
of  Achilles  given  in  my  specimen  is,  as  you  hint, 
rather  too  much  in  the  moralizing  strain,  to  suit  so 
young  a  man,  and  of  so  much  fire.  But  whether 
it  be  or  not,  in  the  course  of  the  close  application 
that  I  am  forced  to  give  to  my  author,  I  discover 
inadvertencies  not  a  few;  some  perhaps  that  have 
escaped  even  the  commentators  themselves ;  or  per- 
haps in  the  enthusiasm  of  their  idolatry,  they  re- 
solved that  they  should  pass  for  beauties.  Homer 
however,  say  what  they  will,  was  man,  and  in  all 
the  works  of  man,  especially  in  a  work  of  such 
length  and  variety,  many  things  will  of  necessity 
occur,  that  might  have  been  better.  Pope  and  Ad- 
dison had  a  Dennis ;  and  Dennis,  if  I  mistake  not, 
held  up  as  he  has  been  to  scorn  and  detestation, 
was  a  sensible  fellow,  and  passed  some  censures 
upon  both  those  writers  that,  had  they  been  less 
just,  would  have  hurt  them  less.  Homer  had  his 
Zoilus ;  and  perhaps  if  we  knew  all  that  Zoilus 
said,  we  should  be  forced  to  acknowledge  that 
sometimes  at  least  he  had  reason  on  his  side.  But 
it  is  dangerous  to  find  any  fault  at  all  with  what 
the  world  is  determined  to  esteem  faultless. 

I  rejoice,  my  dear  friend,  that  you  enjoy  some 
composure,  and  cheerfulness  of  spirits :  may  G  od 
preserve  and  increase  to  you  so  great  a  blessing ! 
I  am  affectionately  and  truly  yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UN  WIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  AugUSt  24,  1786. 

I  CATCH  a  minute  by  the  tail  and  hold  it  fast, 
while  I  write  to  you.  The  moment  it  is  fled  I  must 
go  to  breakfast.  I  am  still  occupied  in  refining 
and  polishing,  and  shall  this  morning  give  the 


finishing  hand  to  the  seventh  book.  Fuseli  does 
me  the  honour  to  say  that  the  most  difficult,  and 
most  interesting  parts  of  the  poem,  are  admirably 
rendered.  But  because  he  did  not  express  him- 
self equally  pleased  with-  the  more  pedestrian  parts 
of  it,  my  labour  therefore  has  been  principally  given 
to  the  dignification  of  them;  not  but  that  I  have 
retouched  considerably,  and  made  better  still  the 
best.  In  short  I  hope  to  make  it ;  all  of  a  piece, 
and  shall  exert  myself  to  the  utmost  to  secure  that 
desirable  point.  A  storyteller,  so  very  circumstan- 
tial as  Homer,  must  of  necessity  present  us  often 
with  much  matter  in  itself  capable  of  no  other  em- 
bellishment than  purity  of  diction,  and  harmony 
of  versification,  can  give  to  it.  Hie  labor,  hoc  opus 
est.  For  our  language,  unless  it  be  very  severely 
chastised,  has  not  the  terseness,  nor  our  measure 
the  music  of  the  Greek.  But  I  shall  not  fail 
through  want  of  industry. 

We  are  likely  to  be  very  happy  in  our  connexion 
with  the  Throckmortons.  His  reserve  and  mine 
wear  off ;  and  he  talks  with  great  pleasure  of  the 
comfort  that  he  proposes  to  himself  from  our  win- 
ter-evening conversations.  His  purpose  seems  to 
be,  that  we  should  spend  them  alternately  with 
each  other.  Lady  Hesketh  transcribes  for  me  at 
present.  When  she  is  gone,  Mrs.  Throckmorton 
takes  up  that  business,  and  will  be  my  lady  of  the 
ink-bottle  for  the  rest  of  the  winter.  She  solicited 
herself  that  office. 
Believe  me, 

My  dear  William,  truly  yours,  W.  C. 

Mr.  Throckmorton  will  (I  doubt  not)  procure 
Petre's  name,  if  he  can,  without  any  hint  from 
me.  He  could  not  interest  himself  more  in  my 
success,  than  he  seems  to  do.  Could  he  get  the 
pope  to  subscribe,  I  should  have  him;  and  should 
be  glad  of  him  and  the  whole  conclave. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

You  are  my  mahogany  box,  with  a  sHp  in  the 
lid  of  it,  -to  which  I  commit  my  productions  of  the 
lyric  kind,  in  perfect  confidence  that  they  are  safe, 
and  will  go  no  farther.  All  who  are  attached  to 
the  jingling  art  have  this  pecuharity,  that  they 
would  find  no  pleasure  in  the  exercise,  had  they 
not  one  friend  at  least  to  whom  they  might  pub- 
lish what  they  have  composed.  If  you  approve 
my  Latin,  and  your  wife  and  sister  my  English, 
this,  together  with  the  approbation  of  your  mo- 
ther, is  fame  enough  for  me. 

He  who  can  not  look  forward  with  comfort, 
must  find  what  comfort  he  can  in  looking  back- 
ward. Upon  this  principle,  I  the  other  day  sent 
my  imagination  upon  a  trip  thirty  years  behind 


300 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  228,  229 


me.  She  was  very  obedient,  and  \(-\y  swift  ol"  foot, 
presently  performed  her  journey,  ami  at  last  set 
mo  down  in  the  sixth  form  at  Westminster.  1 
faneicd  myself  once  more  a  school-boy,  a  period 
of  life  in  which,  if  I  had  never  tasted  true  happi- 
ness, I  was  at  least  equally  unacquainted  with  its 
contrary.  No  manufacturer  of  waking  dreams 
ever  succeeded  better  in  his  employment  than  I 
do.  I  can  weave  such  a  piece  of  tapestry  in  a  few 
minutes,  as  not  only  has  all  the  charms  of  reality, 
but  is  embellished  also  with  a  variety  of  beauties 
which,  though  they  never  existed,  are  more  capti- 
vating than  any  that  ever  did — accordingly  I  was 
a  schoolboy  in  high  favour  with  the  master,  re- 
ceived a  silver  groat  for  my  exercise,  and  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  it  sent  from  form  to  form,  for 
the  admiration  of  all  who  were  able  to  understand 
it.  Do  you  wish  to  see  this  highly  applauded  per- 
formance'? It  foUowsron  the  other  side. 
^  {torn  of.) 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  D£AR  WILLIAM, 

You  are  sometimes  indebted  to  bad  weather, 
but  more  frequently  to  a  dejected  state  of  mind, 
for  my  punctuality  as  a  correspondent.  This  was 
the  case  when  I  composed  that  tragi-comic  ditty 
for  which  you  thank  me ;  my  spirits  were  exceed- 
ing low,  and  having  no  fool  or  jester  at  hand,  I  re- 
solved to  be  my  own.  The  end  was  answered;  I 
laughed  myself,  and  I  made  you  laugh.  Some- 
times I  pour  out  my  thoughts  in  a  mournful  strain, 
but  those  sable  effusions  your  mother  will  not  suf- 
fer me  to  send  you,  being  resolved  that  nobody 
shall  share  with  me  the  burthen  of  my  melancholy 
but  herself.  In  general  you  may  suppose  that  I 
am  remarkably  sad  when  I  seem  remarkably  merry. 
The  effort  we  make  to  get  rid  of  a  load  is  usually 
violent  in  proportion  to  the  weight  of  it.  I  have 
seen  at  Sadler's  Wells  a  tight  little  fellow  dancing 
with  a  fat  man  upon  his  shoulders ;  to  those  who 
looked  at  him,  he  seemed  insensible  of  the  incum- 
brance, but  if  a  physician  had  felt  his  pulse,  when 
the  feat  was  over,  I  suppose  he  would  have  found 
the  effect  of  it  there.  Perhaps  you  remember  the 
■undertakers'  dance  in  the  rehearsal,  which  they 
perform  in  crape  hat-bands  and  black  cloaks,  to 
the  tune  of  "  Hob  or  Nob,"  one  of  the  sprightliest 
airs  in  the  world.  Such  is  my  fiddling,  and  such 
u  my  dancing ;  but  they  serve  a  purpose  which  at 
some  certain  times  could  not  be  so  effectually  pro- 
moted by  any  thing  else. 

I  have  endeavoured  to  comply  with  your  re- 
quest, though  I  am  not  good  at  writing  upon  a 
given  subject.  Your  mother  however  comforts  me 
by  her  ap[)robation,  and  !  steer  myself  in  all  that 
[  produce  by  her  judgment.    If  she  does  not  un- 


d(;rstand  me  at  the  first  reading,  I  am  sure  the 
hues  are  obscure,  and  always  alter  them;  if  she 
laughs,  I  know  it  is  not  without  reason;  and  if 
she  says,  "  that's  well,  it  will  do,"  I  have  no  fear 
lest  any  body  else  should  find  fault  with  it.  She 
is  my  lord  chamberlain  who  licenses  all  I  write.* 

If  you  like  it,  use  it;  if  not,  you  know  the  re- 
medy. It  is  serious,  yet  epigrammatic — like  a 
bishop  at  a  ball.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

I  AM  sensibly  mortified  at  finding  myself  ob- 
liged to  disappoint  you ;  but  though  I  have  had 
many  thoughts  upon  the  subject  you  propose  to 
my  consideration,  I  have  had  none  that  have  been 
favourable  to  the  undertaking.  I  applaud  your 
purpose,  for  the  sake  of  the  principle  from  which 
it  springs ;  but  I  look  upon  the  evils  you  mean  to 
animadvert  upon,  as  too  obstinate  and  inveterat*' 
ever  to  be  expelled  by  the  means  you  mention. 
The  very  persons  to  whom  you  would  address 
your  remonstrance,  are  themselves  sufficiently 
aware  of  their  enormity:  years  ago,  to  my  know- 
ledge, they  were  frequently  the  topics  of  conversa- 
tion at  polite  tables;  they  have  been  frequently 
mentioned  in  both  houses  of  parliament;  and  I 
suppose  there  is  hardly  a  member  of  either,  who 
would  not  immediately  assent  to  the  necessity  of 
reformation,  were  it  proposed  to  him  in  a  reasona- 
ble way.  But  there  it  stops;  and  there  it  will  for 
ever  stop  till  the  majority  are  animated  with  a  zeal 
in  which  they  are  at  present  deplorably  defective. 
A  religious  man  is  unfeignedly  shocked,  when  he 
reflects  upon  the  prevalence  of  such  crimes  ;  a  mo- 
ral man  must  needs  be  so  in  a  degree,  and  will 
affect  to  be  much  more  so  than  he  is.  But  how 
many  do  you  suppose  there  are  among  our  wor- 
thy representatives,  that  come  under  either  of  these 
descriptions  1  If  all  were  such,  yet  to  new  model 
the  police  of  the  country,  which  must  be  done  in 
order  to  make  even  unavoidable  perjury  less  fre- 
quent, were  a  task  they  would  hardly  undertake, 
on  account  of  the  great  difficulty  that  would  attend 
it.  Government  is  too  much  interested  in  the 
consumption  of  malt  liquor,  to  reduce  the  number 
of  venders.  Such  plausible  pleas  may  be  offered 
in  defence  of  travelling  on  Sundays,  especially  by 
the  trading  part  of  the  world,  as  the  whole  bench 
of  bishops  would  find  it  difficult  to  overrule.  And 
with  respect  to  the  violation  of  oaths,  till  a  certain 
name  is  more  generally  respected  than  it  is  at 
present,  however  such  persons  as  yourself  may  be 
grieved  at  it,  the  legislature  are  never  liliely  to  lay 


•  The  verses  to  Miss  C  on  her  birth-day,  (vide  Poems) 

were  inserted  here. 


Let.  230, 231, 232. 


LETTERS. 


301 


it  to  heart.  I  do  not  mean,  nor  would  by  any 
means  attempt  to  discourage  you  in  so  laudable 
an  enterprise ;  but  such  is  the  light  in  which  it 
appears  to  me,  that  I  do  not  feel  the  least  spark  of 
courage  qualifying  or  prompting  me  to  embark  in 
it  myself  An  exhortation  therefore  written  by 
me,  by  hopeless,  desponding  me,  would  be  flat,  in- 
sipid, and  uninteresting,  and  disgrace  the  cause 
instead  of  serving  it.  If  after  what  I  have  said, 
however  you  still  retain  the  same  sentiments.  Made 
esto  virtute  tud,  there  is  nobody  better  qualified 
than  yourself,  and  may  your  success  prove  that  I 
despaired  of  it  without  a  reason. 

Adieu,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

I  WRITE  under  the  impression  of  a  difficulty  not 
easily  surmounted,  the  want  of  something  to  say. 
Letter- spinning  is  generally  more  entertaining  to 
the  writer  than  the  reader;  for  your  sake  therefore 
I  would  avoid  it,  but  a  dearth  of  materials  is  very 
apt  to  betray  one  into  a  trifling  strain,  in  spite  of 
all  our  endeavours  to  be  serious. 

I  left  off  on  Saturday,  this  present  being  Mon- 
day morning,  and  I  renew  the  attempt,  in  hopes 
that  I  may  possibly  catch  some  subject  by  the  end, 
and  be  more  successful. 

So  have  I  seen  the  maids  in  vain 
Tumble  and  tease  a  tangled  skein . 
They  bite  the  lip,  they  scratch  the  head, 
And  cry — '  the  deuce  is  in  the  thread  !' 
They  torture  it,  and  jerk  it  round. 
Till  the  right  end  at  last  is  found, 
Then  wind,  and  wind,  and  wind  away, 
And  what  was  work  is  changed  to  play. 

When  I  wrote  the  two  first  lines,  I  thought  I 
had  engaged  in  a  hazardous  enterprise;  for,  thought 
I,  should  my  poetical  vein  be  as  dry  as  my  prosaic, 
I  shall  spoil  the  sheet,  and  send  nothing  at  all; 
for  I  could  on  no  account  endure  the  thought  of 
beginning  again.  But  I  think  I  have  succeeded 
to  admiration,  and  am  willing  to  flatter  myself  that 
I  have  seen  even  a  worse  impromptu  in  the  news- 
papers. 

Though  we  live  in  a  nook,  and  the  world  is 
quite  unconscious  that  there  are  any  such  beings 
in  it  as  ourselves,  yet  we  are  not  unconcerned 
about  what  passes  in  it.  The  present  awful  crisis, 
big  with  the  fate  of  England,  engages  much  of 
our  attention.  The  action  is  probably  over  by 
this  time,  and  though  we  know  it  not,  the  grand 
question  is  decided,  whether  the  war  shall  roar  in 
our  once  peaceful  fields,  or  whether  we  shall  still 
only  hear  of  it  at  a  distance.  I  can  compare  the 
nation  to  no  similitude  more  apt  than  that  of  an 
ancient  castle  that  had  been  for  days  assaulted  by 


the  battering  ram.  It  was  long  before  the  stroke 
of  that  engine  made  any  sensible  impression,  but 
the  continual  repetition  at  length  communicated  a 
slight  tremor  to  the  wall,  the  next,  and  the  next, 
and  the  next  blow  increased  it.  Another  shock 
puts  the  whole  mass  in  motion,  from  the  top  to  the 
foimdation:  it  bends  forward,  and  is  every  moment 
dri\  en  farther  from  the  perpendicular,  till  at  last 
the  decisive  blow  is  given,  and  down  it  comes. 
Every  miUion  that  has  been  raised  within  the  last 
century  has  had  an  effect  upon  the  constitution 
like  that  of  a  blow  from  the  aforesaid  ram  upon 
the  aforesaid  wall.  The  impulse  becomes  more 
and  more  important,  and  the  impression  it  makes 
is  continually  augmented;  unless  therefore  some- 
thing extraordinary  intervenes  to  prevent  it — you 
will  find  the  consequence  at  the  end  of  my  simile. 

Yours,  W.  C. 

TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

As  I  promised  you  verse,  if  you  would  send  me 
a  frank,  I  am  not  wilUng  to  return  the  cover  with- 
out some,  though  I  think  I  have  already  wearied 
you  by  the  prolixity  of  my  prose.* 

I  must  refer  you  to  those  unaccountable  gad- 
dings  and  caprices  of  the  human  mind,  for  the 
cause  of  this  production;  for  in  general  I  believe 
there  is  no  man  who  has  less  to  do  with  the  ladies' 
cheeks  than  I  have.  I  suppose  it  would  be  best 
to  antedate  it,  and  to  imagine  that  it  was  written 
twenty  years  ago,  for  my  mind  was  never  more  in 
a  trifling  butterfly  trim  than  when  I  composed  it, 
even  in  the  earliest  parts  of  my  life.  And  what  is 
worse  than  all  this,  I  have  translated  it  into  Latin. 
But  that  some  other  time.  Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM, 

How  apt  we  are  to  deceive  ourselves  where  self 
is  in  question:  you  say  I  am  in  your  debt,  and  I 
accounted  you  in  mine :  a  mistake  to  which  you 
must  attribute  my  arrears,  if  indeed  I  owe  you  any, 
for  I  am  not  backward  to  write  where  the  upper- 
most thought  is  welcome. 

I  am  obliged  to  you  for  all  the  books  you  have 
occasionally  furnished  me  with:  I  did  not  indeed 
read  many  of  Johnson's  Classics — those  of  esta- 
blished reputation  are  so  fresh  in  my  memory, 
though  many  years  have  intervened  since  I  mad^ 
them  my  companions,  that  it  was  like  reading  what 
I  read  yesterday  over  again:  and  as  to  the  minor 
Classics,  I  did  not  think  them  worth  reading  at 
all — I  tasted  most  of  them,  and  did  not  like  them 


•  Here  followed  his  poem,  the  Lily  and  the  Rose. 


302 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  233. 


'  Ostendent  terria  hunc  tantum  fata,  neque  ultra 
3sse  sinent  ." 

Yours,  W.C. 


 ^it  is  a  great  thing  to  be  indeed  a  poet,  and  docs  ting  that  he  died  so  soon.    Those  words  of  Virgil, 

not  happen  to  more  than  one  man  in  a  century,  upon  the  immature  death  of  Marcellus,  might 
Churchill,  the  great  Churchill,  deserved  the  name  serve  for  his  epitaph, 
of  poet — I  have  read  him  twice,  and  some  of  his 
pieces  three  times  over,  and  the  last  time  with 
more  pleasure  than  the  first.  The  pitiful  scribbler 
of  his  life  seems  to  have  undertaken  that  task,  for 
which  he  was  entirely  unquaUfied,  merely  because 
it  afforded  him  an  opportunity  to  traduce  him.  He 
has  inserted  in  it  but  one  anecdote  of  consequence, 
for  which  he  refers  you  to  a  novel,  and  introduces 
the  story  with  doubts  about  the  truth  of  it.  But 
his  barrenness  as  a  biographer  I  could  forgive  if 
the  simpleton  had  not  thought  himself  a  judge  of 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM, 

I  FIND  the  Register  in  all  respects  an  efitertaining 
medley,  but  especially  in  this,  that  it  has  brought 
to  my  view  some  long  forgotten  pieces  of  my  own 


his  writino-s,  and,  under  the  erroneous  influence  production.  I 


of  that  thought,  informed  his  reader  that  Gotham, 
Independence,  and  the  Times,  were  catch-pennies. 
Gotham,  unless  I  ani  a  greater  blockhead  than  he. 


by  the  way  two  or  three. 


Those  I  have  marked  with  my  own  initials,  and  you 
may  be  sure  I  found  them  peculiarly  agreeable,  as 
they  had  not  only  the  grace  of  being  mine,  but 


which  I  am  far  from  believing,  is  a  noble  and  j  that  of  novelty  likewise  to  recommend  them.  It 
beautiful  poem,  and  a  poem  with  which  I  make  j  is  at  least  twenty  years  since  I  saw  them.  You  I 
no  doubt  the  author  took  as  much  pains  as  with  i  think  was  never  a  dabbler  in  rhyme.    I  have  been 


any  he  ever  wrote.  Making  allowance  (and  Dry- 
den  in  his  Absalom  and  Achitophel  stands  in 
meed  of  the  same  indulgence)  for  an  unwarranta- 
ble use  of  Scripture,  it  appears  to  me  to  be  a  mas- 
lerly  performance.    Independence  is  a  most  ani- 
-mated  piece,  full  of  strength  and  spirit,  and  mark- 
.ed  with  tha,t  bold  masculine  character'  which  I 
'think  is  the  great  peculiarity  of  this  writer.  And 
:^he  Times  (except  that  the  subject  is  disgusting  to 
1;he  last  degree)  stands  equally  high  in  my  opin- 
ion.   He  is  indeed  a  careless  writer  for  the  most 
part  ;  .but  where  shall  we  find  in  any  of  those  au- 
thors who  finish  their  works  witli  the  exactness 
of  a  Flemish  pencil,  those  bold  and  daring  strokes 
of  fancy,  those  numbers  so  hazardously  ventured 
upon,  and  so  happily  finished,  the  matter  so  com- 
pressed, and  yet  so  clear,  and  the  colouring  so 
sparingly  laid  on,  and  yet  with  such  a  beautiful 
effect  ]    In  short,  it  is  not  his  least  praise  that  he 
as  never  guilty  of  those  faults  as  a  writer  which 
he  lays  to  the  charge  of  others.    A  proof  that  he 
-did  not  judge  by  a  borrowed  standard,  or  from 
rules  laid  down  by  critics,  but  that  he  was  quali- 
fied to  do  it  by  his  .own  native  powers,  and  his 
great  superiority  of  genius.    For  he  that  wrote  so 
much,  and  so  fast,  would  through  inadvertence  and 
hurry  unavoidably  have  departed  from  rules  which 
he  might  have  found  in  books,  but  his  own  truly 
poetical  talent  was  a  guide  which  could  not  suflfer 
him  to  err.  A  race-horse  is  graceful  in  his  swiftest 
pace,  and  never  makes  an  awkward  motion,  though 
he  is  pushed  to  his  utmost  speed.    A  cart-horse 
might  perhaps  be  taught  to  play  tricks  in  the  rid- 
ing school,  and  might  prance  and  curvet  like  his 
betters,  but  at  some  unlucky  time  would  be  sure 
to  betray  the  baseness  of  his  original.    It  is  an 
affair  of  very  little  consequence  perhaps  to  thej 


one  ever  since  I  was  fourteen  years  of  age,  when  I 
began  with  translating  an  elegy  of  TibuUus.  I  have 
no  more  right  to  the  name  of  a  poet,  than  a  maker 
of  mouse-traps  has  to  that  of  an  engineer,  but  my 
little  exploits  in  this  way  have  at  times  amused  me 
so  much,  that  I  have  often  wished  myself  a  good 
one.  Such  a  talent  in  verse  as  mine  is  like  a 
child's  rattle,  very  entertaining  to  the  trifler  that 
uses  it,  and  very  disagreeable  to  all  beside.  But 
it  has  served  to  rid  me  of  some  melancholy  mo- 
ments, for  I  only  take  it  up  as  a  gentleman  per- 
former does  his  fiddle.  I  have  this  peculiarity  be- 
longing to  me  as  a  rhymist,  that  though  I  am 
charmed  to  a  great  degree  with  my  own  work, 
while  it  is  on  the  anvil,  I  can  seldom  bear  to  look 
at  it  when  it  is  once  finished.  The  more  I  con- 
template it,  the  more  it  loses  of  its  value,  till  I  am 
at  last  disgusted  with  it.  I  then  throw  it  by,  take 
it  up  again  perhaps  ten  years  after,  and  am  as 
much  delighted  with  it  as  at  the  first. 

Few  people  have  the  art  of  being  agreeable  when 
they  talk  of  themselves ;  if  you  are  not  weary  there- 
fore you  pay  me  a  high  compliment. 

I  dare  say  Miss  S  was  much  diverted 

with  the  conjecture  of  her  friends.    The  true  key 


to  the  pleasure  she  found  at  Olney  was  plain 
enough  to  be  seen,  but  they  chose  to  overlook  it. 
She  brought  with  her  a  disposition  to  be  pleased, 
which  whoever  does  is  sure  to  find  a  visit  agreea- 
ble, because  they  make  it  so. 

Yours,  W.  C* 


•This  dateless  letter,  which  is  probably  entitled  to  a  very 
early  place  in  this  collection,  was  reserved  to  close  the  cor- 
respondence with  Mr.  TJnwin,  from  the  hope,  that  before  the 
prei3S  advanced  so  far,  the  editor  might  recover  those  unknown 
verses  of  Cowpcr,  to  wliich  thelelter  alhtdes,  but  all  researches 
well-being  of  mankind,  but  T  can  not  help  regret- '  for  this  purpose  have  failed.  Ilaijici/. 


Let.  234, 235, 236. 


LETTERS. 


303 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,       Olney,  August  31,  1786. 

I  BEGAN  to  fear  for  your  health,  and  every  day 
said  to  myself— I  must  write  to  Bagot  soon,  if  it 
be  only  to  ask  him  how  he  does — a  measure  that  I 
should  certainly  have  pursued  long  since  had  I 
been  less  absorbed  in  Homer  than  I  am.  But  such 
are  my  engagements  in  that  quarter,  that  they 
make  me,  I  think,  good  for  little  else. 

Many  thanks,  my  friend,  for  the  names  that 
you  have  sent  me.  The  Bagots  will  make  a  most 
conspicuous  figure  among  my  subscribers,  and  I 
shall  not  I  hope  soon  forget  my  obligations  to 
them. 

The  unacquaintedness  of  modern  ears  with  the 
divine  harmony  of  Milton's  numbers,  and  the 
principles  upon  which  he  constructed  them,  is  the 
cause  of  the  quarrel  that  they  have  with  elisions 
in  blank  verse.  But  where  is  the  remedy  7  In 
vain  should  you  or  I,  and  a  few  hundreds  more 
perhaps  who  have  studied  his  versification,  tell 
them  of  the  superior  majesty  of  it,  and  that  for 
that  majesty  it  is  greatly  indebted  to  those  elisions. 
In  their  ears,  they  are  discord  and  dissonance; 
they  lengthen  the  line  beyond  its  due  limits,  and 
are  therefore  not  to  be  endured.  There  is  a  whim- 
sical inconsistence  in  the  judgment  of  modern 
readers  in  this  particular.  Ask  them  all  round, 
whom  do  you  account  the  best  writer  of  blank 
verse '?  and  they  will  reply  to  a  man,  Milton,  to 
be  sure ;  Milton  against  the  field  !  Yet  if  a  writer 
of  the  present  day  should  construct  his  numbers 
exactly  upon  Milton's  plan,  not  one  in  fifty  of 
these  professed  admirers  of  Milton  would  endure 
him.  The  case  standing  thus,  what  is  to  be  done  1 
An  author  must  either  be  contented  to  give  disgust 
to  the  generality,  or  he  must  humour  them  by  sin- 
ning against  his  own  j  udgment.  This  latter  course, 
so  far  as  ehsions  are  concerned,  I  have  adopted  as 
essential  to  my  success.  In  every  other  respect  I 
give  as  much  variety  in  my  measure  as  I  can,  I 
believe  I  may  say  as  in  ten  syllables  it  is  possible 
to  give,  shifting  perpetually  the  pause  and  cadence, 
and  accounting  myself  happy  that  modern  refine- 
ment has  not  yet  enacted  laws  against  this  also. 
If  it  had,  I  protest  to  you  I  would  have  dropped 
my  design  of  translating  Homer  entirely;  and 
with  what  an  indignant  stateliness  of  reluctance  1 
make  them  the  concession  that  I  have  mentioned, 
Mrs.  Unwin  can  witness,  who  hears  all  my  com- 
plaints upon  the  subject. 

After  having  lived  twenty  years  at  Olney,  we 
are  on  the  point  of  leaving  it,  but  shall  not  migrate 
far.  We  have  taken  a  house  in  the  village  of 
Weston.  Lady  Hesketh  is  our  good  angel,  by 
whose  aid  we  are  enabled  to  pass  into  a  better  air, 
and  a  more  walkable  country.    The  imprison- 


ment that  we  have  suffered  here  for  so  many  win- 
ters, has  hurt  us  both.  That  we  may  suffer  it  no 
longer,  she  stoops  at  Olney,  lifts  us  from  our 
swamp,  and  sets  us  down  on  the  elevated  grounds 
of  Weston  Underwood.  There,  my  dear  firiend, 
I  shall  be  happy  to  see  you,  and  to  thank  you  in 
person  for  all  your  kindness. 

I  do  not  wonder  at  the  judgment  that  you  form 
of  a  foreigner;  but  you  may  assure  your- 
self that,  foreigner  as  he  is,  he  has  an  exquisite 
taste  in  English  verse.  The  man  is  all  fire,  and 
an  enthusiast  in  the  highest  degree  on  the  subject 
of  Homer,  and  has  given  me  more  than  once  a 
jog,  when  I  have  been  inclined  to  nap  with  my 
author.  No  cold  water  is  to  be  feared  from  him 
that  might  abate  my  own  fire,  rather  perhaps  too 
much  combustible. 

Adieu!  mon  ami,  yours  faithfully,  W.  C. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

Olney,  Oct.  6,  1786. 
You  have  not  heard  I  suppose  that  the  ninth 
book  of  my  translation  is  at  the  bottom  of  the 
Thames.  But  it  is  even  so.  A  storm  overtook 
it  in  its  way  to  Kingston,  and  it  sunk,  together 
with  the  whole  cargo  of  the  boat  in  which  it  was 
a  passenger.  Not  figuratively  foreshowing,  I  hope, 
by  its  submersion,  the  fate  of  all  the  rest.  My 
kind  and  generous  cousin,  who  leaves  nothing  un- 
done that  she  thinks  can  conduce  to  my  comfort, 
encouragement,  or  convenience,  is  my  transcriber 
also.    She  wrote  the  copy,  and  she  will  have  to 

write  it  again  Hers  therefore  is  the  damage. 

I  have  a  thousand  reasons  to  lament  that  the  time 
approaches  when  we  must  lose  her.  She  has 
made  a  winterly  summer  a  most  delightful  one, 
but  the  winter  itself  we  must  spend  without  her. 

W.  C* 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

Weston  Underwood,  Nov.  17,  .1786. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

There  are  some  things  that  do  not  actually 
shorten  the  Ufe  of  man,  yet  seem  to  do  so,  and 
frequent  removals  from  place  to  place  are  of  that 
number.  For  my  own  part  at  least  I  am  apt  to 
think,  if  I  had  been  mere  stationary,  I  should 
seem  to  myself  to  have  lived  longer.  My  many 
changes  of  habitation  have  divided  my  time  into 
many  short  periods,  and  when  I  look  back  upon 
them  they  appear  only  as  the  stages  in  a  day's 


'  In  this  interval,  viz.  on  the  15th  of  the  following  month, 
the  day  on  which  he  completed  his  lifty  fifth  year  (O.  S.)  Mr 
Cowper  removed  to  Weston  Underwood 


304 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let,  237. 


journey,  the  first  of  which  is  at  no  very  great  dis- 
tance from  the  last. 

I  lived  longer  at  Olney  than  any  where.  There 
indeed  I  lived  till  mouldering  walls  and  a  totter- 
ing house  warned  me  to  depart.  I  have  accord- 
ingly taken  the  hint,  and  two  days  since  arrived, 
or  rather  took  up  my  abode  at  Weston.  You 
perhaps  have  never  made  the  experiment,  but  I  can 
assure  you  that  the  confusion  which  attends  a 
transmigration  of  this  kind  is  infinite,  and  has  a 
terrible  effect  in  deranging  the  intellects.  I  have 
been  obliged  to  renounce  my  Homer  on  the  occa- 
sion, and  though  not  for  many  days,  I  yet  feel  as 
if  study  and  meditation,  so  long  my  confirmed 
habits,  were  on  a  sudden  become  impracticable, 
and  that  I  shall  certainly  find  them  so  when  I  at- 
tempt them  again.  But  in  a  scene  so  much  quiet- 
er and  pleasanter  than  that  which  I  have  just 
escaped  from,  in  a  hbuse  so  much  more  commo- 
dious, and  with  furniture  about  me  so  much  more 
to  my  taste,  I  shall  hope  to  recover  my  literary  ten- 
dency again,  when  once  the  bustle  of  the  occasion 
shall  have  subsided. 

How  glad  I  should  be  to  receive  you  under  a 
roof,  where  you  would  find  me  so  much  more  com- 
fortably accommodated  than  at  Olney !  I  know 
your  warmth  of  heart  towards  me,  and  am  sure 
that  you  would  rejoice  in  my  joy.  At  present  in- 
deed I  have  not  had  time  for  much  self-gratulation, 
but  have  every  reason  to  hope,  nevertheless,  that 
in  due  time  1  shall  derive  considerable  advantage 
both  in  health  and  spirits,  from  the  alteration  made 
in  my  whereabout. 

I  have'  now  the  the  twelfth  book  of  the  lUad  in 
hand,  having  feettled  the  eleven  first  books  finally, 
as  I  think,  or  nearly  so.  The  winter  is  the  time 
when  I  make  the  greatest  riddance. 

Adieu  my  dear  Walter.  Let  me  hear  from  you, 
and  BeUeve  me  ever  yours,  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Weston  Lodge,  Nov.  26,  1786. 
It  is  my  birthday,  my  beloved  cousin,  and  I  de- 
termine to  employ  a  part  of  it,  that  it  may  not  be 
destitute  of  festivity,  in  writing  to  you.  The  dark 
thick  fog  that  has  obscured  it,  wbuld  have  been  a 
burthen  to  me  at  Olney,  but  here  I  have  hardly 
attended  to  it,  the  neatness  and  snugness  of  our 
abode  compensate  all  the  dreariness  of  the  season, 
and  whether  the  ways  are  wet  or  dry,  our  house 
at  least  is  always  warm  and  commodious.  O  !  for 
you,  my  cousin,  to  partake  these  comforts  with 
us !  I  will  not  begin  already  to  tease  you  upon 
that  subject,  but  Mrs.  Unwin  remembers  to  have 
heard  from  your  own  lips,  that  you  hate  London 
in  the  spring.  Perhaps  tlierefore  by  that  time, 
YOU  may  be  glad  to  escape  from  a  scene  which 


will  be  every  day  growing  more  disagreeable,  that 
you  may  enjoy  the  comforts  of  the  lodge.  You 
well  know  that  the  best  house  has  a  desolate  ap- 
pearance unfurnished.  This  house  accordingly, 
since  it  has  been  occupied  by  us  and  our  meubles, 
is  as  much  superior  to  what  it  was  when  you  saw 
it,  as  you  can  imagine.  The  parlour  is  even  ele- 
gant. When  I  say  that  the  parlour  is  ielegant,  I 
do  not  mean  to  insinuate  that  the  study  is  not  so. 
It  is  neat,  warm,  and  silent,  and  a  much  better 
study  than  I  deserve,  if  I  do  not  produce  in  it  an 
incomparable  translation  of  Homer.  I  think  every 
day  of  those  lines  of  Milton,  and  congratulate  my- 
self on  having  obtained,  before  I  am  quite  super- 
annuated, what  he  seems  not  to  have  hoped  for 
sooner. 

"  And  may  at  length  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage !" 

For  if  it  is  not  an  hermitage,  at  least  it  is  a  much 
better  thing,  and  you  must  always  understand,  my 
dear,  that  when  poets  talk  of  cottages,  hermitages, 
and  such  like  things,  they  mean  a  house  with  six 
sashes  in  front,  two  comfortable  parlours,  a  smart 
staircase,  and  three  bed  chambers  of  convenient 
dimensions;  in  short,  exactly  such  a  house  as 
this. 

The  Throckmortons  continue  the  most  obliging 
neighbours  in  the  world.  One  morning  last  week, 
they  both  went  with  me  to  the  cliffs — a  scene,  my 
dear,  in  which  you  would  delight  beyond  measure^ 
but  which  you  can  not  visit  except  in  the  spring 
or  autumn.  The  heat  of  summer  and  the  cling- 
ing dirt  of  winter  would  destroy  you.  What  is 
called  the  cliff",  is  no  cliff",  nor  at  all  like  one,  but  a 
beautiful  terrace,  sloping  gently  down  to  the  Ouse, 
and  from  the  brow  of  which,  though  not  lofty, 
you  have  a  view  of  such  a  valley  as  makes  that 
which  you  see  from  the  hills  near  Olney,  and 
which  I  have  had  the  honour  to  celebrate,  an  aiFair 
of  no  consideration. 

Wintry  as  the  weather  is,  do  not  suspect  that  it 
confines  me.  I  ramble  daily,  and  every  day  change 
my  ramble.  Wherever  I  go,  I  find  short  grass 
under  my  feet,  and  when  I  have  travelled  perhaps 
five  miles,  come  home  with  shoes  not  at  all  too 
dirty  for  a  drawing  room.  I  was  pacing  yester- 
day under  the  elms,  that  surrounds  the  field  in 
which  stands  the  great  alcove,  when  lifting  my 
eyes  I  saw  two  black  genteel  figures  bolt  through 
a  hedge  into  the  path  where  I  was  walking.  You 
guess  already  who  they  were,  and  that  they  could 
be  nobody  but  our  neighbours.  They  had  seen 
me  from  a  hill  at  a  distance,  and  had  traversed  a 
large  turnip-field  to  get  at  me.  You  see  therefore 
my  dear,  that  I  am  in  some  request.  Alas !  in 
too  much  request  with  some  people.  The  verses 
of  Cadwallader  have  found  me  at  last. 

I  am  charmed  with  your  account  of  our  little 


Let.  238,  239. 


LETTERS. 


305 


cousin*  at  Kensington.    If  the  world  does  not 
spoil  him  hereafter,  he  will  be  a  valuable  man. 
Good  night,  and  may  God  bless  thee,  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Dec.  4,  1786. 
I  SENT  you,  my  dear,  a  melancholy  letter,  and 
I  do  not  know  that  I  shall  now  send  you  one  very 
unlike  it.  Not  that  any  thing  occurs  in  conse- 
quence of  our  late  loss  more  afflictive  than  was  to 
be  expected,  but  the  mind  does  not  perfectly  re- 
cover its  tone  after  a  shock  like  that  which  has  been 
felt  so  lately.  This  I  observe,  that  though  my  ex- 
perience has  long  since  taught  me,  that  this  world 
is  a  world  of  shadows,  and  that  it  is  the  more 
prudent,  as  well  as  the  more  Christian  course 
to  possess  the  comforts  that  we  find  in  it,  as  if  we 
possessed  them  not,  it  is  no  easy  matter  to  reduce 
this  doctrine  into  practice.  We  forget  that  that 
God  who  gave  them,  may,  when  he  pleases,  take 
them  away ;  and  that  perhaps  it  may  please  him 
to  take  them  at  a  time  when  we  least  expect,  or 
are  least  disposed  to  part  from  them.  Thus  it  has 
happened  in  the  present  case.  There  never  was 
a  moment  in  Unwin's  life,  when  there  seemed  to 
be  more  urgent  want  of  him  than  the  moment  in 
which  he  died.  He  had  attained  to  an  age  when,  if 
they  are  at  any  time  useful,  men  become  useful  to 
their  families,  their  friends,  and  the  world.  His  par- 
ish began  to  feel,  and  to  be  sensible  of  the  advantages 
of  his  ministry.  The  clergy  around  him  were 
many  of  them  awed  by  his  example.  His  chil- 
dren were  thriving  under  his  own  tuition  and  man- 
agement, and  his  eldest  boy  is  likely  to  feel  his  loss 
severely,  being  by  his  years  in  some  respect  quali- 
fied to  understand  the  value  of  such  a  parent ;  by 
his  literary  proficiency  too  clever  for  a  schoolboy, 
and  too  young  at  the  same  time  for  the  university. 
The  removal  of  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life  of  such 
a  character,  and  with  such  connexions,  seems  to 
make  a  void  in  society  that  can  never  be  filled. 
God  seemed  to  have  made  him  just  what  he  was, 
that  he  might  be  a  blessing  to  others,  and  when 
the  influence  of  his  character  and  abilities  began 
to  be  felt,  removed  him.  These  are  mysteries,  my 
dear,  that  we  can  not  contemplate  without  aston- 
ishment, but  which  will  nevertheless  be  explained 
hereafter,  and  must  in  the  mean  time  be  revered 
in  silence.  It  is  well  for  his  mother,  that  she  has 
spent  her  life  in  the  practice  of  an  habitual  ac- 
quiescence in  the  dispensations  of  Providence,  else 
I  know  that  this  stroke  would  have  been  heavier, 
after  all  that  she  has  suffered  upon  another  ac- 
count, than  she  could  have  borne.  She  derives, 
as  she  well  may,  great  consolation  from  the  thought 


*  Lord  Cowper, 


that  he  lived  the  life,  and  died  the  death  of  a  Chris- 
tian. The  consequence  is,  if  possible,  more  una- 
voidable than  the  most  mathematical  conclusion, 
that  therefore  he  is  hapgy.  So  farewell  my  friend 
Unwin !  The  first  man  for  whom  I  conceived  a 
friendship  after  my  removal  from  St.  Alban's,  and 
for  whom  I  can  not  but  still  continue  to  feel  a  friend- 
ship, though  I  shall  see  thee  with  these  eyes  no 
more,  W,  C. 


TO  ROBERT  SMITH,  ESa. 

Weston  Underwood,  near  Olney^ 
MY  DEAR  SIR,  Dec.  9,  1786. 

We  have  indeed  suffered  a  great  loss  by  the 
death  of  our  friend  Unwin ;  and  the  shock  that 
attended  it  was  the  more  severe,  as  till  within  a 
few  hours  of  his  decease  there  seemed  to  be  no 
very  alarming  symptoms.  All  the  account  that 
we  received  from  Mr.  Henry  Thornton,  who  act- 
ed hke  a  true  friend  on  the  occasion,  and  with  a 
tenderness  toward  all  concerned,  that  does  him 
great  honour,  encouraged  our  hopes  of  his  recove- 
ry ;  and  Mrs.  Unwin  herself  found  him  on  her  ar- 
rival at  Winchester  so  cheerful,  and  in  appearance 
so  likely  to  live,  that  her  letter  also  seemed  to  pro- 
mise us  all  that  we  could  wish  on  the  subject.  But 
an  unexpected  turn  in  his  distemper,  which  sud- 
denly seized  his  bowels,  dashed  all  our  hopes,  and 
deprived  us  almost  immediately  of  a  man  whom  we 
must  ever  regret.  His  mind  having  been  from  his 
infancy  deeply  tinctured  with  religious  sentiments, 
he  was  always  impressed  with  a  sense  of  the  im- 
portance of  the  great  change  of  all ;  and  on  for- 
mer occasions,  when  at  any  time  he  found  himself 
indisposed,  was  consequently  subject  to  distressing 
alarms  and  apprehensions.  But  in  this  last  in- 
stance, his  mind  was  from  the  first  composed  and 
easy;  his  fears  were  taken  away,  and  succeeded 
by  such  a  resignation  as  warrants  us  in  saying, 
"  that  God  made  all  his  bed  in  his  sickness."  I 
believe  it  is  always  thus,  where  the  heart,  though 
upright  toward  God,  as  Unwin's  assuredly  was,  is 
yet  troubled  with  the  fear  of  death.  When  death 
indeed  comes,  he  is  either  welcome,  or  at  least  has 
lost  his  sting. 

I  have  known  many  such  instances,  and  his  mo- 
ther, from  the  moment  that  she  learned  with  what 
tranquillity  he  was  favoured  in  his  illness,  for  that 
very  reason  expected  that  it  would  be  his  last.  Yet 
not  with  so  much  certainty,  but  that  the  favours^ 
ble  accounts  of  him  at  length,  in  a  great  measure, 
superseded  that  persuasion. 

She  begs  me  to  assure  you,  my  dear  sir,  how 
sensible  she  is,  as  well  as  myself,  of  the  kindness 
of  your  inquiries.  She  suffers  this  stroke,  not  with 
more  patience  than  submission  than  I  expected,  for 
I  never  knew  her  hurried  by  any  affliction  into  tho 


30G 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  240,  241, 


loss  of  cither,  but  in  appearance,  at  least,  and  at 
present,  with  less  injury  to  her  health  than  1  ap- 
prehended. She  observed  to  me,  after  reading 
your  kind  letter,  that  though  it  was  a  proof  of  the 
greatness  of  her  loss,  it  yet  afforded  her  pleasure, 
though  a  melancholy  one,  to  see  how  much  her 
son  had  been  loved  and  valued  by  such  a  person 
as  yourself 

Mrs.  Unwin  wrote  to  her  daughter-in-law,  to 
invite  her  and  the  family  hither,  hoping  that  a 
change  of  scene,  and  a  situation  so  pleasant  as 
this,  may  be  of  service  to  her,  but  we  have  not  yet 
received  her  answer.  I  have  good  hope  however 
that,  great  as  her  affliction  must  be,  she  will  yet 
be  able  to  support  it,  for  she  well  knows  whither 
to  resort  for  consolation. 

The  virtues  and  amiable  qualities  of  our  friends 
are  the  things  for  which  we  most  wish  to  keep  them, 
but  they  are  on  the  other  hand  the  very  things, 
that  in  particular  ought  to  reconcile  us  to  their  de- 
parture. We  find  ourselves  sometimes  connected 
with,  and  engaged  in  affection  too,  to  a  person  of 
whose  readiness  and  fitness  for  another  hfe  we  can 
not  have  the  highest  opinion.  The  death  of  such 
men  has  a  bitterness  in  it,  both  to  themselves  and 
survivors,  which,  thank  God !  is  not  to  be  found  in 
the  death  of  Unwin. 

I  know,  my  dear  sir,  how  much  you  valued  him, 
and  I  know  also  how  much  he  valued  you.  With 
respect  to  him,  all  is  well ;  and  of  you,  if  I  should 
survive  you,  which  perhaps  is  not  very  probable,  I 
shall  say  the  same. 

In  the  mean  time,  believe  me  with  the  warmest 
wishes  for  your  health  and  happiness,  and  with 
Mrs.  Unwin's  affectionate  respects. 
Yours,  my  dear  sir. 

Most  faithfully,  W.  C. 

TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Weston,  Dec.  9,  1786. 
I  AM  perfectly  sure  that  you  are  mistaken,  though 
I  do  not  wonder  at  it,  considering  the  singular  na- 
ture of  the  event,  in  the  judgment  that  you  form 
of  poor  Unwin's  death,  as  it  affects  the  interest  of 
his  intended  pupil.  When  a  tutor  was  wanted  for 
him,  you  sought  out  the  wisest  and  best  man  for 
tne  office  within  the  circle  of  your  connexions.  It 
pleased  God  to  take  him  home  to  himself  Men 
eminently  wise  and  good  are  very  apt  to  die,  be- 
cause they  are  fit  to  do  so.  You  found  in  Unwin 
a  man  worthy  to  succeed  him ;  and  He,  in  whose 
hands  are  the  issues  of  life  and  death,  seeing  no 
doubt  that  Unwin  was  ripe  for  a  removal  into  a 
better  state,  removed  him  also.  The  matter  view- 
ed in  this  light  seems  not  so  wonderful  as  to  refuse 
all  explanation,  excei)t  such  as  in  a  melancholy 
moment  you  have  given  to  it.    And  I  am  so  con- 


vinced that  the  little  boy's  destiny  had  no  influence 
at  all  in  hastening  the  death  of  his  tutors  elect, 
that  were  it  not  impossible  on  more  accounts  than 
one  that  I  should  be  able  to  serve  him  in  that  ca- 
pacity, I  would  without  the  least  fear  of  dying  a 
moment  the  sooner,  offer  myself  to  that  office  ;  I 
would  even  do  it,  were  I  conscious  of  the  same  fit- 
ness for  another  and  a  better  state,  that  I  believe 
them  to  have  been  both  endowed  with.  In  that 
case,  I  perhaps  might  die  too,  but  if  I  should,  it 
would  not  be  on  account  of  that  connexion.  Nei- 
ther, my  dear,  had  your  interference  in  the  business 
any  thing  to  do  with  the  catastrophe.  Your  whole 
conduct  in  it  must  have  been  acceptable  in  the  sight 
of  God,  as  it  was  directed  by  principles  of  the  pur- 
est benevolence. 

I  have  not  touched  Homer  to-day.  Yesterday 
was  one  of  my  terrible  seasons,  and  when  I  arose 
this  morning  I  found  that  I  had  not  sufficiently  re- 
covered myself  to  engage  in  such  an  occupation. 
Having  letters  to  write,  I  the  more  wilUngly  gave 
myself  a  dispensation. — Good  night. 

Yours  ever,  W.  C. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa, 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Weston,  Dcc.  9,  1786. 

We  had  just  begun  to  employ  the  pleasantness 
of  our  new  situation,  to  find  at  least  as  much  com- 
fort in  it  as  the  season  of  the  year  would  permit, 
when  affliction  found  us  out  in  our  retreat,  and 
the  news  reached  us  of  the  death  of  Mr.  Unwin. 
He  had  taken  a  western  tour  with  Mr.  Henry 
Thornton,  and  in  his  return,  at  Winchester,  was 
seized  with  a  putrid  fever,  which  sent  him  to  his 
grave.  He  is  gone  to  it,  however,  though  young, 
as  fit  for  it  as  age  itself  could  have  made  him.  Re- 
gretted indeed,  and  always  to  be  regretted  by  those 
who  knew  him,  for  he  had  every  thing  that  makes 
a  man  valuable  both  in  his  principles  and  in  his 
manners,  but  leaving  still  this  consolation  to  his 
surviving  friends,  that  he  was  desirable  in  this 
world  chiefly  because  he  was  so  well  prepared  for 
a  better. 

I  find  myself  here  situated  exactly  to  my  mind. 
Weston  is  one  of  the  prettiest  villages  in  England, 
and  the  walks  about  it  at  all  seasons  of  the  year 
deUghtful.  I  know  that  you  will  rejoice  with  me 
in  the  change  that  we  have  made,  and  for  which  I 
am  altogether  indebted  to  Lady  Hesketh.  It  is  a 
change  as  great  as  (to  compare  metropolitan  things 
with  rural)  from  St.  Giles's  to  Grosvenor-square. 
Our  house  is  in  all  respects  commodious,  and  in 
some  degree  elegant ;  and  I  can  not  give  you  a 
better  idea  of  that  which  we  have  left,  than  by  tell- 
ing you  the  present  candidates  for  it  are  a  publi- 
can and  a  shoemaker. 

W.  c. 


Let.  243,  243,  244. 


LETTERS. 


307 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Weston,  Dec.  21,  1786. 

Your  welcome  letter,  my  beloved  cousin,  which 
ought  by  the  date  to  have  arrived  on  Sunday 
being  by  some  untoward  accident  delayed,  came 
not  till  yesterday.  It  came,  however,  and  has  re- 
lieved me  from  a  thousand  distressing  apprehen- 
sions on  your  account. 

The  dew  of  your  intelligence  has  refreshed  my 
poetical  laurels.  A  little  praise  now  and  then  is 
very  good  for  your  hard-working  poet,  who  is  apt 
to  grow  languid,  and  perhaps  careless  without  it. 
Praise  I  find  affects  us  as  money  does.  The 
more  a  man  gets  of  it,  with  the  more  vigilance  he 
watches  over  and  preserves  it.  Such  at  least  is 
its  effect  on  me,  and  you  may  assure  yourself  that 
I  will  never  lose  a  mite  of  it  for  want  of  care. 

I  have  already  invited  the  good  Padre  in  gene- 
ral terms,  and  he  shall  positively  dine  here  next 
week,  whether  he  will  or  not.  I  do  not  at  all 
suspect  that  his  kindness  to  Protestants  has  any 
thing  insidious  in  it,  any  more  than  I  suspect  that 
he  transcribes  Homer  for  me  with  a  view  for  my 
conversion.  He  would  find  me  a  tough  piece  of 
business  I  can  tell  him ;  for  when  I  had  no  reli- 
gion at  all,  I  had  yet  a  terrible  dread  of  the  Pope. 
How  much  more  now ! 

I  should  have  sent  you  a  longer  letter,  but  was 
obliged  to  devote  my  last  evening  to  the  melan- 
choly employment  of  composing  a  Latin  inscrip- 
tion for  the  tomb-stone  of  poor  William,  two  co- 
pies of  which  I  wrote  out  and  enclosed,  one  to 
Henry  Thornton,  and  one  to  Mr.  Newton.  Ho- 
mer stands  by  me  biting  his  thumbs,  and  swears 
that  if  I  do  not  leave  off  directly,  he  will  choak 
me  with  bristly  Greek,  that  shall  stick  in  my 
throat  for  ever.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Wcston,  Jan.  3,  1787. 

You  wish  to  hear  from  me  at  any  calm  inter- 
val of  epic  frenzy.  An  interval  presents  itself, 
but  whether  calm  or  not,  is  perhaps  doubtful.  Is 
it  possible  for  a  man  to  be  calm,  who  for  three 
weeks  past  has  been  perpetually  occupied  in 
slaughter;  letting  out  one  man's  bowels,  smiting 
another  through  the  gullet,  transfixing  the  liver 
of  another,  and  lodging  an  arrow  in  the  buttock 
of  a  fourth  1  Read  the  thirteenth  book  of  the  Iliad, 
and  you  will  find  such  amusing  incidents  as  these 
the  subject  of  it,  the  sole  subject.  In  order  to  in- 
terest myself  in  it,  and  to  catch  the  spirit  of  it, 
I  had  need  discard  all  humanity.  It  is  woful 
work;  and  were  the  best  poet  in  the  world  to  give 
us  at  this  day  such  a  list  of  killed  and  wounded, 

2  b 


he  would  not  escape  universal  censure,  to  the 
praise  of  a  more  enlightened  age  be  it  spoken.  I 
have  waded  through  much  blood,  and  through 
much  more  I  must  wade  before  I  shall  have  finish- 
ed. I  determine  in  the  mean  time  to  account  it 
all  very  sublime,  and  for  two  reasons. — First,  be- 
cause, all  the  learned  think  so,  and  secondly,  be- 
cause I  am  to  translate  it.  But  were  I  an  indif- 
ferent by-stander,  perhaps  I  should  venture  to 
wish,  that  Homer  had  applied  his  wonderful 
powers  to  a  less  disgusting  subject.  He  has  in 
the  Odyssey,  and  I  long  to  get  at  it. 

I  have  not  the  good  fortune  to  meet  with  any 
of  these  fine  things,  that  you  say  are  printed  in 
my  praise.  But  I  learn  from  certain  advertise- 
ments in  the  Morning  Herald,  that  I  make  a  con- 
spicuous figure  in  the  entertainments  of  Free- 
Mason's  Hall.  I  learn  also  that  my  volumes  are 
out  of  print,  and  that  a  third  edition  is  soon  to  be 
published.  But  if  I  am  not  gratified  with  the 
sight  of  odes  composed  to  my  honour  and  glory,  I 
have  at  least  been  tickled  with  some  douceurs  of  a 
very  flattering  nature  by  the  post.  A  lady  un- 
known addresses  the  best  of  men — an  unknown 
gentleman  has  read  my  inimitable  poems,  and  in- 
vites me  to  his  seat  in  Hampshire — another  incog- 
nito gives  me  hopes  of  a  memorial  in  his  garden, 
and  a  Welsh  attorney  sends  me  his  verses  to  re- 
vise, and  obligingly  asks, 

"  Say,  shall  my  little  bark  attendant  sail, 
Pursue  the  triumph,  and  partake  the  gale  V 

If  you  find  me  a  little  vain  hereafter,  my  friend, 
you  must  excuse  it,  in  consideration  of  these  pow- 
erful incentives,  especially  the  latter;  for  surely 
the  poet  who  can  charm  an  attorney,  especially  a 
Welsh  one,  must  be  at  least  an  Orpheus,  if  not 
something  greater. 

Mrs.  Unwin  is  as  much  delighted  as  myself 
with  our  present  situation.  But  it  is  a  sort  of 
April  weather  life  that  we  lead  in  this  world.  A 
little  sunshine  is  generally  the  prelude  to  a  storm. 
Hardly  had  we  begun  to  enjoy  the  change,  when 
the  death  of  her  son  cast  a  gloom  upon  every 
thing.  He  was  a  most  exemplary  man ;  of  your 
order;  learned,  polite,  and  amiable.  The  father 
of  lovely  children,  and  the  husband  of  a  wife  (very 
much  like  dear  Mrs.  Bagot)  who  adored  him. 

Adieu,  my  friend!  Your  aflfectionate  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Jan.  8,  1787. 
I  HAVE  had  a  little  nervous  fever  lately,  my 
dear,  that  had  somewhat  abridged  my  sleep;  and 
though  I  find  myself  better  to-day  than  I  have 
been  since  it  seized  me,  yet  I  feel  my  head  lightish, 
and  nQ%  in  the  best  order  for  writing.   You  will 


308 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  245. 


find  me  therefore  perhaps  not  only  less  alert  in  sleepless.  The  consequence  has  been,  that  ex- 
my  manner  than  I  usually  am  when  my  spirits  cept  the  translation  of  about  thirty  hues  at  the 
are  o-ood  but  rather  shorter.  1  will  however  pro-  conclusion  of  the  thirteenth  book,  I  have  been 
ceed'to  scribble  till  1  find  that  it  fatigues  me,  and  forced  to  abandon  Homer  entirely.  This  was  a 
then  will  do  as  I  know  you  would  bid  me  do  were  |  sensible  mortification  to  me,  as  you  may  suppose, 
you  here  shut  up  my  desk,  and  take  a  walk.  and  felt  the  more  because,  my  spirits  of  course 
The  good  General  tells  me  that  in  the  eight  IfaiUng  with  my  strength,  I  seemed  to  have  pecu- 
first  books  which  I  have  sent  him,  he  still  finds  liar  need  of  my  old  amusement.    It  seemed  hard 


alterations  and  amendments  necessary,  of  which 
I  myself  am  equally  persuaded ;  and  he  asks  my 
leave  to  lay  them  before  an  intimate  friend  of  his, 
of  whom  he  gives  a  character  that  bespeaks  him 
highly  deserving  such  a  trust.  To  this  I  have  no 
objection,  desiring  only  to  make  the  translation  as 
perfect  as  I  can  make  it.  If  God  grant  me  life 
and  health,  I  would  spare  no  labour  to  secure  that 
point.  The  general's  letter  is  extremely  kind, 
and  both  for  manner  ^nd  matter  like  all  the  rest 
of  his  dealings  with  his  cousin  the  poet. 

I  had  a  letter  also  yesterday  from  Mr.  Smith, 
member  for  Nottingham.  Though  we  never  saw 
each  other,  he  writes  to  me  in  the  most  friendly 
terms,  and  interests  himself  much  in  my  Honier, 
and  in  the  success  of  my  subscription.  Speaking 
on  this  latter  subject,  he  says  that  my  poems  are 
read  by  hundreds,  who  know  nothing  of  my  pro- 
posals, and  makes  no  doubt  that  they  would  sub- 
scribe, if  they  did.  I  have  myself  always  thought 
them  imperfectly,  or  rather  inefficiently  an- 
nounced. 

I  could  pity  the  poor  woman,  who  has  been 
weak  enough  to  claim  my  song.  Such  pilferings 
are  sure  to  be  detected.  I  wrote  it,  I  know  not 
how  long,  but  I  suppose  four  years  ago.  The 
rose  in  question  was  a  rose  given  to  Lady  Austen 
by  Mrs.  Unwin,  and  the  incident  that  suggested 
the  subject  occurred  in  the  room  in  which  you 
slept  at  the  vicarage,  which  Lady  Austen  made 
her  dining  room.  Some  time  since,  Mr.  Bull 
going  to  London,  I  gave  him  a  copy  of  it,  which 
he  undertook  to  convey  to  Nichols,  the  printer  of 
the  Gentleman's  Magazine.  He  showed  it  to 
]V[js_  Q  ,  who  begged  to  copy  it,  and  pro- 
mised to  send  it  to  the  printer's  by  her  servant. 
Three  or  four  months  afterwards,  and  when  I 
had  concluded  it  was  lost,  I  saw  it  in  the  Gentle- 
man's Magazine,  with  my  signature,  W.  C. 
Poor  simpleton!  She  will  find  now  perhaps  that 
the  rose  had  a  thorn,  and  that  she  has  pricked  her 
fingers  with  it.  Adieu !  my  beloved  cousin. 
^  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 


The  Lodge,  Jan.  18,  1787 
I  HAVE  been  so  much  indisposed  with  the  fever 
that  I  told  you  had  seized  me,  my  nights  during 
the  whole  week  may  be  said  to  have  been  almost 


**v.v.v,  ^»  

therefore  to  be  forced  to  resign  it  just  when  I 
wanted  it  most.  But  Homer's  battles  can  not  be 
fought  by  a  man  who  does  not  sleep  well,  and 
who  has  not  some  little  degree  of  anirciation  in  the 
day  time.  Last  night,  however,  quite  contrary  to 
my  expectations,  the  fever  left  me  entirely,  and  I 
slept  quietly,  soundly,  and  long.  If  it  please  God 
that  it  return  not,  I  shall  soon  find  myself  in  a 
condition  to  proceed.  I  walk  constafttly,  that  is 
to  say,  Mrs.  Unwin  and  I  together:  for  at  these 
times  I  keep  her  continually  employed,  and  never 
suffer  her  to  be  absent  from  me  many  minutes. 
She  gives  me  all  her  time,  and  all  her  attention, 
and  forgets  that  there  is  another  object  in  the 
world. 

Mrs.  Carter  thinks  on  the  subject  of  dreams  as 
every  body  else  does,  that  is  to  say,  according  to 
her  own  experience.    She  has  had  no  extraordina- 
ry ones,  and  therefore  accounts  them  only  the  or- 
dinary operations  of  the  fancy.    Mine  are  of  a 
texture  that  will  not  suffer  me  to  ascribe  them  to 
so  inadequate  a  cause,  or  to  any  cause  but  the 
operation  of  an  exterior  agency.    I  have  a  mirid, 
my  dear,  (and  to  you  I  will  venture  to  boast  of  it) 
as  free  from  superstition  as  any  man  living,  neither 
do  I  give  heed  to  dreams  in  general  as  predictive, 
though  particular  dreams  I  believe  to  be  so.  Some 
very  sensible  persons,  and  I  suppose  Mrs.  Carter 
among  them,  will  acknowledge  that  in  old  times 
God  spoke  by  dreams,  but  affirm  with  mtich  bold- 
ness that  he  has  since  ceased-  to  do  so.    If  you  ask 
them  why'?    They  answer,  because  he  has  now 
revealed  his  will  in  the  Scripture,  and  there  is  no 
longer  any  need  that  he  should  instruct  or  admonish 
us  by  dreams.    I  grant  that  with  respect  to  doc- 
trines and  precepts  he  has  left  us  in  want  of  no- 
thing; but  has  he  thereby  precluded  himself  in 
any  of  the  operations  of  his  Providence  1  Surely 
not.    It  is  perfectly  a  different  consideration ;  and 
the  same  need  that  there  ever  was  of  his  inter- 
ference in  this  way,  there  is  still,  and  ever  must 
be,  while  man  continues  blind  and  fallible,  and  a 
creature  beset  with  dangers  which  he  can  neither 
foresee  nor  obviate.    His  operations  however  of 
this  kind  are,  1  allow,  very  rare;  and  as  to  the 
generaUty  of  dreams,  they  are  made  of  such  stuff*, 
and  are  in  themselves  so  insignificant,  that  though 
I  believe  them  all  to  be  the  manufacture  of  others, 
not  our  own,  I  account  it  not  a  farthing-matter 
who  manufactures  them.    So  much  for  dreams ' 
My  fever  is  not  yet  gone,  but  sometimes  seems 


Let.  246,  247. 


LETTERS. 


309 


to  leave  me.  It  is  altogether  of  the  nervous  kind, 
and  attended,  now  and  then,  with  much  dejection. 

A  young  gentleman  called  here  yesterday,  who 
came  six  miles  out  of  his  way  to  see  me.  He  was 
on  a  journey  to  London  from  Glasgow,  having 
just  left  the  university  there.  He  came  I  suppose 
partly  to  satisfy  his  own  curiosity,  but  chiefly,  as 
it  seemed,  to  bring  me  the  thanks  of  some  of  the 
Scotch  professors  for  my  two  volumes.  His  name 
is  Rose,  an  EngUshman.  Your  spirits  being  good, 
you  will  derive  more  pleasure  from  this  incident 
than  I  can  at  present,  therefore  I  send  it. 

Adieu,  very  affectionately,  W.  C.* 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

DEAR  SIR,  Weston,  July  24,  1787.  _ 

This  is  the  first  time  I  have  written  these  six 
months,  and  nothing  but  the  constraint  of  obliga- 
tion could  induce  me  to  write  now.  I  can  not  be 
so  wanting  to  myself  as  not  to  endeavour  at  least 
to  thank  y.ou  both  for  the  visits  with  which  you 
have  favoured  me,  and  the  poems  that  you  sent 
me;  in  my  present  state  of  mind  I  taste  nothing, 
nevertheless  I  read,  partly  from  habit,  and  partly 
because  it  is  the  only  thing  that  I  am  capable  of 

I  have  therefore  read  Burns's  poems,  and  have 
read  them  twice ;  and  though  they  be  written  in 
a  language  that  is  new  to  me,  and  many  Of  them 
on  subjects  much  inferior  to  the  author's  ability,  I 
think  them  on  the  whole  a  very  extraordinary  pro- 
duction. He  is  I  believe  the  only  poet  these  king- 
doms have  produced  in  the  lower  rank  of  Ufe,  since 
Shakspeare,  (I  should  rather  say  since  Prior) "who 
need  not  be  indebted  for  any  part  of  his  praise  to 
a  charitable  consideration  of  his  origin,  and  the 
disadvantages  under  which  he  has  laboured.  It 
will  be  pity  if  he  should  not  hereafter  divest  him- 
self of  barbarism,  and  content  himself  with  writing 
pure  English,  in  which  he  appears  perfectly  quali- 
fied to  excel.  He  who  can  command  admiration, 
dishonours  himself  if  he  aims  no  higher  than  to 
raise  a  laugh. 

I  am,  dear  sir,  with  my  best  wishes  for  your  pros- 
perity, and  with  Mrs.  Unwin's  respects. 

Your  obliged  and  affectionate  humble  servant, 

W.C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

DEAR  SIR,  Weston,  Aug.  27,  1787. 

1  HAVE  not  yet  taken  up  the  pen  again,  except 


•  The  illness  mentioned  in  this  letter  interrupted  the  wri 
ter's  translation  of  Homer  during  eight  months. 


to  write  to  you.    The  little  taste  that  I  have  had 
of  your  company,  and  your  kindness  in  finding  me 
out,  make  me  wish  that  we  were  nearer  neigh- 
bours, and  that  there  were  not  so  great  a  disparity 
in  our  years.    That  is  to  say,  not  that  you  were 
older,  but  that  1  were  younger.    CoUld  we  have 
met  in  earlier  hfe,  I  flatter  myself  that  we  might 
have  been  more  intimate  than  now  we  are  likely 
to  be.    But  you  shall  not  find  me  slow  to  cultivate 
such  a  measure  of  your  regard,  as  your  friends  of 
your  own  age  can  spare  me.    When  your  route 
shall  lie  through  this  country,  I  shall  hope  that 
the  same  kindness  which  has  prompted  you  twice 
to  call  on  me,  will  prompt  you  again,  and  I  shall 
be  happy  if,  on  a  future  occasion,  I  may  be  able 
to  give  you  a  more  cheerful  reception  than  can  be 
expected  from  an  invalid.    My  health  and^pirits 
are  considerably  improved,  and  I  once  more  asso- 
ciate with  my  neighbours.    My  head  however  has 
been  the  worst  part  of  me,  and  still  continues  so ; 
is  subject  to  giddiness  and  pain,  maladies  very  un- 
favourable to  poetical  employment ;  but  a  prepara- 
tion of  the  bark,  which  I  take  regularly,  has  so 
far  been  of  service  to  me  in  those  respects,  as  to 
encourage  in  me  a  hope  that  by  perseverance  in 
the  use  of  it,  I  may  possibly  find  myself  quahfied 
to  resume  the  translation  of  Homer 

When  I  can  not  walk,  I  read,  and  read  perhaps 
more  than  is  good  for  me.  But  I  can  not  be  idle. 
The  only  mercy  that  I  shew  myself  in  this  respect 
is,  that  I  read  nothing  that  requires  much  close- 
ness of  application.  I  lately  finished  the  perusal 
of  a  book,  which  in  former  years  I  have  more  than 
once  attacked,  but  never  till  now  conquered ;  some 
other  book  always  interfered,  before  I  could  finish 
it.  The  work  I  mean  is  Barclay's  Argenis:  and, 
if  ever  you  allow  yourself  to  read  for  mere  amuse- 
ment, I  can  recommend  it  to  you  (provided  you 
have  not  already  perused  it)  as  the  most  amusing 
romance  that  ever  was  written.  It  is  the  only 
one  indeed  of  an  old  date  that  I  ever  had  the  pa- 
tience to  go  through  with.  It  is  interesting  in  a 
high  degree;  richer  in  incident  than  can  be  ima- 
gined, full  of  surprises,  which  the  reader  never 
forestalls,  and  yet  free  from  all  entanglement  and 
confusion.  The  style  too  appear^  to  me  to  be  such 
as  would  not  dishonour  Tacitus  himself. 

Poor  Burns  loses  much  of  his  deserved  praise 
in  this  country,  through  our  ignorance  of  his  lan- 
guage. I  despair  of  meeting  vyith  any  English- 
man who  will  take  the  pains  that  I  have  taken  to 
understand  him.  His  candle  is  bright,  but  shut 
up  in  a  dark  lantern.  I  lent  Mm  to  a  very  sensi- 
ble neighbour  of  mine:  but  his  uncouth  dialect 
spoiled  all;  and  before  he  had  half  read  him 
through,  he  was  quite  ram-feezled. 


W.C 


310 


COWPER'I 


'S  WORKS. 


248,  249,  250. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Aug.  30,  1787. 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN, 

Though  it  cost  me  something  to  write,  it  would 
cost  me  more  to  be  silent.  My  intercourse  with 
my  neighbours  being  renewed,  I  can  no  longer 
seem  to  forget  how  many  reasons  there  are,  why 
you  especially  should  not  be  neglected;  no  neigh- 
bour indeed,  but  the  kindness  of  my  friends,  and 
ere  long,  I  hope,  an  inmate. 

My  health  and  spirits  seem  to  be  mending  daily. 
To  what  end  I  know  not,  neither  will  conjecture, 
but  endeavour,  as  far  as  I  can,  to  be  content  that 
they  do  so.  I  use  exercise,  and  take  the  air  in 
the  park  and  wilderness.  I  read  much,  but  as  yet 
write  not.  Our  friends  at  the  Hall  make  them- 
selves more  and  more  <  amiable  in  our  account, 
by  treating  us  rather  as  old  friends,  than  as  friends 
newly  acquired.  There  are  few  days  in  which 
we  do  not  meet,  and  I  am  now  almost  as  much 
at  home  in  their  house  as  in  our  own.  Mr. 
Throckmorton,  having  long  since  put  me  in  pos- 
session of  all  his  ground,  has  now  given  me  posses- 
sion of  his  library ;  an  acquisition  of  great  value 
to  me,  who  never  have  been  able  to  live  without 
books,  since  I  first  knew  my  letters,  and  who  have 
no  books  of  my  own.  By  his  means  I  have  been 
so  well  supplied  that  I  have  not  yet  even  looked 
at  the  Lounger,  for  which  however  I  do  not  for- 
get that  I  am  obliged  to  you.  His  turn  comes 
next,  and  I  shall  probably  begin  him  to-morrow, 

Mr.  George  Throckmorton  is  at  the  Hall.  I 
thought  I  had  known  these  brothers  long  enough 
to  have  found  out  all  their  talents  and  accomplish- 
ments. But  I  was  mistaken.  The  day  before 
yesterday,  after  having  walked  with  us,  they  car- 
ried us  up  to  the  library  (a  more  accurate  writer 
would  have  said  conducted  us)  and  then  they 
showed  me  the  contents  of  an  immense  port-folio, 
the  work  of  their  own  hands.  It  was  furnished 
with  drawings  of  the  architectural  kind,  executed 
in  a  most  masterly  manner,  and  among  others,  con- 
tained outside  and  inside  views  of  the  Pantheon, 
I  mean  the  Roman  one.  They  were  all,  I  believe, 
made  at  Rome.  Some  men  may  be  estimated  at 
a  first  interview,  but  the  Throckmortons  must  be 
seen  often,  and  known  long,  before  one  can  un- 
derstand all  their  value. 

They  often  inquire  after  you,  and  ask  me 
whether  you  visit  Weston  this  autumn.  I  an- 
swer yes,  and  I  charge  you,  my  dearest  cousin,  to 
authenticate  my  information.  Write  to  me,  and 
tell  us  when  we  may  expect  to  see  you.  We 
were  disappointed  that  we  had  ,  no  letter  from  you 
this  morning.  You  will  find  me  coated  and  but- 
toned according  to  your  recommendation. 


I  write  but  little,  because  writing  is  become  new 
to  me ;  but  I  shall  come  on  by  degrees.  INlrs. 
Unwin  begs  to  be  affectionately  remembered  to 
you.  She  is  in  tolerable  health,  which  is  the  chief 
comfort  here  that  I  have  to  boast  of. 

Yours,  my  dearest  cousin,  as  ever,  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

MY  DEAREST  COZ,  ^ 

The  Lodge,  Sept.  4,  1787. 

Come  when  thou  canst  come,  secure  of  being 
always  welcome !  All  that  is  here  is  thine,  to- 
gether with  the  hearts  of  those  who  dwell  here.  I 
am  only  sorry,  that  your  journey  hither  is  necessa- 
rily postponed  beyond  the  time  when  I  did  hope 
to  have  seen  you ;  sorry  too  that  my  uncle's  in- 
firmities are  the  occasion  of  it.  But  years  will 
have  their  course,  a,nd  their  efifect :  they  are  hap- 
piest, so  far  as  this  life  is  concerned,  who  like  him 
escape  those  effects  the  longest,  and  who  do  not 
grow  old  before  their  time.  Trouble  and  anguish 
do  that  for  some,  which  only  longevity  does  for 
others,  A  few  months  since  I  was  older  than 
your  father  is  now,  and  though  I  have  lately  re- 
covered, as  Falstaff  says,  some  smatch  of  my 
youth,  I  have  but  little  confidence,  in  truth  none, 
in  so  flattering  a  change,  but  expect,  when  I  least 
expect  it,  to  wither  again.  The  past  is  a  pledge 
for  the  future. 

Mr.  G.  is  here,  Mrs.  Throckmorton's  uncle. 
He  is  lately  arrived  from  Italy,  where  he  has  re- 
sided several  years,  and  is  so  much  the  gentleman, 
that  it  is  impossible  to  be  more  so.  Sensible,  po- 
lite, obliging ;  slender  in  his  figure,  and  in  man- 
ners most  engaging — every  way  worthy  to  be  re- 
lated to  the  Throckmortons. 

I  have  read  Savary's  travels  into  Egypt ;  Me- 
moirs du  Baron  de  Tott ;  Fenn's  original  letters  ; 
the  letters  of  Frederick  of  Bohemia,  and  am  now 
reading  Memoirs  d'  Henri  de  Lorraine,  Due  de 
Guise.  I  have  also  read  Barclay's  Argenis,  a 
Latin  Romance,  and  the  best  Romance  that  ever 
was  written.  All  these,  together  with  Madan's 
letters  to  Priestley,  and  several  pamphlets,  within 
these  two  months.    So  I  am  a  great  reader, 

W.  C. 

TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The,  Lodge,  Sept.  15,  1787. 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN, 

On  Monday  last  I  was  invited  to  meet  your 

friend  Miss  J  at  the  Hall,  and  there  we  found 

her.  Her  good  nature,  her  humorous  manner, 
and  her  good  sense,  are  charming;  insomuch  that 


Let.  251,  252. 


LETTERS. 


311 


even  I,  who  was  never  much  addicted  to  speech- 
making,  and  who  at  present  find  myself  particu- 
larly indisposed  to  it,  could  not  help  saying  at  part- 
ing, I  am  glad  that  1  have  seen  you,  and  sorry 
that  I  have  seen  so  little  of  you.  We  were  some- 
times many  in  company ;  on  Thursday  we  were 
fifteen,  but  we  had  not  altogether  so  much  vivacity 

and  cleverness  as  Miss   ,  whose  talent  at 

mirth-making  has  this  rare  property  to  recommend 
it,  that  nobody  suffers  by  it. 

I  am  making  a  gravel  walk  for  winter  use,  un- 
der a  warm  hedge  in  the  orchard.  It  shall  be  fur- 
nished with  a  low  seat  for  your  accommodation, 
and  if  you  do  but  Uke  it  I  shall  be  satisfied.  In 
wet  weather,  or  rather  after  wet  weather,  when 
the  street  is  dirty,  it  will  suit  you  well,  for  laying 
on  an  easy  declivity  through  its  whole  length,  it 
must  of  course  be  immediately  dry. 

You  are  very  much  wished  for  by  our  friends 
at  the  Hall — how  much  by  me  I  will  not  tell  you 
till  the  second  week  in  October 

Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

MY  DEAR  coz,       The  Lodge,  Sept.  29,  1787. 

I  THANK  you  for  your  political  intelligence ;  re- 
tired as  we  are,  and  seemingly  excluded  from  the 
world,  we  are  not  indifferent  to  what  passes  in  it ; 
on  the  contrary,  the  arrival  of  a  newspaper,  at  the 
present  juncture,  never  fails  to  furnish  us  with  a 
theme  for  discussion,  short  indeed,  but  satisfactory, 
for  we  seldom  differ  in  opinion. 

I  have  received  such  an  impression  of  the  Turks 
from  the  memoirs  of  Baron  de  Tott,  which  I  read 
lately,  that  T  can  hardly  help  presaging  the  con- 
quest of  that  empire  by  the  Russians.  The  disci- 
ples of  Mahomet  are  such  babies  in  modern  tac- 
tics, and  so  enervated  by  the  use  of  their  favourite 
drug;  so  fatally  secure  in  their  predestinarian 
dream,  and  so  prone  to  a  spirit  of  mutiny  against 
their  leaders,  that  nothing  less  can  be  expected. 
In  fact,  they  had  not  been  their  own  masters  at 
this  day,  had  but  the  Russians  known  the  weak- 
ness of  their  enemies  half  so  well  as  they  un- 
doubtedly know  it  now.  Add  to  this,  that  there 
is  a  popular  prophecy  current  in  both  countries, 
that  Turkey  is  one  day  to  fall  under  the  Russian 
sceptre.  A  prophecy  which,  from  whatever  au- 
thority it  be  derived,  as  it  will  naturally  encourage 
the  Russians,  and  dispirit  the  Turks  in  exact  pro- 
portion to  the  degree  of  credit  it  has  obtained  on 
both  sides,  has  a  direct  tendency  to  effect  its  own 
accomplishment.  In  the  mean  time,  if  I  wish 
them  conquered,  it  is  only  because  I  think  it  will 
foe  a  bleesing  to  tliem  to  be  governed  by  any  other 
hajjxl  .tkan  their  own.  For  under  Heaven  has 
21 


there  never  been  a  throne  so  execrably  tyrannical 
as  theirs.  The  heads  of  the  innocent  that  have 
been  cut  off  to  gratify  the  humour  or  caprice  of 
their  tyrants,  could  they  be  all  collected  and  dis- 
charged against  the  walls  of  their  city,  would  not 
leave  one  stone  on  another. 

O  that  you  were  here  this  beautiful  day !  It  is 
too  fine  by  half  to  be  spent  in  London.  I  have  a 
perpetual  din  in  my  head,  and  though  I  am  not 
deaf,  hear  nothing  aright,  neither  my  own  voice, 
nor  that  of  others.  I  am  under  a  tub,  from  which 
tub  accept  my  best  love.  Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

DEAR  SIR,  Weston,  Oct.  19,  1787. 

A  summons  from  Johnson,  which  I  received 
yesterday,  calls  my  attention  once  more  to  the  busi- 
ness of  translation.  Before  I  begin  I  am  willing 
to  catch  though  but  a  short  opportunity  to  ac- 
knowledge your  last  favour.  The  necessity  of 
applying  myself  with  all  diligence  to  a  long  work 
that  has  been  but  too  Iqng  interrupted,  will  make 
my  opportunities  of  writing  rare  in  future. 

Air  and  exercise  are  necessary  to  all  men,  but 
particularly  so  to  the  man  whose  mind  labours ; 
and  to  him  who  has  been  all  his  Ufe  accustomed  to 
much  of  both,  they  are  necessary  in  the  extreme. 
My  time  since  we  parted  has  been  devoted  entirely 
to  the  recovery  of  health  and  strength  for  this  ser- 
vice, and  I  am  wiUing  to  hope  with  good  effect. 
Ten  months  have  passed  since  1  discontinued  my 
poetical  efforts ;  I  do  not  expect  to  find  the  same 
readiness  as  before,  till  exercise  of  the  neglected 
faculty,  such  as  it  is,  shall  have  restored  it  to  me. 

You  find  yourself,  I  hope,  by  this  time  as  com- 
fortably situated  in  your  new  abode  as  in  a  new 
abode  one  can  be.  I  enter  perfectly  into  all  your 
feelings  on  occasion  of  the  change.  A  sensible 
mind  can  not  do  violence  even  to  a  local  attach- 
ment without  much  pain.  When  my  father  died 
I  was  young,  too  young  to  have  reflected  much. 
He  was  Rector  of  Berkhamstead,  and  there  I  was 
born.  It  had  never  occurred  to  me  that  a  parson 
has  no  fee-simple  in  the  house  and  glebe  he  occu- 
pies. There  was  neither  tree,  nor  gate,  nor  stile, 
in  all  that  country,  to  which  I  did  not  feel  a  rela- 
tion, and  the  house  itself  I  preferred  to  a  pala''?. 
I  was  sent  for  from  London  to  attend  him  in  his 
last  illness,  and  he  died  just  before  I  arrived.  Then, 
and  not  till  then,  I  felt  for  the  first  time  that  I  and 
my  native  place  were  disunited  for  ever.  I  sighed 
a  long  adieu  to  fields  and  woods,  from  which  I 
once  thought  I  should  never  be  parted,  and  was  at 
no  time  so  sensible  of  their  beauties,  as  just  when 
I  left  them  all  behind  me,  to  return  no  more. 

W.  C. 


312 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  253,254,255. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Nov.  10, 1787. 

The  Parliament,  my  dearest  Cousin,  prorogued 
continually,  is  a  meteor  dancing  before  my  eyes, 
promising  me  my  wish  only  to  disappoint  me,  and 
none  but  the  king  and  his  ministers  can  tell  when 
you  and  I  shall  come  together.  I  hope  however 
that  the  period,  though  so  often  postponed,  is  not 
far  distant,  and  that  once  more  I  shall  behold  you, 
and  experience  your  power  to  make  winter  gay 
and  sprightly. 

I  have  a  kitten,  my  dear,  the  drollest  of  all  crea- 
tures that  ever  w^ore  a  cat's  skin.  Her  gambols 
are  not  to  be  described,  and  would  be  incredible 
if  they  could.  In  point  of  size  she  is  likely  to  be 
a  kitten  always,  being  extremely  small  of  her  age, 
but  time  I  suppose,  thkt  spoils  every  thing,  will 
make  her  also  a  cat.  Yon  will  see  her  I  hope  be- 
fore that  melancholy  period  shall  arrive,  for  no 
wisdom  that  she  may  gain  by  experience  and  re- 
flection hereafter,  will  compensate  the  loss  of  her  ^ 
present  hilarity.  She  is  dressed  in  a  tortoise-shell 
suit,  and  I  know  that  you  will  delight  in  her.  | 

Mrs.  Throckmorton  carries  us  to-morrow  in  her ' 
chaise  to  Chicheley.  The  event  however  must  be  i 
supposed  to  depend  on  elements,  at  least  on  the  | 
state  of  the  atmosphere,  which  is  turbulent  beyond 
measure.  Yesterday  it  thundered,  last  night  it| 
lightened,  and  at  three  this  morning  I  saw  the  sky  | 
as  red  as  a  city  in  flames  could  have  made  it.  1 1 
have  a  leech  in  a  bottle  that  foretels  all  these  pro-  j 
digies  and  convulsions  of  nature.  No,  not  as  you  j 
will  naturally  conjecture  by  articulate  utterance  | 
of  oracular  notices,  but  by  a  variety  of  gesticula- 
tions, which  here  1  have  not  room  to  give  an  ac- ! 
count  of.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  no  change  of 
■weather  surprises  him,  and  that  in  point  of  the 
earliest  and  most  accurate  intelligence,  he  is  worth 
all  the  barometers  in  the  world.  None  of  them 
all  indeed  can  make  the  least  pretence  to  foretell 
thunder — a  species  of  capacity  of  which  he  has 
given  the  most  unequivocal  evidence.  I  gave  but 
sixpence  for  him,  which  is  a  groat  more  than  the 
market  price,  though  he  is  in  fact,  or  rather  would 
be  if  leeches  were  not  found  in  every  ditch,  an  in 
valuable  acquisition.  W.  C. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

Nov.  16,  1787. 
I  THANK  you  for  the  solicitude  that  you  express 
on  the  subject  of  my  present  studies.  The  work 
is  undoubtedly  long  and  lab%-fious,  but  it  has  an 
end,  and,  proceeding  leisurely,  with  a  due  attention 
to  the  use  of  air  and  exiercise,  it  is  possible  that  I 
inay  live  to  finish  it.  Assure  yourself  of  one  thing, 


that  though  to  a  bystander  it  may  seem  an  occu- 
pation surpassing  the  powers  of  a  constitution  ne- 
ver very  athletic,  and,  at  present,  not  a  little  the 
worse  for  wear,  I  can  invent  for  myself  no  employ- 
ment that  does  not  exhaust  my  spirits  more,  I 
will  not  pretend  to  account  for  this;  I  will  only  say 
that  it  is  not  the  language  of  predilection  for  a  fa- 
vourite amusement,  but  that  the  fact  is  really  so. 
I  have  even  found  that  those  plaything  avocations 
which  one  may  execute  almost  without  any  atten- 
tion, fatigue  me,  and  wear  me  away,  while  such  as 
engage  me  much  and  attach  me  closely,  are  rather 
serviceable  to  me  than  otherwise.  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Nov.  27,  1787. 

It  is  the  part  of  wisdom,  ray  dearest  Cousin,  to 
sit  down  contented  under  the  demands  of  neces- 
sity, because  they  are  such.  I  am  sensible  that 
you  can  not,  in  my  uncle's  present  infirm  state,  and 
of  which  it  is  not  possible  to  expect  any  conside- 
rable amendment,  indulge  either  us,  or  yourself, 
with  a  journey  to  Weston.  Yourself  I  say,  both 
because  I  know  it  will  give  you  pleasure  to  see 
Causidice  mi*  once  more,  especially  in  the  com- 
fortable abode  where  you  have  placed  him,  and 
because,  after  so  long  an  imprisonment  in  London, 
you,  who  love  the  country,  and  have  a  taste  for 
it,  would  of  course  be  glad  to  return  to  it.  For  my 
own  part,  to  me  it  is  ever  new,  and  though  I  have 
now  been  an  inhabitant  of  this  village  a  twelve- 
month, and  have  during  the  half  of  that  time  been 
at  liberty  to  expatiate,  and  to  make  discoveries,  I 
am  daily  finding  out  fresh  scenes  and  walks,  which 
you  would  never  be  satisfied  with  enjoying:  some 
of  them  are  unapproachable  by  you  either  on  foot 
or  in  your  carriage.  Had  you  twenty  toes  (where- 
as I  suppose  you  have  but  ten)  you  could  not  reach 
them;  and  coach  wheels  have  never  been  seen  there 
since  the  flood.  Before  it  indeed,  (as  Burnet  says 
that  the  earth  was  then  perfectly  free  from  all  ine- 
qualities in  its  surface)  they  might  have  been  seen 
there  every  day.  We  have  other  walks  both  upon 
hill  tops,  and  in  valleys  beneath,  some  of  which  by 
the  help  of  your  carriage,  and  many  of  them  with- 
out its  help,  would  be  always  at  your  command. 

On  Monday  morning  last,  Sam  brought  me 
word  that  there  was  a  man  in  the  kitchen  who  de- 
sired to  speak  with  me.  I  ordered  him  in.  A  plain, 
decent,  elderly  figure  made  its  appearance,  and 
being  desired  to  sit,  spoke  as  follows:  "  Sir,  I  am 
clerk  of  the  parish  of  All-saints  in  Northampton; 
brother  of  Mr.  C.  the  upholsterer.  It  is  customary 
for  the  person  in  my  office  to  annex  to  a  bill  of 

*  The  appellation  which  Sir  Thomas  Hesketh  used  to  give 
him  in  jest,  when  he  was  of  the  Temple. 


Let.  256,257. 


LETTERS. 


313 


mortality,  which  he  publishes  at  Christmas,  a  I  You  say  well,  my  dear,  that  in  Mr.  Throck- 
copy  of  verses.  You  would  do  me  a  great  favour,  morton  we  have  a  peerless  neighbour;  we  have  so 
sir,  if  you  would  furnish  me  with  one."  To  this  In  point  of  information  upon  all  important  subjects' 
I  replied,  "Mr.C.  you  have  several  men  of  genius  in  respect  too  of  expression  and  address,  and  in 


in  your  town,  why  have  you  not  applied  to  some 
of  them '?  There  is  a  namesake  of  yours  in  parti- 
cular, C  ,  the  statuary,  who,  every  body  knows, 

is  a  first-rate  maker  of  verses.  He  surely  is  the 
man  of  all  the  world  for  your  purpose." — "Alas! 
Sir,  I  have  heretofore  borrowed  help  from  him, 
but  he  is  a  gentleman  of  so  much  reading,  that 
the  people  of  our  town  can  not  understand  him." 
I  confess  to  you,  my  dear,  I  felt  all  the  force  of  the 
compliment  implied  in  this  speech,  and  was  al- 
most ready  to  answer,  Perhaps,  my  good  friend, 
they  may  find  me  unintelligible  too  for  the  same 
reason.  But  on  asking  him  whether  he  had  walked 
over  to  Weston  on  purpose  to  implore  the  assist- 
ance of  my  muse,  and  on  his  replying  in  the  af- 
firmative, I  felt  my  mortified  vanity  a  little  con- 
soled, and  pitying  the  poor  man's  distress,  which 
appeared  to  be  considerable,  promised  to  supply 
him.  The  wagon  has  accordingly  gone  this  day 
to  Northampton  loaded  in  part  with  my  effusions 
in  the  mortuary  style.  A  fig  for  poets  who  write 
epitaphs  upon  individuals!  I  have  written  one 
that  serves  two  hundred  persons. 

A  few  days  since  I  received  a  second  very  ob- 
liging letter  from  Mr.  M  .    He  tells  me  that 

his  own  papers,  which  are  by  far,  he  is  sorry  to 
say  it,  the  most  numerous,  are  marked  V.I.Z. 
Accordingly,  my  dear,  I  am  happy  to  find  that  I 
am  engaged  in  a  correspondence  with  Mr.  Viz,  a 
gentleman  for  whom  I  have  always  entertained 
the  profoundest  veneration.  But  the  serious  fact 
is,  that  the  papers  distinguished  by  those  signatures 
have  ever  pleased  me  most,  and  struck  me  as  the 
work  of  a  sensible  man,  who  knows  the  world  well, 
and  has  more  of  Addison's  delicate  humour  than 
any  body. 

A  poor  man  begged  food  at  the  Hall  lately. 
The  cook  gave  him  some  vermicelli  soup.  He 
(adled  it  about  some  time  with  the  spoon,  and  then 
returned  it  to  her  saying,  "I  am  a  poor  man  it  is 
true,  and  I  am  very  hungry,  but  yet  I  can  not  eat 
broth  with  maggots  in  it."  Once  more,  my  dear 
a  thousand  thanks  for  your  box  full  of  good  things 
useful  things,  and  beautiful  things. 

Yours  ever,  W.  C. 


short,  every  thing  that  enters  into  the  idea  of  a  gen- 
tleman, I  have  not  found  his  equal,  not  often,  any 
where.  Were  Tasked  who  in  my  judgment  ap- 
proaches nearest  to  him,  in  all  his  amiable  quali- 
ties, and  qualifications,  I  should  certainly  answer 
his  brother  George,  who  if  he  be  not  his  exact 
counterpart,  endued  with  precisely  the  same  mea- 
sure of  the  same  accomplishments,  is  nevertheless- 
deficient  in  none  of  them,  and  is  of  a  character 
singularly  agreeable,  in  respect  of  a  certain  manly, 
I  had  almost  said,  heroic  frankness,  with  which 
his  air  strikes  one  almost  immediately.  So  far  as 
his  opportunities  have  gone,  he  has  ever  been  as 
friendly  and  obliging  to  us,  as  we  could  wish  him, 
and  were  he  lord  of  the  Hall  to-morrow,  would  I 
dare  say  conduct  himself  toward  us  in  such  a  man- 
ner, as  to  leave  us  as  little  sensible  as  possible 
of  the  removal  of  its  present  owners.  But  all  this 
I  say,  my  dear,  merely  for  the  sake  of  stating  the 
matter  as  it  is;  not  in  order  to  obviate,  or  to  prove 
the  inexpedience  of  any  future  plans  of  yours, 
concerning  the  place  of  our  residence.  Providence 
and  time  shape  every  thing;  I  should  rather  say 
Providence  alone,  for  time  has  often  no  hand  in 
the  wonderful  changes  that  we  experience;  they 
take  place  in  a  moment.  It  is  not  therefore  worth 
while  perhaps  to  consider  much  what  we  will,  or 
will  not  do  in  years  to  come,  concerning  which  all 
that  I  can  say  with  certainty  at  present  is,  that 
those  years  will  be  to  me  the  most  welcome,  in 
which  I  can  see  the  most  of  you.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 


TO  Lady  hesketh. 

The  Lodge,  Dec.  4,  1787. 
I  AM  glad,  my  dearest  coz,  that  my  last  letter 
proved  so  diverting.  You  may  assure  yourself  of 
the  literal  truth  of  the  whole  narration,  and  that 
however  droll,  it  was  not  in  the  least  indebted  to 
any  embellishments  of  mine. 


MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Weston,  Dec.  6,  1787. 

A  SHORT  time  since,  by  the  help  of  Mrs.  Throck- 
morton's chaise,  Mrs.  Unwin  and  I  reached 
Chicheley.  "Now,"  said  I  to  Mrs.  Chester,  "  I 
shall  write  boldly  to  your  brother  Walter,  and 
will  do  it  immediately.  I  have  passed  the  gulf 
that  parted  us,  and  he  will  be  glad  to  hear  it." 
But  let  not  the  man  who  translates  Homer  be  so 
presumptuous  as  to  have  a  will  of  his  own,  or  to 
promise  any  thing.  A  fortnight,  I  suppose,  has 
elapsed  since  1  paid  this  visit,  and  I  am  only  now- 
beginning  to  fulfil  what  I  then  undertook  to  ac- 
compUsh  without  delay.  The  old  Grecian  must 
answer  for  it. 

I  spent  my  morning  there  so  agreeably,  that  I 
have  ever  since  regretted  more  sensibly,  that  there 
are  five  miles  of  a  dirty  country  interposed  between 
us.  For  the  increase  of  my  pleasure.  I  had  the 
good  fortune  to  find  your  brother  the  bishop  there. 
We  had  much  talk  about  many  things,  but  most, 


St4 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  258, 259. 


I  believe,  about  Homer;  and  great  satisfaction  it 
gave  me  to  find,  that  on  the  most  important  points 
of  that  subject  his  lordship  and  I  were  exactly 
of  one  mind.  In  the  course  of  our  conversation 
he  produced  from  his  pocket-book  a  translation 
of  the  first  ten  or  twelve  lines  of  the  Iliad,  and  in 
order  to  leave  my  judgment  free,  informed  me 
kindly  at  the  same  time  that  they  were  not  his 
own.  I  read  them,  and  according  to  the  best 
of  my  recollection  of  the  original,  found  them  well 
■executed.  The  bishop  indeed  acknowledged  that 
they  were  not  faultless,  neither  did  I  find  them 
so,.  Had  they  been  such,  I  should  have  felt  their 
perfection  as  a  discouragement  hardly  to  be  sur- 
mounted; for  at  that  passage  I  have  laboured 
more  abundantly  than  at  any  other,  and  hitherto 
with  the  least  success.  I  am  convinced  that  Ho- 
mer placed  it  at  thej  threshold  of  his  work  as  a 
scarecrow  to  all  translators.  Now,  Walter,  if  thou 
knowest  the  author  of  this  version,  and  it  be  not 
trieason  against  thy  brother's  confidence  in  thy  se- 
crecy, declare  him  to  me.  Had  I  been  so  happy 
as  to  have  seen  the  bishop  again  before  he  left  this 
country,  I  should  certainly  have  asked  him  the 
question,  having  a  curiosity  upon  the  matter  that 
is  extremely  troublesome. 

The  awkward  situation  in  which  you  found 
yourself  on  receiving  a  visit  from  an  authoress, 
whose  works,  though  presented  to  you  long  be- 
fore, you  had  never  read,  made  me  laugh,  and  it 
was  no  sin  against  my  friendship  for  you  to  do  so. 
It  was  a  ridiculous  distress,  and  I  can  laugh  at  it 
even  now.  I  hope  she  catechised  you  well.  How 
did  you  extricate  yourself? — Now  laugh  at  me. 
The  clerk  of  the  parish  of  All  Saints,  in  the  town 
of  Northampton,  having  occasion  for  a  poet,  has 
appointed  me  to  the  office.  I  found  myself  obliged 
to  comply.  The  bellman  comes  next,  and  then,  I 
think,  though  even  borne  upon  your  swan's  quill, 
I  can  soar  no  higher*? 

I  am,  my  dear  friend,  faithfully  yours,  W.  C. 


because,  as  Hopkins  answers,  we  must  have  re- 
fused it.  But  it  fell  out  singularly  enough,  that 
this  ball  was  held,  of  all  days  in  the  year,  on  my 
birth  day— and  so  I  told  them— but  not  till  it  was 
all  over. 

Though  I  have  thought  proper  never  to  take 
any  notice  of  the  arrival  of  my  MSS.  together 
with  the  other  good  things  in  the  box,  yet  certain 
it  is,  that  I  received  them.  I  have  furbished  up 
the  tenth  book  till  it  is  as  bright  as  silver,  and  am 
now  occupied  in  bestowing  the  same  labour  upon 
the  eleventh.  The  twelfth  and  thirteenth  are  in 
the  hands  of  ,  and  the  fourteenth  and  fif- 
teenth are  ready  to  succeed  them.  This  notable 
job  is  the  delight  of  my  heart,  and  how  sorry  shall 
I  be  when  it  is  ended. 

The  smith  and  the  carpenter,  my  dear,  are  both 
in  the  room,  hanging  a  bell ;  if  I  therefore  make  a 
thousand  blunders,  let  the  said  intruders  answer 
for  them  all. 

I  thank  you,  my  dear,  for  your  history  of  the 
G_s.  What  changes  in  that  family !  And  how 
many  thousand  families  have  in  the  same  time  ex- 
perienced changes  as  violent  as  theirs !  The  course 
of  a  rapid  river  is  the  justest  of  all  emblems,  to  ex- 
press the  variableness  of  our  scene  below.  Shak- 
are  says,  none  ever  bathed  himself  twice  in  the 
same  stream,  and  it  is  equally  true  that  the  world 
upon  which  we  close  our  eyes  at  night  is  never  the 
same  with  that  on  which  we  open  them  in  the 
morning. 

I  do  not  always  say,  give  my  love  to  my  uncle, 
because  he  knows  that  I  always  love  him.  I  do 
not  always  present  Mrs.  Unwin's  love  to  you, 
partly  for  the  same  reason  (Deuce  take  the  smith 
and  the  carpenter,)  and  partly  because  I  forget  it. 
But  to  present  my  own  I  forget  never,  for  I  always 
have  to  finish  my  letter,  which  I  know  not  how 
to  do,  my  dearest  coz,  without  telling  you  that  T 
am  ever  yours,  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Dec.  10,  1787, 
I  THANK  you  for  the  snip  of  cloth,  commonly 
called  a  pattern.  At  present  I  have  two  coats, 
and  but  one  back.  If  at  any  time  hereafter  I 
should  find  myself  possessed  of  fewer  coats,  or  more 
backs,  it  will  be  of  use  to  me. 

Even  as  you  suspect,  my  dear,  so  it  proved. 
The  ball  was  prepared  for,  the  ball  was  held,  and 
the  ball  passed,  and  we  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
Mrs.  Throckmorton,  knowing  our  trim,  did  not 
give  us  the  pain  of  an  invitation,  for  a  pain  it 
would  have  been.  And  why  %  as  Sternhold  says,  — 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

DEAR  SIR,  Weston^  Dec.  13,  1787- 

Unless  my  memory  deceives  me,  I  forewarnea 
you  that  I  should  prove  a  very  unpunctual  corres- 
pondent. The  work  that  lies  before  me  engages 
unavoidably  my  whole  attention.  The  length  of 
it,  the  spirit  of  it,  and  the  exactness  that  is  requi- 
site in  its  due  performance,  are  so  many  most  in- 
teresting subjects  of  consideration  to  me,  who  find 
that  my  best  attempts  are  only  introductory  to 
others,  and  that  what  to  day  I  suppose  finished, 
to-morrow  I  must  begin  again.  Thus  it  fares 
with  a  translator  of  Homer.  To  exhibit  the  ma- 
jesty of  such  a  poet  in  a  modern  language  is  a 


Let.  260,  261. 


LETTERS. 


315 


task  that  no  man  can  estimate  the  difficulty  of  till 
he  attempts  it.  To  paraphrase  him  loosely,  to 
hang  him  with  trappings  that  do  not  belong  to  him, 
all  this  is  comparatively  easy.  But  to  represent 
him  with  only  his  own  ornaments,  and  still  to  pre- 
serve his  dignity,  is  a  labour  that,  if  I  hope  in  any 
measure  to  achieve  it,  1  am  sensible  can  only  be 
achieved  by  the  most  assiduous,  and  most  unre- 
mitting attention.  Our  studies,  however  different 
in  themselves,  in  respect  of  the  means  by  which 
they  are  to  be  successfully  carried  on,  bear  some 
resemblance  to  each  other.  A  perseverance  that 
nothing  can  discourage,  a  minuteness  of  observa- 
tion that  suffers  nothing  to  escape,  and  a  determi- 
nation not  to  be  seduced  from  the  straight  line  that 
lies  before  us,  by  any  images  with  which  fancy 
may  present  us,  are  essentials  that  should  be  com- 
mon to  us  both.  There  are  perhaps  few  arduous 
undertakings,  that  are  not  in  fact  more  arduous 
than  we  at  first  supposed  them.    As  we  proceed. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Jan.  1,  1788. 
Now  for  another  story  almost  incredible!  A 
story  that  would  be  quite  such,  if  it  was  not  cer- 
tain that  you  give  me  credit  for  any  thing.  I 
have  read  the  poem  for  the  sake  of  which  you 
sent  the  paper,  and  was  much  entertained  by  it. 
You  think  it  perhaps,  as  very  well  you  may,  the 
only  piece  of  that  kind  that  was  ever  produced. 
It  is  indeed  original,  for  I  dare  say  Mr.  Merry 
never  saw  mine;  but  certainly  it  is  not  unique. 
For  most  true  it  is,  my  dear,  that  ten  years  since, 
having  a  letter  to  write  to  a  friend  of  mine,  to 
whom  I  could  v/rite  any  thing,  I  filled  a  whole 
sheet  with  a  composition,  both  in  measure  and 
in  manner  precisely  similar.  I  have  in  vain 
searched  for  it.  It  is  either  burnt  or  lost.  Could 
I  have  found  it,  you  would  have  had  double  post- 
age to  pay.    For  that  one  man  in  Italy,  and  ano- 


difficulties  increase  upon  us,  but  our  hopes  gather,  ther  in  England,  who  never  saw  each  other 
strength  also,  and  we  conquer  difficulties  which,  j  should  stumble  on  a  species  of  verse,  in  which  no 
could  we  have  foreseen  them,  we  should  never  have  |  other  man  ever  wrote  (and  I  believe  that  to  be  the 
had  the  boldness  to  encounter.  May  this  be  your ;  case)  and  upon  a  style  and  manner  too,  of  which, 
experience,  as  1  doubt  not  that  it  will.  You  pos- 1 1  suppose,  that  neither  of  them  had  ever  seen  an 
sess  by  nature  all  that  is  necessary  to  success  in  example,  appears  to  me  so  extraordinary  a  fact, 
the  profession  that  you  have  chosen.  What  re- 1  that  I  must  have  sent  you  mine,  whatever  it  had 
mains  is  in  your  own  power.  They  say  of  poets,  cost  you,  and  am  really  vexed  that  I  can  not  au- 
that  they  must  be  born  such:  so  must  matheraati-  thenticate  the  story  by  producing  a  voucher, 
cians,  so  must  great  generals,  and  so  must  law-;  The  measure  I  recollect  to  have  been  perfectly 
yers,  and  so  indeed  must  men  of  all  denominations, '  the  same,  and  as  to  the  manner  I  am  equally  sure 
or  it  is  not  possible  that  they  should  excel.  But  of  that,  and  from  this  circumstance,  that  Mrs. 
with  whatever  faculties  we  are  born,  and  to  what-;  Unwin  and  I  never  laughed  more  at  any  produc- 
ever  studies  our  genius  may  direct  us,  studies  they  tion  of  mine,  perhaps  not  even  at  John  Gilpin, 
must  still  be.  I  am  persuaded,  that  Milton  did  But  for  all  this,  my  dear,  you  must,  as  I  said, 
not  write  his  Paradise  Lost,  nor  Homer  his  Biad,  give  me  credit;  for  the  thing  itself  is  gone  to  that 
nor  Newton  his  Principia,  without  immense  la-  Umbo  of  vanity,  where  alone,  says  Milton,  things 
hour.  Nature  gave  them  a  bias  to  their  respective  lost  on  earth  are  to  be  met  with.  Said  limbo  is, 
pursuits,  and  that  strong  propensity,  I  suppose,  is  as  you  know,  in  the  moon,  whither  I  could  not  at 
what  we  mean  by  genius.  The  rest  they  gave  present  convey  myself  without  a  good  deal  of  dif- 
themselves.    "Macte  esto,"  therefore,  have  no  ^  ficulty  and  inconvenience. 

fears  for  the  issue !  This  morning  being  the  morning  of  new  year's 

I  have  had  a  second  kind  letter  from  your  friend  |  day,  I  sent  to  the  hall  a  copy  of  verses,  addressed 

Mr.  ,  which  I  have  just  answered.    I  must  to  Mrs.  Throckmorton,  entitled,  the  "Wish,  or  the 

not  I  find  hope  to  see  him  here,  at  least  I  must  j  Poet's  New  Year's  Gift.  We  dine  there  to-mor- 
not  much  expect  it.    He  has  a  family  that  does  row,  when,  I  suppose,  I  shall  hear  news  of  them. 


not  permit  him  to  fly  southward.  1  have  also  a 
notion,  that  we  three  could  spend  a  few  days  com- 
fortably together,  especially  in  a  country  like  this, 
abounding  in  scenes  with  which  I  am  sure  you 
would  both  be  delighted.  Having  lived  till  lately 
at  some  distance  from  the  spot  that  I  now  inhabit, 
and  having  never  been  master  of  any  sort  of  ve- 


Their  kindness  is  so  great,  and  they  seize  with 
sach  eagerness  every  opportunity  of  doing  all 
they  think  will  please  us,  that  I  lield  myself  al- 
most in  duty  bound  to  treat  them  with  this  stroke 
of  my  profession. 

The  small  pox  has  done,  I  believe,  all  that  it 
has  to  do  at  Weston.  Old  folks,  and  even  women 


hide  whatever,  it  is  but  just  now  that  1  begin  my- j  with  child,  have  been  inoculated.    We  talk  of 

our  freedom,  and  some  of  us  are  free  enough,  but 
not  the  poor.  Dependant  as  they  are  iipon  parisli 
bounty,  they  are  sometimes  obliged  to  submit  to 
impositions,  which  perhaps  in  France  itself  could 
hardly  be  paralleled.    Can  man  or  woman  be  said 


self  to  be  acquainted  with  the  beauties  of  our  situ- 
ation. To  you  I  may  hope,  one  time  or  other  to 
show  them,  and  shall  be  happy  to  do  it,  when  an 
opportunity  ofiers. 

Yours,  most  affectionately,  W.  C. 


2  C 


316 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  261,262. 


to  be  free,  who  is  commanded  to  take  a  distemper, 
sometimes  at  least  mortal,  and  in  circumstances 
most  likely  to  make  it  so'?  No  circumstance  what- 
ever was  permitted  to  exempt  the  inhabitants  of 
Weston.  The  old  as  well  as  the  young,  and  the 
pregnant  as  well  as  they  who  had  only  themselves 
within  them,  have  been  inoculated.  Were  I  ask- 
ed who  is  the  most  arbitrary  sovereign  on  earth  1 
I  should  answer,  neither  the  king  of  France,  nor 
the  grand  signpr,  but  an  overseer  of  the  poor  in 
England. 

I  am  as  heretofore  occupied  with  Homer:  my 
present  occupation  is  the  revisal  of  all  I  have 
done,  viz.  of  the  first  fifteen  books.    I  stand 


On  all  other  occasions  I  prune  with  an  unsparing 
hand,  determined  that  there  shall  not  be  found  in 
the  whole  translation  an  idea  that  is  not  Homer's, 
My  ambition  is  to  produce  the  closest  copy  possi- 
ble, and  at  the  same  time  as  harmonious  as  I 
know  how  to  make  it.  This  being  my  object,  you 
will  no  longer  think,  if  indeed  you  have  thought 
it  at  all,  that  I  am  unnecessarily  and  over  much 
industrious.  The  original  surpasses  every  thing; 
it  is  of  an  immense  length,  is  composed  in  the 
best  language  ever  used  upon  earth,  and  deserves, 
indeed  demands  all  the  labour  that  any  translator, 
be  he  who  he  may,  can  possibly  bestow  on  it.  Of 
this  I  am  sure,  and  your  brother  the  good  bishop 


amazed  at  my  own  increasing  dexterity  in  the  |  is  of  the  same  mind,  that,  at  present,  mere  Eng 


business,  being  verily  persuaded  that,  as  far  as  I 
have  gone,  I  have  improved  the  work  to  double 
its  former  value.  , 

That  you  may  begin  the  new  year  and  end  it 
in  all  health  and  happiness,  and  many  more  when 
the  present  shall  have  been  long  an  old  one, 
is  the  ardent  wish  of  Mrs.  Unwin,  and  of  yours, 
my  dearest  coz,  most  cordially,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 


lish  readers  know  no  more  of  Homer  in  reality, 
than  if  he  had  never  been  translated.  That  con- 
sideration indeed  it  was,  which  mainly  induced 
me  to  the  undertaking;  and  if  after  all,  either 
through  idleness,  or  dotage  upon  what  I  have  al- 
ready done,  I  leave  it  chargeable  with  the  same 
incorrectness  as  my  predecessors,  or  indeed  with 
any  other  that  I  may  be  able  to  amend,  I  had 
better  have  amused  myself  otherwise.  And  you  I 
know  are  of  my  opinion. 

I  send  you  the  clerk's  verses,  of  which  I  told 
you.  They  are  very  clerklike,  as  you  will  per- 
ceive.   But  plain  truth  in  plain  words  seemed  to 


wrv  nvxR  VRIEND  Weston,  Jan  5,  17feo.   r—   .  . 

I  THAKK  you  for  your  information  concerning  me  to  be  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  composition  on  such 
the  author  of  the  translation  of  those  lines.  Had  an  occasion.  I  might  have  attempted  something 
a  man  of  less  note  and  ability  than  Lord  Bagot  very  fine,  but  then  the  persons  pnncipally  concern- 
produced  it,  I  should  have  been  discouraged.  As  ed,  viz.  my  readers,  would  not  have  understood  rne^ 
it  is  I  comfort  myself  with  the  thought,  that  even  If  it  puts  them  m  mind  that  they  are  mortal,  ts 
te  \ccZL  it  'an  achievement  worthy  of  his  best  end  is  answered.    My  dear  Walter,  adieu! 


powers,  and  that  even  he  found  it  difficult. 
Though  I  never  had  the  honour  to  be  known  to 
his  lordship,  I  remember  him  well  at  Westmin- 
ster, and  the  reputation  in  which  he  stood  there. 
Since  that  time  I  have  never  seen  him,  except 
once,  many  years  ago,  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
when  I  heard  him  speak  on  the  subject  of  a  drain- 
afre  bill  better  than  any  member  there, 


Yours  faithfully,  W. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Jan.  19,  1788. 
When  I  have  prose  enough  to  fill  my  paper, 
which  is  always  the  case  when  I  write  to  you,  I 


Te  bill  better  tnan  any  meiuuei  mcic.  wxix.... ...  ^^^^^j   I   n  -t 

Mv  first  thirteen  books  have  been  criticised  in  can  not  find  in  my  heart  to  give  a  third  part  ot  it 
London-  have  been  by  me  accommodated  to  those  to  verse.  Yet  this  I  must  do,  or  I  must  make  my 
crit'ci^ms  returned  to  London  in  their  improved  pacquets  more  costly  than  worshipfu  by  doubling 
state  and  sent  back  to  Weston  with  an  impri-  the  postage  upon  you,  which  I  should  hold  to  be 
mantur  This  would  satisfy  some  poets  less  anxi-  unreasonable.  See  then  the  true  reason  why  1  did 
ous  than  mNselfaboutwhatthey expose  in  public;  not  send  you  that  same  scribblement  till  you  de- 
but it  ha<»  not  satisfied  me.  I  am  now  revising  sired  it.  The  thought  f.hich  naturally  presents 
them  acrain  by  the  liaht  of  my  own  critical  taper,  itself  to  me  on  all  such  occasions  is  this-ls  not 
and  make  more  alterations  than  at  the  first.  But  your  cousin  coming  1  Why  are  you  impatient  1 
are  they  improvements'?  you  will  ask-Is  not  the  Will  it  not  be  time  enough  to  show  her  your  fine 
toirit  of  the  work  endangered  by  all  this  attention  things  when  she  arrives  1  ,  , 

o  orrec^^^^^^^  I  think  and  hope  that  it  is  not.  Fine  things  indeed  I  have  few.  He  who  has 
Be  rwell  aware  of  the  possibility  of  such  a  ca-  Homer  to  transcribe  may  well  be  contented  to  do 
She  I  guard  particularly  against  it.  Where  little  else.  As  when  an  ass,  being  harnessed  with 
SStL'ervileldherenceto  theorig^  ropes  to  a  sand  cart,  drags  with  hanging  eai-s  luB 

render  the  passage  less  animated  than  it  should  heavy  burthen,  neither  filling  the  long  echoing 
W  I  st  ll  a'  at^the  first,  allow  myself  a  liberty,  streets  with  his  harmonious  bray,  nor  throwing  up 


i^ET.  263,264. 


LETTERS, 


317 


his  heels  behind,  froUcksome  and  airy,  as  asses  less 
engaged  are  wont  to  do ;  so  I,  satisfied  to  find  my- 
self indispensably  obliged  to  render  into  the  best 
possible  English  metre  eight  and  forty  Greek  books, 
of  which  the  two  finest  poems  in  the  world  consist, 
account  it  quite  sufficient  if  I  may  at  last  achieve 
that  labour ;  and  seldom  allow  myself  those  pretty 
little  vagaries,  in  which  I  should  otherwise  delight, 
and  of  which,  if  I  should  live  long  enough,  I  in- 
tend hereafter  to  enjoy  my  fill. 

This  is  the  reason,  my  dear  cousin,  if  I  may  be 
permitted  to  call  you  , so  in  the  same  breath  with 
which  I  have  uttered  this  truly  heroic  comparison, 
this  is  the  reason  why  I  produce  at  present  but  few 
occasional  poems,  and  the  preceding  reason  is  that 
which  may  account  satisfactorily  enough  for  my 
withholding  the  very  few  that  I  do  produce.  A 
thought  sometimes  strikes  me  before  I  rise ;  if  it 
runs  readily  into  verse,  and  I  can  finish  it  before 
breakfast,  it  is  well;  otherwise  it  dies,  and  is  for- 
gotten ;  for  all  the  subsequent  hours  are  devoted  to 
Homer. 

The  day  before  yesterday,  I  saw  for  the  first 
time  Bunbury's  new  print,  the  Propagation  of  a 
Lje.  Mr.  Throckmorton  sent  it  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  cur  party.  Bunbury  sells  humour  by  the 
yard,  and  is,  I  suppose,  the  first  vender  of  it  who 
ever  did  so.  He  can  not,  therefore,  be  said  to  have 
humour  without  measure  (pardon  a  pun,  my  dear, 
from  a  man  who  has  not  made  one  before  these 
forty  years)  though  he  may  certainly  be  said  to  be 
immeasurably  droll. 

The  original  thought  is  good,  and  the  exemplifi- 
cation of  it,  in  those  very  expressive  figures,  admi- 
rable. A  poem  on  the  same  subject,  displaying  all 
that  is  displayed  in  those  attitudes,  and  in  those 
features,  (for  faces  they  can  hardly  be  called)  would 
be  most  excellent.  The  affinity  of  the  two  arts, 
viz.  verse  and  painting,  has  been  observed ;  possi- 
bly the  happiest  illustration  of  it  would  be  found, 
if  some  poet  would  ally  himself  to  some  draughts- 
man, as  Bunbury,  and  undertake  to  write  every 
thing  he  should  draw.  Then  let  a  musician  be 
admitted  of  the  party.  He  should  compose  the 
said  poem,  adapting  notes  to  it  exactly  accommo- 
dated to  the  theme ;  so  should  the  sister  arts  be 
proved  to  be  indeed  sisters,  and  the  world  die  of 
laughing.  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN,  The  Lodge,  Jan.  30,  1788. 

It  is  a  fortnight  since  I  heard  from  you,  that  is 
to  say,  a  week  longer  than  you  have  accustomed 
me  to  wait  for  a  letter.  I  do  not  forget  that  you 
have  recommended  it  to  me,  on  occasions  somewhat 
similar,  to  banish  all  anxiety,  and  to  ascribe  your 
ttlence  only  to  the  interruptions  of  company.  Good 


advice,  my  dear,  but  not  easily  taken  by  a  man 
circumstanced  as  I  am.  I  have  learned  in  the 
school  of  adversity,  a  school  from  which  I  have  no 
expectation  that  I  shall  ever  be  dismissed,  to  ap- 
prehend the  worst,  and  have  ever  found  it  the  on- 
ly course  in  which  I  can  indulge  myself  without 
the  least  danger  of  incurring  a  disappointment. 
This  kind  of  experience,  continued  through 
many  years,  has  given  me  such  an  habitual  bias  td 
the  gloomy  side  of  every  thing,  that  I  never  have 
a  moment's  ease  on  any  subject  to  which  I  am  not 
indifferent.  How  then  can  I  be  easy,  when  I  am 
left  afloat  upon  a  sea  of  endless  conjectures  of 
which  you  furnish  the  occasion  %  Write  I  beseech 
you,  and  do  not  forget  that  J  am  now  a  battered 
actor  upon  this  turbulent  stage ;  that  what  little 
vigour  of  mind  I  ever  had,  of  the  self-supporting 
kind  I  mean,  has  long  since  been  broken ;  and  that 
though  I  can  bear  nothing  well,  yet  anything  bet- 
ter than  a  state  of  ignorance  concerning  your  wel- 
fare. I  have  spent  hours  in  the  night  leaning  up- 
on my  elbow  and  wondering  what  your  silence 
means.  I  entreat  you  once  more  to  put  an  end  to 
these  speculations,  which  cost  me  more  animal  spi- 
rits than  I  can  spare ;  if  you  can  not  without  great 
trouble  to  yourself,  which  in  your  situation  may 
ver}'-  possibly  be  the  case,  contrive  opportunities  of 
writing  so  frequently  as  usual,  only  say  it,  and  I 
am  content.  I  will  wait,  if  you  desire  it,  as  long 
for  every  letter,  but  then  let  them  arrive  at  the  pe- 
riod once  fixed,  exactly  at  the  time,  for  my  patience 
will  not  hold  out  an  hour  beyond  it,       W.  C 

TO  LADY  HESKETH. ' 

The  Lodge,  Feb.  1, 1788, 
Pardon  me,  my  dearest  cousin,  the  mournful 
ditty  that  I  sent  you  last.  There  are  times  when 
I  see  every  thing  through  a  medium  that  distress- 
es me  to  an  insupportable  degree,  and  that  letter 
was  written  in  one  of  them.  A  fog  that  had  for 
three  days  obliterated  all  the  beauties  of  Weston, 
and  a  north-east  wind,  might  possibly  contribute 
not  a  little  to  the  melancholy  that  indited  it.  But 
my  mind  is  now  easy,  your  letter  has  made  it  so, 
and  I  feel  myself  as  blithe  as  a  bird  in  comparison. 
1  love  you,  my  cousin,  and  can  not  suspect,  either 
with  or  without  cause,  the  least  evil  in  which  you 
may  be  concerned,  without  being  greatly  troubled! 
Oh  trouble  !  the  portion  of  all  mortals — but  mine 
in  particular.  Would  I  had  never  known  thee,  or 
could  bid  thee  farewell  for  ever ;  for  I  meet  thee  at 
every  turn,  my  pillows  are  stuffed  vsdth  thee,  my 
very  roses  smell  of  thee,  and  even  my  cousin,  who 
would  cure  me  of  all  trouble  if  she  could,  is  some- 
times innocently  the  cause  of  trouble  to  me. 

I  now  see  the  unreasonableness  of  my  late  trou- 
ble, and  would,  if  I  could  trust  myself  so  far,  pro- 


318 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  ^65 


mise  never  again  to  trouble  either  myself  or  you  in 
the  same  manner,  unless  warranted  by  some  more 
substantial  ground  of  apprehension. 

What  I  said  concerning  Homer,  my  dear,  was 
spoken,  or  rather  written,  merely  under  the  influ- 
ence of  a  certain  jocularity,  that  I  felt  at  that  mo- 
ment. I  am  in  reality  so  far  from  thinking  myself 
an  ass,  and  my  translation  a  sand-cart,  that  1  ra- 
ther seem,  in  my  own  account  of  the  matter,  one 
of  those  flaming  steeds  harnessed  to  the  chariot  of 
Apollo,  of  which  we  read  in  the  works  of  the  an- 
cients. I  have  lately,  I  know  not  how,  acquired  a 
certain  superiority  to  myself  in  this  business,  and 
in  this  last  revisal  have  elevated  the  expression  to 
a  degree  far  surpassing  its  former  boast.  A  few 
evenings  since  I  had  an  opportunity  to  try  how  far 
I  might  venture  to  expect  such  success  of  my  la- 
bours as  can  alone  repay  them,  by  reading  the  first 
book  of  my  Iliad  to  a  friend  of  ours.  He  dined 
with  you  once  at  Olney.  His  name  is  Greatheed, 
a  man  of  letters  and  of  taste.  He  dined  with  us, 
and  the  evening  proving  dark  and  dirty,  we  per- 
suaded him  to  take  a  bed.  1  entertained  him  as 
I  tell  you.  He  heard  me  with  great  attention,  and 
with  evident  symptoms  of  the  highest  satisfaction, 
which,  when  I  had  finished  the  exhibition,  he  put 
out  of  all  doubt  by  expressions  which  I  can  not 
repeat.  Only  this  he  said  to  Mrs.  Unwin  while 
I  was  in  another  room,  that  he  had  never  entered 
into  the  spirit  of  Homer  before,  nor  had  any  thing 
like  a,  due  conception  of  his  manner.  This  I  have 
said,  knowing  that  it  will  please  you,  and  will  now 
say  no  more. 

Adieu !  my  dear,  will  you  never  speak  of  coming 
to  Weston  more'?  W.  C. 

TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 
■PEAR  SIR,  The  Lodge,  Feb.  14,  1788. 

Though  it  be  long  since  I  received  your  last,  I 
have  not  yet  forgotten  the  impression  it  made  upon 
me,  nor  how  sensibly  I  felt  myself  obliged  by  your 
unreserved  and  friendly  communications.  I  will 
not  apologize  for  my  silence  in  the  interim,  be- 
cause, apprised  as  you  are  of  my  present  occupa- 
tion, the  excuse  that  I  might  allege  will  present 
itself  to  you  of  course,  and  to  dilate  upon  it  would 
therefore  be  waste  of  paper. 

You  are  in  possession  of  the  best  security  ima- 
ginable for  the  due  improvement  of  your  time, 
which  is  a  just  sense  of  its  value.  Had  I  been, 
when  at  your  age,  as  much  aflfected  by  that  im- 
portant consideration  as  I  am  at  present,  1  should 
not  have  devoted,  as  I  did,  all  the  earliest  parts  of 
my  Ufe  to  amusement  only.  I  am  now  in  the  pre- 
dicament into  which  the  thoughtlessness  of  youth 
tetrays  nine-tenths  of  mankind,  who  never  disco- 
ver that  the  health  and  good  spirits,  which  gene- 
rally accompany  it,  are  in  reality  blessings  only 


according  to  the  use  we  make  of  them,  till  ad- 
vanced years  begin  to  threaten  them  with  the  loss 
of  both.  How  much  wiser  would  thousands  have 
been,  than  now  they  ever  will  be,  had  a  puny  con- 
stitution, or  some  occasional  infirmity,  constrained 
them  to  devote  those  hours  to  study  and  reflection, 
which  for  want  of  some  such  check  they  have  given 
entirely  to  dissipation !  I,  therefore,  account  you 
happy,  who,  young  as  you  are,  need  not  be  in- 
formed that  you  can  not  always  be  so;  and  who 
already  know  that  the  materials,  upon  which  age 
can  alone  build  its  comfort,  should  be  brought  to- 
gether at  an  earlier  period.  You  have  indeed,  in 
losing  a  father,  lost  a  friend,  but  you  have  not  lost 
his  instructions.  His  example  was  not  buried 
with  him,  but  happily  for  you  (happily  because 
you  are  desirous  to  avail  yourself  of  it)  still  lives 
in  your  remembrance,  and  is  cherished  in  your 
best  affections. 

Your  last  letter  was  dated  from  the  house  of  a 
gentleman,  who  was,  I  believe,  my  schoolfellow. 

For  the  Mr.  C  ,  who  lived  at  Watford, 

while  I  had  any  connexion  with  Hertfordshire, 
must  have  been  the  father  of  the  present,  and  ac- 
cording to  his  age,  and  the  state  of  his  healtji, 
when  I  saw  him  last,  must  have  been  long  dead.  I 
never  was  acquainted  with  the  family  farther  than 
by  report,  which  always  spoke  honourably  of  them, 
though  in  all  my  journeys  to  and  from  my  father's 
I  must  have  passed  the  door.  The  circumstance 
however  reminds  me  of  the  beautiful  reflection  of 
Glaucus  in  the  sixth  Iliad;  beautiful  as  well  foi 
the  aflfecting  nature  of  the  observation,  as  for  the 
justness  of  the  comparison,  and  the  incomparable 
simplicity  of  the  expression.  I  feel  that  I  shall 
not  be  satisfied  without  transcribing  it,  and  yet 
perhaps  my  Greek  may  be  difficult  to  decipher. 

lnXi^ocea-A  <pvu,  tct^o?  J"  iTrtyiyviTM  agx 
'Sic  uvS'fiav  ymn,  »  f^tv  <pviif  a  etvohnyu. 

Excuse  this  piece  of  pedantry  in  a  man  whose 
Homer  is  always  before  him !  What  would  I  give 
that  he  were  living  now,  and  within  my  reach!  I, 
of  all  men  living,  have  the  best  excuse  for  indulg- 
ing such  a  wish,  unreasonable  as  it  may  seem,  for 
I  have  no  doubt  that  the  fire  of  his  eye,  and  the 
smile  of  his  lips,  would  put  me  now  and  then  in 
possession  of  his  full  meaning  more  effectually  than 
any  commentator.  I  return  you  many  thanks  for 
the  elegies  which  you  sent  me,  both  which  I  think 
deserving  of  much  commendation.  I  should  re- 
quite you  but  ill  by  sending  you  my  mortuary 
verses,  neither  at  present  can  1  prevail  on  myself 
to  do  it,  having  no  frank,  and  being  conscious  that 
they  are  not  worth  carriage  without  one.  I  have 
one  copy  left,  and  that  copy  I  will  keep  for  you, 

W.  C. 


Let.  266, 267. 


LETTERS. 


319 


TO  LADY  HESKETH, 

The  Lodge,  Feb.  16,  1788. 

I  HAVE  now  three  letters  of  yours,  my  dearest 
cousin,  before  me,  all  written  in  the  space  of  a 
week,  and  must  be  indeed  insensible  of  kindness, 
did  I  not  feel  yours  on  this  occasion,  I  can  not 
describe  to  you,  neither  could  you  comprehend  it 
if  I  should,  the  manner  in  which  my  mind  is  some- 
times impressed  with  melancholy  on  particular 
subjects.  Your  late  silence  was  such  a  subject. 
I  heard,  saw,  and  felt,  a  thousand  terrible  things, 
which  had  no  real  existence,  and  was  haunted  by 
them  night  and  day,  till  they  at  last  extorted  from 
me  the  doleful  epistle,  which  I  have  since  wished 
had  been  burned  before  I  sent  it.  But  the  cloud 
Was  passed,  and  as  far  as  you  are  concerned,  my 
heart  is  once  more  at  rest. 

Before  you  gave  me  the  hint,  I  had  once  or 
twice,  as  I  lay  on  my  bed,  watching  the  break  of 
day,  ruminated  on  the  subject  which,  in  your  last 
but  one,  you  recommended  to  me. 

Slavery,  or  a  release  from  slavery,  such  as  the 
poor  negroes  have  endured,  or  perhaps  both  these 
topics  together,  appeared  to  me  a  theme  so  impor- 
tant at  the  present  juncture,  and  at  the  same  time 
so  susceptible  of  poetical  management,  that  I  more 
than  once  perceived  myself  ready  to  start  in  that 
career,  could  I  have  allowed  myself  to  desert  Ho- 
mer for  so  long  a  time  as  it  would  have  cost  me  to 
do  them  justice. 

While  I  was  pondering  these  things,  the  public 
prints  informed  me  that  IVIiss  IVIore  was  on  the 
point  of  publication,  having  actually  finished  what 
I  had  not  yet  begun. 

The  sight  of  her  advertisement  convinced  me 
that  my  best  course  would  be  that  to  which  I  felt 
myself  most  inclined,  to  persevere,  without  turn- 
ing aside  to  attend  to  any  other  call,  however  al- 
luring, in  the  business  I  have  in  hand. 

It  occurred  to  me  likewise,  that  I  have  already 
borne  my  testimony  in  favoiir  of  my  black  brethren ; 
and  that  I  was  one  of  the  earliest,  if  not  the  first, 
of  those  who  have  in  the  present  day  expressed 
their  detestation  of  the  diaboUcal  traffic  in  ques- 
tion. 

On  all  these  accounts  I  judged  it  best  to  be  si- 
lent, and  especially  because  I  can  not  doubt  that 
some  effectual  measures  will  now  be  taken  to  alle- 
viate the  miseries  of  their  condition,  the  whole  na- 
tion being  in  possession  of  the  case,  and  it  being 
impossible  also  to  allege  an  argument  in  behalf  of 
man-merchandize,  that  can  deserve  a  hearing.  I 
shall  be  glad  to  see  Hannah  More's  poem ;  she  is 
a  favourite  writer  with  me,  and  has  more  nerve 
and  energy  both  in  her  thoughts  and  language 
than  half  the  he-rhjnners  in  the  kingdom.  The 
Thoughts  on  the  Manners  of  the  Great  will  like- 


2  c  2 


wise  be  most  acceptable.  I  want  to  learn  as  much 
of  the  world  as  I  can,  but  to  acquire  that  learning 
at  a  distance,  and  a  book  with  such  a  title  pro- 
mises fair  to  serve  the  purpose  effectually. 

I  recommend  it  to  you,  my  dear,  by  all  means 
to  embrace  the  fair  occasion,  and  to  put  yourself 
in  the  way  of  being  squeezed  and  incommoded  a 
few  hours,  for  the  sake  of  hearing  and  seeing  what 
you  will  never  have  an  opportunity  to  see  and 
hear  hereafter,  the  trial  of  a  man  who  has  been 
greater,  and  more  feared  than  the  great  Mogul 
himself  Whatever  we  are  at  home,  we  certainly 
have  been  tyrants  in  the  East;  and  if  these  men 
have,  as  they  are  charged,  rioted  in  the  miseries 
of  the  innocent,  and  dealt  death  to  the  guiltless, 
with  an  unsparing  hand,  may  they  receive  a  re- 
tribution that  shall  in  future  make  all  governors 
and  judges  of  ours,  in  those  distant  regions,  trem- 
ble. While  I  speak  thus,  I  equally  wish  them  ac- 
quitted. They  were  both  my  schoolfellows,  and 
for  Hastings  I  had  a  particular  value.  Farewell, 

W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Feb.  23,  1788. 
I  DO  not  wonder  that  your  ears  and  feeUngs 
were  hurt  by  Mr.  Burke's  severe  invective.  But 
you  are  to  know,  my  dear,  or  probably  you  know 
it  already,  that  the  prosecution  of  public  delin- 
quents has  always,  and  in  all  countries,  been  thus 
conducted.  The  style  of  a  criminal  charge  of  this 
kind  has  been  an  affair  settled  among  orators  from 
the  days  of  Tully  to  the  present,  and  like  all  other 
practices  that  have  obtained  for  ages,  this  in 
particular  seems  to  have  been  founded  originally 
in  reason,  and  in  the  necessity  of  the  case. 

He  who  accuses  another  to  the  state,  must  not 
appear  himself  unmoved  by  the  view  of  crimes 
with  which  he  charges  him,  lest  he  should  be  sus- 
pected of  fiction,  or  of  precipitancy,  or  of  a  con- 
sciousness that  after  all  he  shall  not  be  able  to 
prove  his  allegations.  On  the  contrary,  in  order 
to  impress  the  minds  of  his  hearers  with  a  persua- 
sion that  he  himself  at  least  is  convinced  of  the 
criminality  of  the  prisoner,  he  must  be  vehement, 
energetic,  rapid ;  must  call  him  tyrant  and  traitor, 
and  every  thing  else  that  is  odious,  and  all  this  to 
his  face,  because  all  this,  bad  as  it  is,  is  no  moi<* 
than  he  undertakes  to  prove  in  the  sequel ;  and  if 
he  can  not  prove  it  he  must  himself  appear  in  i\ 
hght  little  more  desirable,  and  at  the  best  to  have 
trifled  with  the  tribunal  to  which  he  has  sun  . 
moned  him. 

Thus  Tully,  in  the  very  first  instance  of  his 
oration  against  Catiline,  calls  him  a  monster ;  a 
manner  of  address  in  which  he  persisted  till  said 
monster,  unable  to  support  the  fury  of  his  accu- 


320 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  368,  269 


ser's  eloquence  any  longer,  rose  from  his  seat,  el- 
bowed for  himself  a  passage  through  the  crowd, 
and  at  last  burst  from  the  senate  house  in  an 
agony,  as  if  the  furies  themselves  had  followed 
him. 

And  now,  my  dear,  though  I  have  thus  spoken, 
and  have  seemed  to  plead  the  cause  of  that  spe- 
cies of  eloquence  which  you,  and  every  creature 
who  has  your  sentiments  must  necessarily  dislike, 
perhaps  I  am  not  altogether  convinced  of  its  pro- 
priety. Perhaps,  at  the  bottom,  I  am  much  more 
of  opinion  that  if  the  charge,  unaccompanied  by 
aiiy  inflammatory  matter,  and  simply  detailed,  be- 
ing once  delivered  into  the  court,  and  read  aloud  ; 
the  witnesses  were  immediately  examined,  and 
sentence  pronounced  according  to  the  evidence ; 
not  only  the  process  would  be  shortened,  much 
time  and  much  expense  saved,  but  justice  would 
have  at  least  as  fair  play  as  now  she  has.  Preju- 
dice is  of  no  use  in  weighing  the  question— guilty 
or  not  guilty— and  the  principal  aim,  end,  and 
effect  of  such  introductory  harangues  is  to  create 
as  much  prejudice  as  possible.  When  you  and  I 
therefore  shall  have  the  sole  management  of  such 
a  business  entrusted  to  us,  we  will  order  it  other- 
wise. 

I  was  glad  to  learn  from  the  papers  that  our 
cousin  Henry  shone  as  he  did  in  reading  the  charge, 
This  must  have  given  much  pleasure  to  the  Gen- 
eral. Thy  ever  affectionate,  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  March  3,  1788 
One  day  last  week,  Mrs.  Unwin  and  I,  having 
taken  our  rhorning  walk,  and  returning  homeward 
through  the  wilderness,  met  the  Throckmortons 
A  minute  after  we  had  met  them,  we  heard  the 
cry  of  hounds  at  no  great  distance,  and  mounting 
the  broad  stump  of  an  elm,  which  had  been  felled 
and  by  the  aid  of  which  we  were  enabled  to  look 
over  the  wall,  we  saw  them.  They  were  all  at 
that  time  in  our  orchard ;  presently  we  heard  a 
terrier  belonging  to  Mrs.  Throckmorton,  which 
you  may  remember  by  the  name  of  Fury,  yelping 
with  much  vehemence,  and  saw  her  running 
through  the  thickets  within  a  few  yards  of  us  at 
her  utmost  speed,  as  if  in  pursuit  of  something 
which  we  doubted  not  was  the  fox.  Before  we 
could  reach  the  other  end  of  the  wilderness,  the 
hounds  entered  also ;  and  when  we  arrived  at  the 
gate  which  opens  into  the  grove,  there  we  found 
the  whole  weary  cavalcade  assembled.  The  hunts- 
man dismounting  begged  leave  to  follow  his  hounds 
on  foot,  for  he  was  sure,  he  said,  that  they  had 
killed  him.  A  conclusion  which  I  suppose  he 
drew  from  their  profound  silence.  He  was  ac- 
cordingly admitted,  and  with  a  sagacity  that  would 


not  have  dishonoured  the  best  hound  in  the  world, 
pursuing  precisely  the  same  track  which  the  fox 
and  the  dogs  had  taken,  though  he  had  never  had 
a  gHmpse  of  either  after  their  first  entrance  through 
the  rails,  arrived  where  he  found  the  slaughtered 
prey.  He  soon  produced  dead  reynard,  and  re- 
joined us  in  the  grove  with  all  his  dogs  about  him. 
Having  an  opportunity  to  see  a  ceremony,  which 
I  was  pretty  sure  would  never  fall  in  my  way  again, 
I  determined  to  stay,  and  to  notice  all  that  passed 
with  the  most  minute  attention.  The  huntsman 
having,  by  the  aid  of  a  pitchfork,  lodged  reynard 
on  the  arm  of  an  elm,  at  the  height  of  about  nine 
feet  from  the  ground,  there  left  him  for  a  consid- 
erable time.  The  gentlemen  sat  on  their  horses 
contemplating  the  fox,  for  which  they  had  toiled  so 
hard ;  and  the  hounds  assembled  at  the  foot  of  the 
tree,  with  faces  not  less  expressive  of  the  most  ra- 
tional delight,  contemplated  the  same  object.  The 
huntsman  remounted ;  cut  off  a  foot  and  threw  it 
to  the  hounds — one  of  them  swallowed  it  whole 
like  a  bolus.  He  then  once  rnore  alighted,  and 
drawing  down  the  fox  by  the  hinder  legs,  desired 
the  people,  who  were  by  this  time  rather  numer- 
ous, to  open  a  lane  for  him  to  the  right  and  left. 
He  was  instantly  obeyed,  when  throwing  the  fox 
to  the  distance  of  some  yards,  and  screaming  like 
a  fiendj  "  tear  him  to  pieces" — -'at  least  six  times 
repeatedly,  he  consigned  him  over  absolutely  to 
the  pack,  who  in  a  few  minutes  devoured  him  com- 
pletely. Thus,  my  dear,  as  Virgil  says,  what  none 
of  the  gods  could  have  ventured  to  promise  me, 
time  itself,  pursuing  its  accustomed  course,  has  of 
its  own  accord  presented  me  with.  I  have  been 
in  at  the  death  of  a  fox,  and  you  now  know  as 
much  of  the  matter  as  I,  who  am  as  well  informed 
as  any  sportsman  in  England, 

Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  March  12,  1788. 

Slavery,  and  the  Manners  of  the  Great,  I  have 
read.  The  former  I  admired,  as  I  do  all  that  Miss 
More  writes,  as  well  for  energy  of  expression,  as 
for  the  tendency  of  the  design.  I  have  never  yet 
seen  any  production  of  her  pen,  that  has  not  re- 
commended itself  by  both  these  qualifications. 
There  is  likewise  much  good  sense  in  her  manner 
of  treating  every  subject,  and  no  mere  poetic  cant 
(which  is  the  thing  that  I  abhor,)  in  her  manner 
of  treating  any.  And  this  I  say,  not  because  you 
now  know  and  visit  her,  but  it  has  long  been  my 
opinion  of  her  works,  which  I  have  both  spoken 
and  written,  as  often  as  I  have  had  occasion  to 
mention  them. 

Mr.  Wilberforce's  little  book  (if  he  was  the  au- 
thor of  it)  has  also  charmed  me.   It  must,  I  should 


Let.  270, 271. 


LETTERS. 


S21 


imagine,  engage  the  notice  of  those  to  whom  it  is 
addressed.  In  that  case  one  may  say  to  them, 
either  answer  it,  or  be  set  down  by  it.  They  will 
do  neither.  They  will  approve,  commend,  and  for- 
get it.  Such  has  been  the  fate  of  all  exhortations 
to  reform,  whether  in  verse  or  prose,  and  however 
closely  pressed  upon  the  conscience,  in  all  ages. 
Here  and  there  a  happy  individual,  to  whom  God 
gives  grace  and  wisdom  to  profit  by  the  admonition, 
is  the  better  for  it.  But  the  aggregate  body  (as 
Gilbert  Cooper  used  to  call  the  multitude)  remain, 
though  with  a  very  good  understanding  of  the 
matter,  Uke  horse  and  mule  that  have  none. 

We  shall  now  soon  lose  our  neighbours  at  the 
Hall.  We  shall  truly  miss  them,  and  long  for 
their  return.  Mr.  Throckmorton  said  to  me  last 
night,  with  sparkling  eyes,  and  a  face  expressive 
of  the  highest  pleasure—"  We  compared  you  this 
morning  with  Pope ;  we  read  your  fourth  Iliad, 
and  his,  and  I  verily  think  we  shall  beat  him. 
He  has  many  superfluous  Unes,  and  does  not  in- 
terest one.  When  I  read  your  translation,  I  am 
deeply  affected.  I  see  plainly  your  advantage,  and 
am  convinced  that  Pope  spoiled  all  by  attempting 
the  work  in  rhyme."  His  brother  George,  who  is 
my  most  active  amanuensis,  and  who  indeed  first 
introduced  the  subject,  seconded  all  he  said.  More 
would  have  passed,  but  Mrs.  Throckmorton  hav- 
ing seated  herself  at  the  harpsichord,  and  for  my 
amusement  merely,  my  attention  was  of  course 
turned  to  her.  The  new  vicar  of  Olney  is  ar- 
rived, and  we  have  exchanged  visits.  He  is  a 
plain,  sensible  man,  and  pleases  me  much.  A 
treasure  for  Olney,  if  Olney  can  understand  his 
value.  W.  C. 


tunity  should  occur,  send  them  also.  If  this  amuses 
you,  I  shall  be  glad.*  W.  C. 


TO  GENERAL  COWPER. 

MY  DEAR  GENERAL,  Weston,  1788. 

A  LETTER  is  not  pleasant  which  excites  curiosi- 
ty, but  does  not  gratify  it.  Such  a  letter  was  my 
last,  the  defects  of  which  I  therefore  take  the  first 
opportunity  to  supply.  When  the  condition  of  our 
negroes  in  the  islands  was  first  presented  to  me  as 
a  subject  for  songs,  I  felt  myself  not  at  all  allured 
to  the  undertaking:  it  seemed  to  offer  only  images 
of  horror,  which  could  by  no  means  be  accommo- 
dated to  the  style  of  that  sort  of  composition.  But 
having  a  desire  to  comply,  if  possible,  with  the  re- 
quest made  to  me,  after  turning  the  matter  in  my 
mind  as  many  ways  as  I  could,  I  at  last,  as  I  told 
you,  produced  three,  and  that  which  appears  to 
myself  the  best  of  those  three,  I  have  sent  you.  Of 
the  other  two,  one  is  serious,  in  a  strain  of  thought 
perhaps  rather  too  serious,  and  I  could  not  help 
it.  The  other,  of  which  the  slave-trader  is  himself 
the  subject,  is  somewhat  ludicrous.  If  I  could 
think  them  worth  your  seeing,  I  would,  as  oppor- 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  March  19, 1788. 

The  spring  is  come,  but  not  I  suppose  that 
spring  which  our  poets  have  celebrated.  So  I 
judge  at  least  by  the  extreme  severity  of  the  season, 
sunless  skies,  and  freezing  blasts,  surpassing  all 
that  we  experienced  in  the  depth  of  winter.  How 
do  you  dispose  of  yourself  in  this  howling  month 
of  March'?  As  for  me,  I  walk  daily,  be  the  wea- 
ther what  it  may,  take  bark,  and  write  verses. 
By  the  aid  of  such  means  as  these,  I  combat  the 
north-east  wind  with  some  measure  of  success,  and 
look  forward,  with  the  hope  of  enjoying  it,  to  the 
warmth  of  summer. 

Have  you  seen  a  little  volume  lately  published, 
entitled  The  Manners  of  the  Great?  It  is  said  to 
have  been  written  by  Mr.  Wilberforce,  but  whe- 
ther actually  written  by  him  or  not,  is  undoubtedly 
the  work  of  some  man  intimately  acquainted  with 
the  subject,  a  gentleman,  and  a  man  of  letters.  If 
it  makes  the  impression  on  those  to  whom  it  is 
addressed,  that  may  be  in  some  degree  expected 
from  his  arguments,  and  from  his  manner  of  press- 
ing them,  it  will  be  well.  But  you  and  I  have  lived 
long  enough  in  the  world  to  know  that  the  hope 
of  a  general  reformation  in  any  class  of  men  what- 
ever, or  of  women  either,  may  easily  be  too  san- 
guine. 

I  have  now  given  the  last  revisal  to  as  much 
of  my  translation  as  was  ready  for  it,  and  do  not 
know,  that  I  shall  bestow  another  single  stroke 
of  my  pen  on  that  part  of  it  before  I  send  it  to  the 
press.  My  business  at  present  is  with  the  six- 
teenth book,  in  which  I  have  made  some  progress, 
but  have  not  yet  actually  sent  forth  Patrocles  to 
the  battle.  My  first  translation  lies  always  before 
me;  line  by  line  I  examine  it  as  I  proceed,  and  line 
by  line  reject  it.  I  do  not  however  hold  myself 
altogetlier  indebted  to  my  critics  for  the  better 
judgment,  that  I  seem  to  exercise  in  this  matter 
now  than  in  the  first  instance.  By  long  study 
of  him,  I  am  in  fact  become  much  more  familiar 
with  Homer  than  at  any  time  heretofore,  and 
have  possessed  myself  of  such  a  taste  of  his  man- 
ner, as  is  not  to  be  attained  by  mere  cursory  read- 
ing for  amusement.  But,  alas!  'tis  after  all  a 
mortifying  consideration  that  the  majority  of  my 
judges  hereafter  will  be  no  judges  of  this.  GrcBcum 
est,  non  potest  legi,  is  a  motto  that  would  suit 
nine  in  ten  of  those  who  will  give  themselves  airs 
about  it,  and  pretend  to  like  or  to  dislike.  No  mat- 


The  Morning  Dream  (see  Poems)  accompanied  this  Let- 


J22 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  272, 273. 


ter.  I  know  I  shall  please  you,  because  I  know 
what  pleases  you,  and  am  sure  that  I  have  done 
it.    Adieu!  my  good  friend, 

Ever  affectionately  yours,  "W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  WestoHy  March  29, 1788. 

I  REJOICE  that  you  have  so  successfully  perform- 
ed so  long  a  journey  without  the  aid  of  hoofs  or 
wheels.  I  do  not  know  that  a  journey  on  foot 
exposes  a  man  to  more  disasters  than  a  carriage 
or  a  horse ;  perhaps  it  may  be  the  safer  way  of  tra- 
veling, but  the  novelty  of  it  impressed  me  with 
some  anxiety  on  your  account. 

It  seems  almost  incredible  to  myself,  that  my 
company  should  l^e  at  all  desirable  to  you,  or  to 
any  man.  I  know  so  little  of  the  world  as  it  goes 
at  present,  and  labour  generally  under  such  a  de- 
pression of  spirits,  especially  at  those  times  when 
I  could  wish  to  be  most  cheerful,  that  my  own 
share  in  every  conversation  appears  to  me  to  be 
the  most  insipid  thing  imaginable.  But  you  say 
you  found  it  otherwise,  and  I  will  not  for  my  own 
sake  doubt  your  sincerity,  de  gustibus  non  est 
disputandum,  and  since  such  is  yours,  I  shall 
leave  you  in  quiet  possession  of  it,  wishing  indeed 
both  its  continuance  and  increase.  I  shall  not  find 
a  properer  place  in  which  to  say,  accept  of  Mrs. 
Unvsdn's  acknowledgments,  as  well  as  mine,  for 
the  kindness  of  your  expressions  on  this  subject, 
and  be  assured  of  an  undissembling  welcome  at 
all  times,  when  it  shall  suit  you  to  give  us  your 
company  at  Weston.  As  to  her,  she  is  one  of  the 
sincerest  of  the  human  race,  and  if  she  receives 
you  with  the  appearance  of  pleasure,  it  is  because 
she  feels  it.  Her  behaviour  on  such  occasions  is 
with  her  an  affair  of  conscience,  and  she  dares  no 
more  look  a  falsehood  than  utter  one. 

It  is  almost  time  to  tell  you  that  I  have  received 
the  books  safe,  they  have  not  suffered  the  least 
detriment  by  the  way,  and  I  am  much  obliged  to 
you  for  them.  If  my  translation  should  be  a  little 
delayed  in  consequence  of  this  favour  of  yours, 
you  must  take  the  blame  on  yourself  It  is  impos- 
sible not  to  read  the  notes  of  a  commentator  so 
learned,  so  judicious,  and  of  so  fine  a  taste  as  Dr. 
Clarke,  having  him  at  one's  elbow.  Though  he 
has  been  but  a  few  hours  under  my  roof,  I  have 
already  peeped  at  him,  and  find  that  he  will  be 
instar  omnium  to  me.  They  are  such  notes  ex- 
actly as  I  wanted.  A  translator  of  Homer  should 
ever  have  somebody  at  hand  to  say,  "that's  a 
beauty,"  lest  he  should  slumber  where  his  author 
does  not;  not  only  depreciating,  by  such  inadver- 
tency, the  work  of  his  original,  but  depriving  per- 


haps his  own  of  an  embellishment  which  wanted 
only  to  be  noticed. 

If  you  hear  ballads  sung  in  the  streets  on  the 
hardships  of  the  negroes  in  the  islands,  they  are 
probably  mine.  It  must  be  an  honour  to  any  man 
to  have  given  a  stroke  to  that  chain,  however  fee- 
ble. 1  fear  however  that  the  attempt  will  fail.  The 
tidings  which  have  lately  reached  me  from  Lon- 
don concerning  it,  are  not  the  most  encouraging. 
While  the  matter  slept,  or  was  but  slightly  ad- 
verted to,  the  English  only  had  their  share  of 
shame  in  common  with  other  nations  on  account 
of  it.  But  since  it  has  been  canvassed  and  search- 
ed to  the  bottom,  since  the  public  attention  has 
been  riveted  to  the  horrible  scheme,  we  can  nc 
longer  plead  either  that  we  did  not  know  it,  oi 
did  not  think  of  it.  Wo  be  to  us  if  we  refuse  the 
poor  captives  the  redress  to  which  they  had  so 
clear  a  right,  and  prove  ourselves  in  the  sight  of 
God  and  men  indifferent  to  all  considerations  but 
those  of  gain!  Adieu.    W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  March31,  ^88. 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN, 

Mrs.  Thcockmorton  has  promised  to  write  to 
me.  I  beg  that  as  often  as  you  shall  see  her  you 
will  give  her  a  smart  pinch,  and  say,  "  Have  you 
written  to  my  cousin'?  I  build  all  my  hopes  of  her 
performance  on  this  expedient,  and  for  so  doing 
these  my  letters,  not  patent,  shall  be  your  sufficient 
warrant.  You  are  thus  to  give  her  the  question 
till  she  shall  answer,  "  Yes."  I  have  written  one 
more  song,  and  sent  it.  It  is  called  the  Morning 
Dream,  and  may  be  sung  to  the  tune  of  Tweed- 
side,  or  any  other  tune  that  will  suit,  for  I  am  not 
nice  on  that  subject.  I  would  have  copied  it  for 
you,  had  I  not  almost  filled  my  sheet  without  it, 
but  now,  my  dear,  you  must  stay  till  the  sweet 
syrens  of  London  shall  bring  it  to  you,  or  if  that 
happy  day  should  never  arrive,  I  hereby  acknow- 
ledge myself  your  debtor  to  that  amount.  I  shall 
now  probably  cease  to  sing  of  tortured  negroes,  a 
theme  which  never  pleased  me,  but  which  in  the 
hope  of  doing  them  some  little  service,  I  was  not 
unwilling  to  handle. 

If  any  thing  could  have  raised  Miss  More  to  a 
higher  place  in  my  opinion  than  she  possessed 
before,  it  could  only  be  your  information  that, 
after  all,  she,  and  not  Mr.  Wilberforce,  is  author 
of  that  volume.  How  comes  it  to  pass,  that  she, 
being  a  woman,  writes  with  a  force,  and  energy, 
and  a  correctness  hitherto  arrogated  by  the  men, 
and  not  very  frequently  displayed  even  by  the 
men  themselves.  Adieu,  W.  C. 


t 


Let.  274,  275,  276. 


LETTERS. 


323 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  May  6,  1788. 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN, 

You  ask  me  how  I  like  Smollett's  Don  Gluix- 
ote'?  I  answer,  well,  perhaps  better  than  any 
body's.  But  having  no  skill  in  the  original,  some 
diffidence  becomes  me.  That  is  to  say,  I  do  not 
know  whether  I  ought  to  prefer  it  or  not.  Yet 
there  is  so  little  deviation  from  other  versions  of  it 
which  1  have  seen,  that  I  do  not  much  hesitate. 
It  has  made  me  laugh  I  know  immoderately,  and 
in  such  a  case  ca  suffit. 

A  thousand  thanks,  my  dear,  for  the  new  con- 
venience in  the  way  of  stowage  which  you  are  so 
kind  as  to  intend  me.  There  is  nothing  in  which 
1  am  so  deficient  as  repositories  for  letters,  papers, 
and  litter  of  all  sorts.  Your  last  present  has  help- 
ed me  somewhat;  but  not  with  respect  to  such 
things  as  require  lock  and  key,  which  are  nume- 
rous. A  box  therefore  so  secured  will  be  to  me 
an  invaluable  acquisition.  And  since  you  leave 
me  to  my  option,  what  shall  be  the  size  thereof,  I 
of  course  prefer  a  foho.  On  the  back  of  the  book- 
seeming  box  some  artist,  expert  in  those  matters, 
may  inscribe  these  words, 

Collectanea  curiosa. 
The  English  of  which  is,  a  collection  of  curiosi- 
ties. A  title  which  I  prefer  to  all  others,  because 
if  I  live,  1  shall  take  care  that  the  box  shall  merit 
it,  and  because  it  will  operate  as  an  incentive  to 
open  that,  which  being  locked  can  not  be  opened. 
For  in  these  cases  the  greater  the  balk,  the  more 
wit  is  discovered  by  the  ingenious  contriver  of  it, 
viz.  myself 

The  General  I  understand  by  his  last  letter  is 
in  town.  In  my  last  to  him,  I  told  him  news; 
possibly  it  will  give  you  pleasure,  and  ought  for 
that  reason  to  be  made  known  to  you  as  soon  as 
possible.  My  friend  Rowley,  who  I  told  you  has 
after  twenty-five  years'  silence  renewed  his  cor- 
respondence with  me,  and  who  now  lives  in  Ire- 
land, where  he  has  many  and  considerable  con- 
nexions, has  sent  to  me  for  thirty  subscription 
papers.  Rowley  is  one  of  the  most  benevolent 
and  friendly  creatures  in  the  world,  and  will,  I 
dare  say,  do  all  in  his  power  to  serve  me. 

I  am  just  recovered  from  a  violent  cold,  attend- 
ed by  a  cough,  which  split  my  head  while  it  last- 
ed. I  escaped  these  tortures  all  the  winter,  but 
whose  constitution,  or  what  skin,  can  possibly  be 
proof  against  our  vernal  breezes  in  England? 
Mine  never  were,  nor  will  be. 

When  people  are  intimate,  we  say  they  are  as 
great  as  two  inkle-weavers,  on  which  expression 
I  have  to  remark  in  the  first  place,  that  the  word 
great  is  here  used  in  a  sense  which  the  corres- 
ponding term  has  not,  so  far  as  I  know,  in  any ' 


other  language— and  secondly,  that  inkle-weavers 
contract  intimacies  with  each  other  sooner  than 
other  people  on  account  of  their  juxtaposition  in 
weaving  of  inkle.  Hence  it  is  that  Mr.  Gregson 
and  I  emulate  those  happy  weavers  in  the  close- 
ness of  our  connexion.  We  live  near  to  each 
other,  and  while  the  Hall  is  empty  are  each 
others'  only  extraforaneous  comfort. 

Most  truly  thine,  W.  C- 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

Weston,  May  8,  1788. 
Alas  !  my  library  !— -I  must  now  give  it  up  for 
a  lost  thing  for  ever.  The  only  consolation  be- 
longing to  the  circumstance  is,  or  seems  to  be, 
that  no  such  loss  did  ever  befall  any  other  man,  or 
can  ever  befall  me  again.  As  far  as  books  are 
concerned  I  am 

Totus  teres  atque  rotundus, 
and  may  set  fortune  at  defiance.  The  books 
which  had  been  my  father's  had  most  of  them  his 
arms  on  the  inside  cover,  but  the  rest  no  mark, 
neither  his  name  nor  mine.  I  could  mourn  for 
them  like  Sancho  for  his  Dapple,  but  it  would 
avail  me  nothing. 

You  will  oblige  me  much  by  sending  me  Crazy 
Kate.  A  gentleman  last  winter  promised  me 
both  her  and  the  Lace-maker,  but  he  went  to 
London,  that  place  in  which,  as  in  the  grave, 
"  all  things  are  forgotten,"  and  I  have  never  seen 
either  of  them. 

I  begin  to  find  some  prospect  of  a  conclusion, 
of  the  Iliad  at  least,  now  opening  upon  me,  hav- 
ing reached  the  eighteenth  book.  Your  letter 
found  me  yesterday  in  the  very  fact  of  dispersing 
the  whole  host  of  Troy  by  the  voice  only  of  Achil- 
les. There  is  nothing  extravagant  in  the  idea,  for 
you  have  witnessed  a  similar  effect  attending  even 
such  a  voice  as  mine  at  midnight,  from  a  garret 
window,  on  the  dogs  of  a  whole  parish,  whom  I 
have  put  to  flight  in  a  moment,  W.  C. 

TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

<  The  Lodge,  May  12,  1788. 

It  is  probable,  my  dearest  coz,  that  I  shall  not 
be  able  to  write  much,  but  as  much  as  I  can  I 
will.  The  time  between  rising  and  breakfast  is 
all  that  I  can  at  present  find,  and  this  morning  I 
lay  longer  than  usual. 

In  the  style  of  the  lady's  note  to  you  I  can  easi- 
ly perceive  a  snatch  of  her  character.  Neither 
men  nor  women  w^rite  with  such  neatness  of  ex- 
pression, who  have  not  given  a  good  deal  of  at- 
tention to  language,  and  qualified  themselves  by 
study.    At  the  same  time  it  gave  me  much  more 


324 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  277,  273. 


pleasure  to  observe  that  my  coz,  though  not  stand- 
ing on  the  pinnacle  of  renown  quite  so  elevated, 
as  that  which  Ufts  Mrs.  Montagu  to  the  clouds, 
falls  in  no  degree  short  of  her  in  this  particular; 
so  that  should  she  make  you  a  member  of  her  aca- 
demy, she  will  do  it  honour.  Suspect  me  not  of 
flattering  you,  for  I  abhor  the  thought;  neither 
will  you  suspect  it.  Recollect  that  it  is  an  invaria- 
ble rule  with  me,  never  to  pay  compliments  to 
those  I  love. 

Two  days,  en  suite,  I  have  walked  to  Gayhurst; 
a  longer  journey  than  I  have  walked  on  foot  these 
seventeen  years.  The  first  day  I  went  alone,  de- 
signing merely  to  make  the  experiment,  and 
choosing  to  be  at  liberty  to  return  at  whatsoever 
point  of  my  pilgrimage  I  should  find  myself  fa- 
tigued. For  I  was  not  without  suspicion  that 
years,  and  some  other,  things  no  less  injurious 
than  years,  viz.  melancholy  and  distress  of  mind, 
might  by  this  time  have  unfitted  me  for  such 
achievements.  But  I  found  it  otherwise.  I  reach- 
ed the  church,  which  stands,  as  you  know,  in  the 
garden,  in  fifty-five  minutes,  and  returned  in  ditto 
time  to  Weston.  The  next  day  I  took  the  same 
walk  with  Mr.  Powley,  having  a  desire  to  show 
him  the  prettiest  place  in  the  country.  I  not  only 
performed  these  two  excursions  without  injury  to 
my  health,  but  have  by  means  of  them  gained  in- 
disputable proof  that  my  ambulatory  faculty  is  not 
yet  impaired;  a  discovery  which,  considering  that 
to  my  feet  alone  I  am  likely,  as  I  have  ever  been, 
to  be  indebted  always  for  my  transportation  from 
place  to  place,  I  find  very  delectable. 

You  will  find  in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  a 
sonnet  addressed  to  Henry  Cowper,  signed  T.H. 
I  am  the  writer  of  it  No  creature  knows  this  but 
yourself;  you  will  make  what  use  of  the  intelli- 
gence you  shall  see  good.  W.  C. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  May  24,  1788.^ 

For  two  excellent  prints  I  return  you  my  sin- 
cere acknowledgments.  I  can  not  say  that  poor 
Kate  remembles  much  the  original,  who  was  nei- 
ther so  young  nor  so  handsome  as  the  pencil  has 
represented  her;  but  she  was  a  figure  well  suited 
to  the  account  given  of  her  in  the  Task,  and  has 
a  face  exceedingly  expressive  of  despairing  me- 
lancholy. The  lace-maker  is  accidentally  a  good 
likeness  of  a  young  woman,  once  our  neighbour, 
who  was  hardly  less  handsome  than  the  picture 
twenty  years  ago;  but  the  loss  of  one  husband, 
and  the  acquisition  of  another,  have,  since  that 
time,  impaired  her  much;  yet  she  might  still  be 
supposed  to  have  sat  to  the  artist. 

We  dined  yesterday  with  your  friend  and  mine, 
the  most  companionable  and  domestic  Mr.  C  . 


The  /whole  kingdom  can  hardly  furnish  a  specta- 
cle more  pleasing  to  a  man  who  has  a  taste  for 

true  happiness,  than  himself,  Mrs.  C  ,  and 

their  multitudinous  family.  Seven  long  miles  are 
interposed  between  us,  or  perhaps  1  should  oftcner 
have  an  opportunity  of  declaiming  on  this  subject. 

I  am  now  in  the  nineteenth  book  of  the  IHad, 
and  on  the  point  of  displaying  such  feats  of  hero- 
ism performed  by  Achilles,  as  make  all  other 
achievements  trivial.  I  may  well  exclaim,  O !  for 
a  muse  of  fire !  especially  having  not  only  a  great 
host  to  copo  with,  but  a  great  river  also;  much 
however  may  be  done,  when  Homer  leads  the  way. 
I  should  not  have  chosen  to  have  been  the  original 
author  of  such  a  business,  even  though  all  the  nine 
had  stood  at  my  elbow.  Time  has  wonderful  ef- 
fects. We  admire  that  in  an  ancient,  for  which 
we  should  send  a  modern  bard  to  Bedlam. 

I  saw  at  Mr.  C  's  a  great  curiosity ;  an  an- 
tique bust  of  Paris  in  Parian  marble.  You  will 
conclude  that  it  interested  me  exceedingly,  I 
pleased  myself  with  supposing  that  it  once  stoof* 
in  Helen's  chamber.  It  was  in  fact  brought  from 
the  Levant,  and  though  not  well  mended  (for  it 
had  suffered  much  by  time)  is  an  admirable  per 
formance.  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH 

MY  DEkR  COZ,         The  Lodge,  May  21,  1788. 

The  General,  in  a  letter  which  came  yesterday, 
sept  me  enclosed  a  copy  of  my  sonnet;  thus  intro- 
ducing it. 

"  I  send  a  copy  of  verses  somebody  has  written 
in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  for  April  last.  In- 
dependent of  my  partiality  towards  the  subject,  I 
think  the  Hnes  themselves  are  good." 

Thus  it  appears  that  my  poetical  adventure  has 
succeeded  to  my  wish,  and  I  write  to  him  by  this 
post,  on  purpose  to  inform  him  that  the  somebody 
in  question  is  myself. 

I  no  longer  wonder  that  Mrs.  Montagu  stands 
at  the  head  of  all  that  is  called  learned,  and  that 
every  critic  veils  his  bonnet  to  her  superior  judg- 
ment. I  am  now  reading,  and  have  reached  the 
middle  of  her  Essay  on  the  Genius  of  Shakspeare, 
a  book  of  which,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  though  I 
must  have  read  it  formerly,  I  had  absolutely  forgot 
the  existence. 

The  learning,  the  good  sense,  the  sound  judg- 
ment, and  the  wit  displayed  in  it,  fully  justify  not 
only  my  compliment,  but  all  compliments  that 
either  have  been  already  paid  to  her  talents,  or 
shall  be  paid  hereafter.  Voltaire,  I  doubt  not, 
rejoiced  that  his  antagonist  wrote  in  English,  and 
that  his  countrymen  could  not  possibly  be  judges 
of  the  dispute.  Could  they  have  known  how  much 
she  was  in  the  right,  and  by  how  many  thousand 


Let.  279,  280,  281. 


LETTERS. 


325 


miles  the  bard  of  Avon  is  superior  to  all  their 
dramatists,  the  French  critic  would  have  lost  half 
his  fame  among  them. 

I  saw  at  Mr.  C  's  a  head  of  Paris;  an  an- 
tique of  Parian  marble.  His  uncle,  who  left  him 
the  estate,  brought  it,  as  I  understand,  from  the 
Levant :  you  may  suppose  I  viewed  it  with  all  the 
enthusiasm  that  belongs  to  a  translator  of  Homer. 
It  is  in  reality  a  great  curiosity,  and  highly  valua- 
ble. 

Our  friend  Sephus  has  sent  me  two  prints,  the 
Lacemaker  and  Crazy  Kate.  These  also  I  have 
contemplated  with  pleasure,  having  as  you  know, 
a  particular  interest  in  them.  The  former  of  them 
is  not  more  beautiful  than  a  lace-maker,  once  our 
neighbour  at  Olney;  though  the  artist  has  assem- 
bled as  many  charms  in  her  countenance  as  I  ever 
saw  in  any  countenance,  one  excepted.  Kate  is 
both  younger  and  handsomer  than  the  original 
from  which  I  drew,  but  she  is  in  a  good  style,  and 
as  mad  as  need  be. 

How  does  this  hot  weather  suit  thee,  my  dear, 
in  London  1  as  for  me,  with  all  my  colonnades  and 
bowers,  I  am  quite  oppressed  by  it.        W.  C. 

TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  June  3,  1788. 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN, 

The  excessive  heat  of  these  last  few  days  was 
indeed  oppressive;  but  excepting  the  languor  that 
it  occasioned  both  in  my  mind  and  body,  it  was  far 
from  being  prejudicial  to  me.  It  opened  ten  thou- 
sand pores,  by  which  as  many  mischiefs,  the  ef- 
fects of  long  obstruction,  began  to  breathe  them- 
selves forth  abundantly.  Then  came  an  east 
wind,  baneful  to  me  at  all  times,  but  following  so 
closely  such  a  sultry  season,  uncommonly  noxious. 
To  speak  in  the  seaman's  phrase,  not  entirely 
strange  to  you,  I  was  taken  all  aback;  and  the  hu- 
mours which  would  have  escaped,  if  old  Eurus 
would  have  given  them  leave,  finding  every  door 
shut,  have  fallen  into  my  eyes.  But  in  a  country 
like  this,  poor  miserable  mortals  must  be  content 
to  sutler  all  that  sudden  and  violent  changes  can 
inflict;  and  if  they  are  quit  for  about  half  the 
plagues  that  Caliban  calls  down  on  Prospero,  they 
may  say  we  are  well  off,  and  dance  for  joy,  if  the 
rheumatism  or  cramp  will  let  them. 

Did  you  ever  see  an  advertisement  by  one 
Fowle,  a  dancing-master  of  Newport  Pagnell  If 
not,  I  will  contrive  to  send  it  to  you  for  your 
amusement.  It  is  the  most  extravagantly  ludi- 
crous affair  of  the  kind  I  ever  saw.  The  author 
of  it  had  the  good  hap  to  be  crazed,  or  he  had 
never  produced  any  thing  half  so  clever ;  for  you 
will  ever  observe,  that  they  who  are  said  to  have 
lost  their  wits,  have  more  than  other  people.    It  is 


therefore  only  a  slander,  with  which  erivy  prompts 
the  malignity  of  persons  in  their  senses  to  asperse 
wittier  than  themselves.  But  there  are  countries 
in  the  world,  where  the  mad  have  justice  done 
them,  where  they  are  revered  as  the  subjects  of  in- 
spiration, and  consulted  as  oracles.  Poor  Fowle 
would  have  made  a  figure  there.  W.  C. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Weston,  June  8,  1788. 

Your  letter  brought  me  the  very  first  intelligence 
of  the  event  it  mentions.  My  last  letter  from  La- 
dy Hesketh  gave  me  reason  enough  to  expect  it, 
but  the  certainty  of  it  was  unknown  to  me  till  I 
learned  it  by  your  information.  If  gradual  de- 
cline, the  consequence  of  great  age,  be  a  sufficient 
preparation  of  the  mind  to  encounter  such  a  loss, 
our  minds  were  certainly  prepared  to  meet  it:  yet 
to  you  I  need  not  say  that  no  preparation  can  su- 
persede the  feelings  of  the  heart  on  such  occasions. 
While  our  friends  yet  live  inhabitants  of  the  same 
world  with  ourselves,  they  seem  still  to  live  to  us; 
we  are  sure  that  they  sometimes  think  of  us;  and 
however  improbable  it  may  seem,  it  is  never  im- 
possible that  v/e  may  see  each  other  once  again. 
But  the  grave,  like  a  great  gulf,  swallows  all  such 
expectation,  and  in  the  moment  when  a  beloved 
friend  sinks  into  it,  a  thousand  tender  recollections 
awaken  a  regret,  that  will  be  felt  in  spite  of  all 
reasonings,  and  let  our  warnings  have  been  what 
they  may.  Thus  it  is  I  take  my  last  leave  of  poor 
Ashley,  whose  heart  towards  me  was  ever  truly 
parental,  and  to  whose  memory  I  owe  a  tenderness 
and  respect  that  will  never  leave  me.       W.  C. 

TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  June  10,  1788. 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN, 

Your  kind  letter  of  precaution  to  Mr.  Gregson 
sent  him  hither  as  soon  as  chapel-service  was  ended 
in  the  Evening.  But  he  found  me  already  apprized 
of  the  event  that  occasioned  it,  by  a  line  from  Se- 
phus, received  a  few  hours  before.  My  dear  un- 
cle's death  awakened  in  me  many  reflections  which 
for  a  time  sunk  my  spirits .  A  man  like  him  would 
have  been  mourned,  had  he  doubled  the  age  he 
reached.  At  any  age  his  death  would  have  been 
felt  as  a  loss,  that  no  survivor  could  repair.  And 
though  it  was  not  probable  that  for  my  own  part 
I  should  ever  see  him  more,  yet  the  consciousness 
that  he  still  lived,  was  a  comfort  to  me.  Let  it 
comfort  us  now,  that  we  have  lost  him  only  at  a 
time  when  nature  could  aftbrd  him  to  us  no  longer' 
that  as  his  life  was  blameless,  so  was  his  death 
without  anguish;  and  that  he  is  gone  to  Heaver*, 


326 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  283,  283, 


I  know  not,  that  human  life,  in  its  most  prosper-  ja  vain  fooHsh  world  and  this  haptnness  will  be 
X  iviiuw  iiu  ,  ;    '  T>,,f  v,„  „„t  hnsfv  TTiv  dftar.  to  accomplisu 


ous  state,  can  present  any  thing  to  our  wishes 
half  so  desirable,  as  such  a  close  of  it. 

Not  to  mingle  this  subject  with  others  that  would 
ill  suit  with  it,  I  will  add  no  more  at  present,  than 
a  warm  hope,  that  you  and  your  sister  will  be  able 
effectually  to  avail  yourselves  of  all  the  consolatory 
matter  with  which  it  abounds!  You  gave  yourselves, 
while  he  lived,  to  a  father,  whose  life  was  doubtless 
prolonged  by  your  attentions,  and  whose  tender- 
ness of  disposition  made  him  always  deeply  sensi- 
ble of  your  kindness  in  this  respect,  as  well  as  m 
many  others.  His  old  age  was  the  happiest  that 
I  have  ever  known,  and  I  give  you  both  joy  of 
having  had  so  fair  an  opportunity,  and  of  having 
so  well  used  it,  to  approve  yourselves  equal  to  the 
calls  of  such  a  duty  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man. 


yours.  But  be  not  hasty,  my  dear,  to  accomplish 
thy  journey  !  For  of  all  that  live,  thou  art  one 
whom  I  can  least  spare ;  for  thou  also  art  one, 
who  shalt  not  leave  thy  equal  behind  thee. 

W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  June  15,  1788. 
Although  I  knew  that  you  must  be  very  much 
occupied  on  the  present  most  affecting  occasion, 
yet,  not  hearing  from  you,  I  began  to  be  very  un- 
easy on  your  account,  and  to  fear  that  your  health 
might  have  suffered  by  the  fatigue  both  of  body 
and  spirits,  that  you  must  have  undergone,  till  a 
letter,  that  reached  me  yesterday  from  the  Gene- 
ral, set  my  heart  at  rest,  so  far  %s  that  cause  of 
aniiety  was  in  question.    He  speaks  of  my  uncle 
in  the  tenderest  terms,  such  as  show  how  truly 
sensible  he  was  of  the  amiableness  and  excellence 
of  his  character,  and  how  deeply  he  regrets  his 
loss.    We  have  indeed  lost  one,  who  has  not  left 
his  like  in  the  present  generation  of  our  family, 
and  whose  equal,  in  all  respects,  no  future  of  it 
will  probably  produce.    My  memory  retains  so 
perfect  an  impression  of  him,  that,  had  1  been 
painter  instead  of  poet,  I  could  from  those  faithful 
traces  have  perpetuated  his  face  and  form  with 
the  most  minute  exactness;  and  this  1  the  rather 
wonder  at,  because  some,  with  whom  I  was  equal- 
ly conversant  five  and  twenty  years  ago,  have  al- 
most faded  out  of  all  recollection  with  me.  But 
he  made  impression  not  soon  to  be  efiaced,  and 
was  in  figure,  in  temper,  and  manner,  and  in  nu- 
merous other  respects,  such  as  1  shall  never  beliold 
again.    I  often  think  what  a  joyful  interview 
there  has  been  between  him  and  some  of  his  con- 
temporaries, who  went  before  him.    The  truth 
of  the  matter  is,  my  dear,  that  they  are  the  happy 
ones,  and  that  we  shall  never  be  such  ourselves, 
till  we  have  joined  the  party.    Can  there  be  any 
thing  so  worthy  of  our  warmest  wishes  as  to  enter 
on  an  eternal,  unchangeable  state,  m  blessed  fel- 
lowship and  communion  with  those  whose  society 
we  valued  most,  and  for  the  best  reasons,  while 
tney  continued  with  us  1  A  few  steps  more  through 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

MY  DEAR  WALTER,       Weston,  Junc  17,  1788. 

You  think  me,  no  doubt,  a  tardy  correspondent, 
and  such  I  am,  but  not  willingly.  Many  hin- 
drances have  intervened,  and  the  most  difficult  to 
surmount  have  been  those  which  the  east  and 
north-west  winds  have  occasioned,  breathing  win- 
ter upon  the  roses  of  June,  and  inflaming  my  eyes, 
ten  times  more  sensible  of  the  inconvenience  than 
they.  The  vegetables  of  England  seem,  like  our 
animals,  of  a  hardier  and  bolder  nature  than  those 
of  other  countries.  In  France  and  Italy  flowers 
blow,  because  it  is  warm,  but  here,  in  spite  of  the 
cold.  The  season  however  is  somewhat  mended 
at  present,  and  my  eyes  with  it.  Finding  myself 
this  morning  in  perfect  ease  of  body,  I  seize  the 
welcome  opportunity  to  do  something  at  least  to- 
wards the  discharge  of  my  arrears  to  you. 

I  am  glad  that  you  liked  my  song,  and,  if  1 
liked  the  others  myself  so  well  as  that  I  sent  you, 
I  would  transcribe  for  you  them  also.  BuTi  sent 
that,  because  I  accounted  it  the  best.  Slavery, 
and  especially  negro-slavery,  because  the  cruellest, 
is  an  odious  and  disgusting  subject.  Twice  or 
thrice  I  have  been  assailed  with  entreaties  to  write 
a  poem  on  that  theme.  But  besides  that  it  would 
be  in  some  sort  treason  against  Homer  to  abandon 
him  for  other  matter,  I  felt  myself  so  much  hurt 
in  my  spirits  the  moment  I  entered  on  the  con- 
templation of  it,  that  I  have  at  last  determined 
absolutely  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  it. 
There  are  some  scenes  of  horror,  on  which  my 
imagination  can  dwell,  not  without  some  compla- 
cence. But  then  they  are  such  scenes  as  God,  not 
man  produces  In  earthquakes,  high  winds,  tem- 
pestuous seas,  there  is  the  grand  as  well  as  the 
terrible.  But  when  man  is  active  to  disturb,  there 
is  such  meanness  in  the  design,  and  such  cruelty 
in  the  execution,  that  I  both  hate  and  despise  the 
whole  operation,  and  feel  it  a  degradation  of  poetry 
to  employ  her  in  the  description  of  it.  I  hope  also 
that  the  generality  of  my  countrymen  have  more 
generosity  in  their  nature  than  to  want  the  fiddle 
of  verse  to  go  before  them  in  the  performance  of 
an  act,  to  which  they  are  invited  by  the  loudest 
calls  of  humanity. 

Breakfast  calls,  and  then  Homer. 

Ever  yours,  W.  C. 
Erratum.— Instead  of  Mr.  Wilberfbrce  as  author 
of  Manners  of  the  Great,  read  Hannah  ^loro. 


iET.  284, 


LETTERS. 


My  paper  mourns,  and  my  seal.  It  is  for  the 
death  of  a  venerable  uncle,  Ashley  Cowper,  at  the 
*ge  of  eighty-seven. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

Weston,  June  23,  1788. 

When  I  tell  you  that  an  unanswered  latter 
troubles  my  conscience  in  some  degree  like  a  crime, 
you  will  think  me  endued  with  most  heroic  pa- 
tience, who  have  so  long  submitted  to  that  trouble 
on  account  of  yours  not  answered  yet.  But  the 
truth  is,  that  I  have  been  much  engaged.  Homer 
(you  know)  affords  me  constant  employment;  be- 
sides which  I  have  rather  what  may  be  called,  con- 
sidering the  privacy  in  which  I  have  long  lived,  a 
numerous  correspondence ;  to  one  of  my  friends  in 
particular,  a  near  and  much-loved  relation,  I  write 
weekly,  and  sometimes  twice  in  the  week;  nor 
are  these  my  only  excuses;  the  sudden  chang 
of  the  weather  have  much  affected  me,  and  espe- 
cially with  a  disorder  most  unfavourable  to  letter- 
writing,  an  inflammation  in  my  eyes.  With  all 
these  apologies  I  approach  you  once  more,  not  al- 
together despairing  of  forgiveness 

It  has  pleased  God  to  give  us  rain,  without 
which  this  part  of  our  country  at  least  must  soon 
have  ^come  a  desert.  The  meadows  have  been 
parched  to  a  January  brown,  and  we  have  fod- 
dered our  cattle  for  some  time,  as  in  the  winter. 
The  goodness  and  power  of  God  are  never  (I  be- 
lieve) so  universally  acknowledged  as  at  the  end 
of  a  long  drought.  Mao  is  naturally  a  self-sufTi 
cient  animal,  and  in  all  concerns  that  seem  to  lie 
within  the  sphere  of  his  own  ability,  thinks  little 
or  not  at  all  of  the  need  he  always  has  of  protec- 
tion and  furtherance  from  above.  But  he  is  sen- 
sible that  the  clouds  will  not  assemble  at  his  bid- 
ding, and  that,  though  the  clouds  assemble,  they 
will  not  fall  in  showers  because  he  commands 
them.  When  therefore  at  last  the  blessing  de- 
scends, you  shall  hear  even  in  the  streets  the  most 
irreligious  and  thoughtless  with  one  voice  ex- 
claim—" Thank  God !"— confessing  themselves  in- 
debted to  his  favour,  and  wiUing,  at  least  so  far  as 
words  go,  to  give  him  the  glory.  I  can  hardly 
doubt  therefore  that  the  earth  is  sometimes  parched, 
and  the  crops  endangered,  m  order  that  the  multi- 
tude may  not  want  a  memento  to  whom  they  owe 


winter  also.  The  summer  indeed  is  leaving  us  nt 
a  rapid  rate,  as  do  all  the  seasons,  and  though  I 
have  marked  their  flight  so  often,  I  know  not 
which  is  the  sweetest.  Man  is  never  so  deluded 
as  when  he  dreams  of  his  own  duration.  The 
answer  of  the  old  Patriarch  to  Pharaoh  may  be 
adopted  by  every  man  at  the  close  of  the  longest 
life — "  Few  and  evil  have  been  the  days  of  the 
years  of  my  pilgrimage."  Whether  we  l6ok  back 
from  fifty,  or  from  twice  fifty,  the  past  appears 
equally  a  dream ;  and  we  can  only  be  said  truly 
to  have  lived,  while  we  have  been  profitably  em- 
ployed. Alas,  then !  making  the  necessary  deduc- 
tions, how  short  is  life !  Were  men  in  general  to 
save  themselves  all  the  steps  they  take  to  no  pur- 
pose, or  to  a  bad  one,  what  numbers,  who  are  now 
active,  would  become  sedentary! 

Thus  I  have  sermonized  through  my  paper. 
Living  where  you  live,  you  can  bear  with  me  the 
better.  I  always  follow  the  leading  of  my  uncon- 
strained thoughts,  when  I  write  to  a  friend,  be  they 
grave  or  otherwise.  Homer  reminds  me  of  you 
every  day.    I  am  now  in  the  twenty-first  Iliad. 

Adieu.   W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  June  27,  1788. 
For  the  sake  of  a  longer  visit,  my  dearest  coz, 
I  can  be  well  content  to  wait.  The  country,  this 
country  at  least,  is  pleasant  at  all  times,  and  when 
winter  is  come,  or  near  at  hand,  we  shall  have  the 
better  chance  for  being  snug.  I  know  your  pas- 
sion for  retirement  indeed,  or  for  what  we  call 
deedy  retirement,  and  the  F  s  intending  to  re- 
turn to  Bath  with  their  mother,  when  her  visit  at 
the  Hall  is  over,  you  will  then  find  here  exactly 
the  retirement  in  question.  I  have  made  in  the 
orchard  the  best  winter-walk  in  all  the  parish, 
sheltered  from  the  east,  and  from  the  north-east, 
and  open  to  the  sun,  except  at  his  rising,  all  the 
day.  Then  we  will  have  Homer  and  Don  Q,uix- 
ote  :  and  then  we  will  have  saunter  and  chat,  and 
one  laugh  more  before  we  die.  Our  orchard  is 
alive  with  creatures  of  all  kinds :  poultry  of  every 
denomination  swarms  in  it,  and  pigs,  the  drollest 
in  the  world ! 

I  rejoice  that  we  have  a  cousin  Charles  also,  as 
well  as  a  cousin  Henry,  who  has  had  the  address 
them  nor  absolutely  forget  the  power  on  which  all  to  win  the  good-likings  of  the  Chancellor.  May 
depend  for  all  things.  he  fare  the  better  for  it !    As  to  myself,  I  have  long 

Our  solitary  part  of  the  year  is  over.  Mrs.  Un-  since  ceased  to  have  any  expectations  from  that 
win's  daughter  and  son-in-law  have  lately  spent  quarter.  Yet,  if  he  were  indeed  mortified  as  you 
some  time  with  us.  We  shall  shortly  receive  from  say  (and  no  doubt  you  have  particular  reasons  for 
London  our  old  friends  theNewtons  (he  was  once  thinking  so,)  and  repented  to  that  degree  of  his 
minister  of  Olney);  and,  when  they  leave  us,  we  hasty  exertions  in  favour  of  the  present  occupant, 
expect  that  Lady  Hesketh  will  succeed  them,  per-  who  can  telH  he  wants  neither  means  nor  man- 
haps  to  spend  the  summer  here,  and  possibly  th^^  agement,  but  can  easily  at  some  future  period  re- 


22 


2  D 


328 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  286,  287. 


dress  the  evil,  if  he  chooses  to  do  it.  But  in  the 
mean  time  Ufe  steals  away,  and  shortly  neither  he 
will  be  in  circumstances  to  do  me  a  kindness,  nor 
I  to  receive  one  at  his  hands.  Let  him  make  haste, 
therefore,  or  he  will  die  a  promise  in  my  debt, 
which  he  will  never  be  able  to  perform.  Your 
communications  on  this  subject  are  as  safe  as  you 
can  wish  them.  We  divulge  nothing  but  what 
might  ^pear  in  the  magazine,  nor  that  without 
great  consideration. 

I  must  tell  you  a  feat  of  my  dog  Beau.  Walk- 
ing by  the  river  side,  I  observed  some  water-lilies 
floating  at  a  little  distance  from  the  bank.  They 
are  a  large  white  flower,  with  an  orange  coloured 
eye,  very  beautiful.  I  had  a  desire  to  gather  one, 
and,  having  your  long  cane  in  my  hand,  by  the 
help  of  it  endeavoured  to  bring  one  of  them  with- 
in my  reach.  But  the  attempt  proved  vain,  and  1 
walked  forward.  Beau  had  all  the  while  observed 
me  very  attentively.  Returning  soon  after  toward  the 
same  place,  I  observed  him  plunge  into  the  river, 
while  I  was  about  forty  yards  distant  from  him ; 
and  when  I  had  nearly  reached  the  spot,  he  swam 
to  land  with  a  lily  in  his  mouth,  which  he  came 
and  laid  at  my  foot, 

Mr.  Rose,  whom  I  have  mentioned  to  you  as  a 
visiter  of  mine  for  the  first  time  soon  after  you  left 
us,  writes  me  word  that  he  has  seen  my  ballads 
against  the  slave-mongers,  but  not  in  print.  Where 
he  met  with  them,  I  know  not.  Mr.  Bull  begged 
hard  for  leave  to  print  them  at  Newport-Pagnel, 
and  1  refused,  thinking  that  it  would  be  wrong  to 
anticipate  the  nobility,  gentry,  and  others,  at  whose 
pressing  instance  I  composed  them,  in  their  design 
to  print  them.  But  perhaps  I  need  not  have  been 
so  squeamish ;  for  the  opportunity  to  publish  them 
in  London  seems  now  not  only  ripe,  but  rotten.  I 
am  well  content.  There  is  but  one  of  them  with 
which  I  am  myself  satisfied,  though  I  have  heard 
them  all  well  spoken  of  But  there  are  very  few  \ 
things  of  my  own  composition,  that  I  can  endure , 
to  read,  when  they  have  been  written  a  month, 
though  at  first  they  seem  to  me  to  be  all  perfection,  j 

Mrs.  Unwin,  who  has  been  much  the  happier 
since  the  time  of  your  return  hither  has  been  in 
some  sort  settled,  begs  me  to  make  her  kindest  re- 
membrance.   Yours,  my  dear,  most  truly,  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  July  28,  1788. 
It  is  in  vain  that  you  tell  me  you  have  no  talent 
at  description,  while  in  fact  you  describe  better 
than  any  body,  liou  have  given  me  a  most  com- 
plete idea  of  your  mansion  and  its  situation ;  and 
I  doubt  not  tliat  with  your  letter  in  my  hand  by 
way  of  map,  could  I  be  set  down  on  the  spot  in  a 
moment,  I  should  find  myself  qualified  to  take  my 


walks  and  my  pastime  in  whatever  quarter  of  your 
paradise  it  should  please  me  the  most  to  visit.  We 
also,  as  you  know,  have  scenes  at  Weston  worthy 
of  description ;  but  because  you  know  them  well, 
I  will  only  say  that  one  of  them  has,  within  these 
few  days,  been  much  improved ;  I  mean  the  lime 
walk.  By  the  help  of  the  axe  and  the  woodbill, 
which  have  of  late  been  constantly  employed  in 
cutting  out  all  straggling  branches  that  intercept- 
ed the  arch,  Mr.  Throckmorton  has  now  defined 
it  with  such  exactness,  that  no  cathedral  in  the 
world  can  show  one  of  more  magnificence  or  beau- 
ty. I  bless  myself  that  I  live  so  near  it ;  for  were 
it  distant  several  miles,  it  would  be  well  worth 
while  to  visit  it,  merely  as  an  object  of  taste ;  not 
to  mention  the  refreshment  of  such  a  gloom  both 
to  the  eyes  and  spirits.  And  these  are  the  things 
which  our  modern  improvers  of  parks  and  pleasure 
grounds  have  displaced  without  mercy ;  because, 
forsooth,  they  are  rectilinear.  It  is  a  wonder  they 
do  not  quarrel  with  the  sunbeams  for  the  same 
reason.  ( 

Have  you  seen  the  account  of  five  hundred  ce- 
lebrated authors  now  living'?  I  am  one  of  them ; 
but  stand  charged  with  the  high  crime  and  misde- 
meanour of  totally  neglecting  method  ;  an  accusa- 
tion which,  if  the  gentleman  would  take  the  pains 
to  read  me,  he  would  find  sufficiently  refuted.  I 
am  conscious  at  least  myself  of  having  laboured 
much  in  the  arrangement  of  my  matter,  and  of 
having  given  to  the  several  parts  of  my  book  of 
the  Task,  as  well  as  to  each  poem  in  the  first  vo- 
lume, that  sort  of  slight  connexion,  which  poetry 
demands ;  for  in  poetry,  (except  professedly  of  the 
didactic  kind)  a  logical  precision  would  be  stiff", 
pedantic,  and  ridiculous.  But  there  is  no  pleasing 
some  critics ;  the  comfort  is,  that  I  am  contented, 
whether  they  be  pleased  or  not.  At  the  sam€# 
time,  to  my  honour  be  it  spoken,  the  chronicler  of 
us  five  hundred  prodigies  bestows  on  me,  for  aught 
I  know,  more  commendations  than  on  any  other 
of  my  confraternity.  May  he  live  to  write  the 
histories  of  as  many  thousand  poets,  and  find  me 
the  very  best  among  them ;  Amen  ! 

I  join  with  you,  my  dearest  coz,  in  fishing  that 
I  owned  the  fee  simple  of  all  the  beautiful  scenes 
around  you,  but  such  emoluments  were  never  de- 
signed for  poets.  Am  I  not  happier  than  ever  poet 
was,  in  having  thee  for  my  cousin,  and  in  the  ex- 
pectation of  thy  arrival  here  whenever  Strawber- 
ry-MU  shall  lose  thee  1         Ever  thine,  W,  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  August  9,  1788. 
The  Newtons  are  still  here,  and  continue  with 
us  I  believe  until  the  15th  of  the  month.    Here  is 
also  my  friend  Mr.  Rose,  a  valuable  young  man, 


Let.  388,  289. 


LETTERS. 


329 


who,  attracted  by  the  effluvia  of  my  genius,  found 
me  out  in  my  retirement  last  January  twelvemonth. 
I  have  not  permitted  him  to  be  idle,  but  have  made 
him  transcribe  for  me  the  twelfth  book  of  the  Iliad. 
He  brmgs  me  the  compliments  of  several  of  the 
literati,  with  whom  he  is  acquainted  in  town,  and 
tells  me,  that  from.  Dr.  Maclain,  whom  he  saw 
lately,  he  learns  that  my  book  is  in  the  hands  of 
sixty  ditlerent  persons  at  the  Hague,  who  are  all 
enchanted  with  it,  not  forgetting  the  said  Dr.  Mac- 
(ain  himself,  who  tells  him  that  he  reads  it  every 
day,  and  is  always  the  better  for  it.    O  rare  we ! 

I  have  been  employed  this  morning  in  compos- 
ing a  Latin  motto  for  the  king's  clock ;  the  embel- 
lishments of  which  are  by  Mr.  Bacon.  That 
gentleman  breakfasted  with  us  on  Wednesday, 
Having  come  thirty-seven  miles  out  of  his  way 
on  purpose  to  see  your  cousin.  At  his  request  I 
have  done  it,  and  have  made  two ;  he  will  choose 
that  which  liketh  him  best.  Mr.  Bacon  is  a  most 
excellent  man,  and  a  most  agreeable  companion 
I  would  that  he  lived  not  so  remote,  or  that  he  had 
more  opportunity  of  traveling. 

There  is  not,  so  far  as  I  know,  a  syllable  of  the 
rhyming  correspondence  between  me  and  my 
poor  brother  left,  save  and  except  the  six  lines  of 
t  quoted  in  yours.  I  had  the  whole  of  it,  but 
it  perished  in  the  wreck  of  a  thousand  other  things, 
when  I  left  the  Temple.    Breakfast  calls.   Adieu ! 

W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  WestoUy  Aug.  18,  1788. 

I  LEFT  you  with  a  sensible  regret,  alleviated 
only  by  the  consideration  that  I  shall  see  you  again 
in  October.  I  was  under  some  concern  also,  lest, 
not  being  able  to  give  you  any  certain  directions 
nor  knowing  where  you  might  find  a  guide,  you 
should  wander  and  fatigue  yourself,  good  walker 
as  you  are,  before  you  could  reach  Northampton. 
Perhaps  you  heard  me  whistle  just  after  our  sepa- 
ration; it  was  to  call  back  Beau,  who  was  run- 
ning after  you  with  all  speed,  to  intreat  you  to  re- 
turn with  me.  For  my  part,  I  took  my  own  time 
to  return,  and  did  not  reach  home  till  after  one 
and  then  so  weary,  that  1  was  glad  of  my  great 
chair,  to  the  comforts  of  which  1  added  a  crust 
and  a  glass  of  rum  and  water,  not  without  great 
occasion.    Such  a  foot-traveller  am  I. 

I  am  writing  on  Monday,  but  whether  I  shall 
finish  my  letter  this  morning  depends  on  Mrs. 
Unwin's  coming  sooner  or  later  down  to  breakfast. 
Something  tells  me  that  you  set  oft'  to-day  for  Bir- 
mingham ;  and  though  it  be  a  sort  of  Iricism  to 
say  here,  I  beseech  you  take  care  of  yourself,  for 
the  a«,/  threatens  great  heat,  I  can  not  help  it ;  the 
weather  may  be  cold  enough  at  the  time  when 


that  good  advice  shall  reach  you  :  but  be  it  hot,  or 
be  it  cold,  to  a  man  that  travels  as  you  travel,  take 
care  of  yourself,  can  never  be  an  unseasonable 
caution.  1  am  sometimes  distressed  on  this  ac- 
count ;  for  though  you  are  young,  and  well  made 
for  such  exploits,  those  very  circumstances  are 
more  likely  than  any  thing  to  betray  you  into  dan- 
ger. 

Consule  quid  valeant  plantm,  quid  ferre  recusent. 

The  Newtons  left  us  on  Friday.  We  frequent 
ly  talked  about  you  after  your  departure,  and  every 
thing  that  was  spoken  was  to  your  advantage.  1 
know  they  will  be  glad  to  see  you  in  London,  and 
perhaps  when  your  summer  and  autumn  rambles 
are  over,  you  will  afford  them  that  pleasure.  The 
Throckmortons  are  equally  well  disposed  to  you, 
and  them  also  1  recommend  to  you  as  a  valuable 
connexion,  the  rather  because  you  can  only  culti- 
vate it  at  Weston. 

1  have  not  been  idle  since  you  went,  having  not 
only  laboured  as  usual  at  the  Iliad,  but  composed 
a  spick  and  span  new  piece,  called  "  The  Dog 
and  the  Water-Lily,"  which  you  shall  see  when 
we  meet  again.  1  believe  I  related  to  you  the  in- 
cident which  is  the  subject  of  it.  I  have  also  read 
most  of  Lavater's  Aphorisms ;  they  appear  to  me 
some  of  them  wise,  many  of  them  whimsical,  a 
few  of  them  false,  and  not  a  few  of  them  extrava- 
gant. Nil  illi  medium.  If  he  finds  in  a  man  the 
feature  or  quality  that  he  approves,  he  deifies  him ; 
if  the  contrary,  he  is  a  devil.  His  verdict  is  in 
neither  case,  I  suppose,  a  just  one.         W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Weston,  Sept.  11,  1788. 

Since  your  departure  I  have  twice  visited  the 
oak,  and  with  my  intention  to  push  my  inquiries 
a  mile  beyond  it,  where  it  seems  I  should  have 
found  another  oak,  much  larger,  and  much  more 
respectable  than  the  former,  but  once  I  was  hin- 
dered by  the  rain,  and  once  by  the  sultriness  of 
the  day.  This  latter  oak  has  been  known  by  the 
name  of  Judith  many  ages,  and  is  said  to  have 
been  an  oak  at  the  time  of  the  conquest.  If  I 
have  not  an  opportunity  to  reach  it  before  your  ar- 
rival here,  we  will  attempt  that  exploit  together ; 
and  even  if  I  should  have  been  able  to  visit  it  ere 
you  come,  I  shall  yet  be  glad  to  do  so;  for  the 
pleasure  of  extraordinary  sights,  like  all  other 
pleasures,  is  doubled  by  the  participation  of  a 
friend. 

You  wish  for  a  copy  of  my  little  dog's  eulo- 
gium,  which  I  will  therefore  transcribe:  but  by 
so  doing,  I  shall  leave  myself  but  scanty  room  for 
prose, 

I  shall  be  sorry  if  our  neighbours  at  the  haU 


330 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


should  have  left  it,  when  we  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you.  I  want  you  to  see  them  soon  again, 
that  a  little  consuetudo  may  wear  off'  restraint ; 
and  you  may  be  able  to  improve  the  advantage  you 
have  already  gained  in  that  quarter.  I  pitied  you 
for  the  fears  which  deprived  you  of  your  uncle's  com- 
pany, and  the  more  having  suffered  so  much  by 
those  fears  myself.  Fight  against  that  vicious  fear, 
for  such  it  is,  as  strenuously  as  you  can.  It  is  th6 
worst  enemy  that  can  attack  a  man  destined  to 
the  forum— it  ruined  me.  To  associate  as  much 
as  possible  with  the  most  respectable  company,  for 
good  sense  and  good  breeding,  is,  I  believe,  the 
only,  at  least  I  am  sure  it  is  the  best  remedy.  The 
society  of  men  of  pleasure  will  not  cure  it,  but 
lather  leaves  us  more  exposed  to  its  influence  in 
company  of  better  persons. 

jN"ow  for  the  Dog  and  the  Water-Lily.* 

W.  C 


Let.  290,  291. 


Weston  has  not  been  without  its  tragedies  since 
you  left  us ;  Mrs.  Throckmorton's  piping  bull-finch 
has  beerf  eaten  by  a  rat,  and  the  villain  left  nothing 
but  poor  Bully's  beak  behind  him.  It  will  be  a 
wonder  if  this  event  does  not,  at  some  convenient 
time,  employ  my  versifying  passion.  Did  ever 
fair  lady,  from  the  Lesbia  of  Catullus  to  the  pre- 
sent day,  lose  her  bird  and  find  no  poet  to  com- 
memorate the  loss  1  W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,         Weston,  Sept.  25, 1787. 

Say  what  is  the  thing  by  my  Riddle  design'd 
Which  you  carried  to  London,  and  yet  left  behind. 

I  EXPECT  your  answer  and  without  a  fee. — The 
half  hour  next  before  breakfast  I  devote  to  you. 
The  moment  Mrs.  Unwin  arrives  in  the  study, 
be  what  I  have  written  much  or  little,  I  shall  make 
my  bow,  and  take  leave.  If  you  live  to  be  a  judge, 
as  if  I  augur  right  you  will,  I  shall  expect  to  hear 
of  a  walking  circuit. 

I  was  shocked  at  what  you  tell  me  of 


Superior  talents,  it  seems,  give  no  security  for  pro- 
priety of  conduct ;  on  the  contrary,  having  a  nat 
ural  tendency  to  nourish  pride,  they  often  betray 
the  possessor  into  such  mistakes,  as  men  more 
moderately  gifted  never  commit.  Ability  there- 
fore is  not  wisdom,  and  an  ounce  of  grace  is  a  bet- 
ter guard  against  gross  absurdity  than  the  bright- 
est talents  in  the  world. 

I  rejoice  that  you  are  prepared  for  transcript 
Work :  here  will  be  plenty  for  you.  The  day  on 
which  you  shall  receive  this,  I  beg  you  will  re- 
member to  drink  one  glass  at  least  to  the  success 
of  the  Iliad,  which  I  finished  the  day  before  yes- 
terday, and  yesterday  began  the  Odyssey.  It  will 
be  some  time  before  I  shall  perceive  myself  travel- 
ing in  another  road ;  the  objects  around  me  are 
at  present  so  much  the  same ;  Olympus,  and  a 
council  of  gods,  meet  me  at  my  first  entrance.  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  weary  of  heroes  and  dei- 
ties, and,  with  reverence  be  it  spoken,  shall  be  glad 
for  variety's  sake,  to  exchange  their  company  for 
that  of  a  Cyclops. 

*  Cowper's  Poems. 


MY  DEAR  FRIEND,         Weston^  Nov.  30,  1788. 

Your  letter,  accompanying  the  books  with  which 
you  have  favoured  me,  and  for  which  I  return 
you  a  thousand  thanks,  did  not  arrive  till  yester- 
day. I  shall  have  great  pleasure  in  taking  now 
and  then  a  peep  at  my  old  friend  Vincent  Bourne ; 
the  neatest  of  all  men  in  his  versification,  though 
when  I  was  under  his  ushership,  at  Westminster, 
the  most  slovenly  in  his  person.  He  was  so  in- 
attentive to  his  boys,  and  so  indifferent  whether 
they  brought  him  good  or  bad  exercises,  or  none 
at  all,  that  he  seemed  determined,  as  he  was  the 
best,  so  to  be  the  last  Latin  poet  of  the  Westminster 
line ;  a  plot  which,  I  believe,  he  executed  very  suc- 
cessfully ;  for  I  have  not  heard  of  any  who  has  at 
all  deserved  to  be  compared  with  him. 

We  have  had  hardly  any  rain  or  snow  since 
you  left  us;  the  roads  are  accordingly  as  dry  as  in 
the  middle  of  summer,  and  the  opportunity  of 
walking  much  more  favourable.  We  have  no 
season  in  my  mind  so  pleasant  as  such  a  winter: 
and  I  account  it  particularly  fortunate  that  such 
it  proves,  my  cousin  being  with  us.  She  is  in 
good  health,  and  cheerful,  so  are  we  all;  and  this 
I  say,  knowing  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  it,  for  you 
have  seen  the  time  when  this  could  not  be  said  of 
all  your  friends  at  Weston.  We  shall  rejoice  to 
see  you  here  at  Christmas;  but  I  recollected  when 
I  hinted  such  an  excursion  by  word  of  mouth,  you 
gave  rne  no  great  encouragement  to  expect  you. 
Minds  alter,  and  yours  may  be  of  the  number  of 
those  th^t  do  so ;  and  if  it  should,  you  will  be  en- 
tirely welcome  to  us  all.  Were  there  no  other 
reason  for  your  coming  than  merely  the  pleasure 
it  will  afford  to  us,  that  reason  alone  would  be 
sufficient;  but  after  so  many  toils,  and  with  so 
many  more  in  prospect,  it  seems  essential  to  your 
well-being  that  you  should  allow  yourself  a  respite, 
which  perhaps  you  can  take  as  comfortably  (I  am 
sure  as  quietly)  here  as  any  where. 

The  ladies  beg  to  be  remembered  to  you  with 
all  possible  esteem  and  regard;  they  are  just  come 
down  to  breakfast,  and  being  at  this  moment  ex- 
tremely talkative,  oblige  me  to  put  an  end  to  my 
letter.   Adieu.  W.  C. 


Let,  292,  293,  294,  295. 


LETTERS. 


331 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

Weston-Underwood,  Dec.  2,  1788. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

I  TOLD  you  lately  that  I  had  an  ambition  to  in- 
troduce to  your  acquaintance  my  valuable  friend, 
Mr.  Rose.  He  is  now  before  you.  You  will  find 
him  a  person  of  genteel  manners  and  agreeable 
conversation.  As  to  his  other  virtues  and  good 
qualities,  which  are  many,  and  not  often  found  in 
men  of  his  years,  I  consign  them  over  to  your  own 
discernment,  perfectly  sure  that  none  will  escape 
you.  I  give  you  .joy  of  each  other,  and  remain, 
my  dear  old  friend,  most  truly  yours,      W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,         The  Lodge,  Jan.  19,  1789= 

I  HAVE  taken,  since  you  went  away,  many  of 
the  walks  which  we  have  taken  together;  and 
none  of  them,  I  believe,  without  thoughts  of  you. 
I  have,  though  not  a  good  memory,  in  general, 
yet  a  good  local  memory,  and  can  recollect,  by 
the  help  of  a  tree  or  a  stile,  what  you  said  on  that 
particular  spot.  For  this  reason  I  purpose,  when 
the  summer  is  come,  to  walk  with  a  book  in  my 
pocket;  what  I  read  at  my  fireside  I  forget,  but 
what  I  read  under  a  hedge,  or  at  the  side  of  a 
pond,  that  pond  and  that  hedge  will  always  bring 
to  my  remembrance;  and  this  is  a  sort  of  memoria 
technica,  which  I  would  recommend  to  you  if  I 
did  not  know  that  you  have  no  occasion  for  it. 

I  am  reading  Sir  John  Hawkins,  and  still  hold 
the  same  opinion  of  his  book,  as  when  you  were 
here.  There  are  in  it,  undoubtedly,  some  awk- 
wardnesses of  phrase,  and,  which  is  worse,  here 
and  there  some  unequivocal  indications  of  a  vanity 
not  easily  pardonable  in  a  man  of  his  years;  but 
on  the  whole  I  find  it  amusing,  and  to  me  at  least, 
to  whom  every  thing  that  has  passed  in  the  lite- 
rary world  within  these  five-and-twenty  years  is 
new,  sufficiently  replete  with  information.  Mr. 
Throckmorton  told  me  about  three  days  since, 
that  it  was  lately  recommended  to  him  by  a  sen- 
sible man,  as  a  book  that  would  give  him  great 
insight  into  the  history  of  modern  literature,  and 
modern  men  of  letters,  a  commendation  which  I 
really  think  it  merits.  Fifty  years  hence,  per- 
haps, the  world  will  feel  itself  obliged  to  him. 

w.  c. 


TO  ROBERT  SMITH,  ESa. 

Weston-Underwood,  Dec.  20,  1788. 

MY  DEAR  SIR, 

Mrs.  Unwin  is  in  tolerable  health,  and  adds 

her  warmest  thanks  to  mine  for  your  favour,  and 

for  your  obliging  inquiries.    My  own  health  is 

better  than  it  has  been  for  many  years.  Long 

time  I  had  a  stomach  that  would  digest  nothing 

and  now  nothing  disagrees  with  it;  an  amend- 
ment for  which  I  am,  under  God,  indebted  to  the 

daily  use  of  soluble  tartar,  which  I  have  never 

omitted  these  two  years.    I  am  still,  as  you  may 

suppose,  occupied  in  my  long  labour.    The  Iliad 

has  nearly  received  its  last  polish.    And  I  have 

advanced  in  a  rough  copy  as  far  as  to  the  ninth 

book  of  the  Odyssey.    My  friends  are  some  of 

them  in  haste  to  see  the  work  printed,  and  my 

answer  to  them  is — "  I  do  nothing  else,  and  this 

I  do  day  and  night — it  must  in  time  be  finished." 

My  thoughts,  however,  are  not  engaged  to 
Homer  only.    I  can  not  be  so  much  a  poet  as  not  my  dear  sir,  The  Lodge,  Jan.  24, 1 

to  feel  greatly  for  the  King,  the  aueen,  and  the  We  have  heard  from  my  cousin  in  Norfolk- 
country.  My  speculations  on  these  subjects  are  street;  she  reached  home  safely,  and  in  good  time, 
indeed  melancholy,  for  no  such  tragedy  has  be-  j  An  observation  suggests  itself,  which,  though  I 
fallen  in  my  day.  We  are  forbidden  to  trust  in '  have  but  little  time  for  observation  making,  1 
man;  I  will  not  therefore  say  I  trust  in  Mr  Pitt: ! must  allow  myself  time  to  mention.  Accidents, 
—but  in  his  counsels,  under  the  blessing  of  Provi- '  as  we  call  them,  generally  occur  when  there  seems 
dence,  the  remedy  is,  I  believe,  to  be  found,  if  a  least  reason  to  expect  them;  if  a  friend  of  ours  tra- 
remedy  there  be.  His  integrity,  firmness,  and  vels  far  in  different  roads,  and  at  an  unfavourable^ 
sagacity,  are  the  only  human  means  that  seem  season,  we  are  reasonably  alarmed  for  the  safety 
adequate  to  the  great  emergence.  |of  one  in  whom  we  take  so  much  interest;  yet 

You  say  nothing  of  your  own  health,  of  which  how  seldom  do  we  hear  a  tragical  account  of  such 
I  should  have  been  happy  to  have  heard  favoura-  a  journey!  It  is,  on  the  contrary,  at  home,  in  our 
bly.  May  you  long  enjoy  the  best.  Neither  Mrs.  yard  or  garden,  perhaps  in  our  parlour,  that  dis- 
Unwin  nor  myself  have  a  sincerer,  or  a  warmer  aster  finds  us;  in  any  place,  in  short,  where  we 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 


wish,  than  for  your  felicity. 

I  am,  my  dear  sir, 
Your  most  obliged  and  affectionate 


W.  C. 


seem  perfectly  out  of  the  reach  of  danger.  The 
lesson  inculcated  by  such  a  procedure  on  the  part 
of  Providence  towards  us  seems  to  be  that  of  per- 
petual dependence. 

2 


332 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  296, 297, 298. 


Having  preached  this  sermon,  I  must  hasten  to 
a  close ;  you  know  that  I  am  not  idle,  nor  can  I 
afford  to  be  so.  I  would  gladly  spend  more  time 
with  you,  but  by  some  means  or  other  this  day 
has  hitherto  proved  a  day  of  hindrance  and  con- 
fusion. W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,         Weston,  Jan.  29,  1789. 

I  SHALL  be  a  better,  at  least  a  more  frequent 
correspondent,  when  I  have  done  with  Homer.  I 
am  not  forgetful  of  any  letters  that  I  owe,  and 
least  of  all  forgetful  of  my  debts  in  that  way  to 
you;  on  the  contrary,  I  live  in  a  continual  state 
of  self-reproach  for  not  writing  more  punctually; 
but  the  old  Grecian,  whom  I  charge  myself  never 
to  neglect,  lest  1  should  never  finish  him,  has  at 
present  a  voice  that  seems  to  drown  all  other  de- 
mands, and  many  to  which  I  could  listen  with 
more  pleasure  than  even  to  his  Os  rotundum.  I 
am  now  in  the  eleventh  book  of  the  Odyssey,  con- 
versing with  the  dead.  Invoke  the  Muse  in  my 
behalf,  that  I  may  roll  the  stone  of  Sisyphus  with 
some  success.  To  do  it  as  Homer  has  done  it  is, 
I  suppose,  in  our  verse  and  language,  impossible; 
but  I  will  hope  not  to  labour  altogether  to  as  little 
purpose  as  Sisyphus  himself  did. 

Though  I  meddle  little  with  politics,  and  can 
find  but  little  leisure  to  do  so,  the  present  state  of 
things  unavoidably  engages  a  share  of  my  atten- 
tion. But  as  they  say,  Archimedes,  when  Syra- 
cuse was  taken,  was  found  busied  in  the  solution 
of  a  problem,  so  come  what  may,  I  shall  be  found 
translating  Homer. 

Sincerely  yours,  W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  The  Lodge,  May  20, 1789. 

Finding  myself,  between  twelve  and  one,  at  the 
end  of  the  seventeenth  book  of  the  Odyssey,  I  give 
the  interval  between  the  present  moment  and  the 
time  of  walking,  to  you.  i  If  I  write  letters  before 
I  sit  down  to  Homer,  I  feel  my  spirits  too  flat  for 
poetry;  and  too  flat  for  letter  writing  if  I  address 
myself  to  Homer  first;  but  the  last  I  choose  as  the 
least  evil,  because  my  friends  will  pardon  my  dul- 
ness,  but  the  public  will  not. 

I  had  been  some  days  uneasy  on  your  account, 
when  yours  arrived.  We  should  have  rejoiced  to 
have  seen  you,  would  your  engagements  have  per- 
mitted: but  in  the  autumn  I  hope,  if  not  before,  we 
shall  have  the  pleasure  to  receive  you.  At  what 
time  we  may  expect  Lady  Hesketh,  at  present  I 


know  not:  but  imagine  that  any  time  after  the 
month  of  June  you  will  be  sure  to  find  her  with 
us,  which  1  mention,  knowing  that  to  meet  you 
will  add  a  relish  to  all  the  pleasures  she  can  find 
at  Weston. 

When  I  wrote  those  lines  on  the  Clueen's  visit, 
I  thought  I  had  performed  well;  but  it  belongs  to 
me,  as  I  have  told  you  before,  to  dislike  whatever 
I  write  when  it  has  been  written  a  month.  The 
performance  was  therefore  sinking  in  my  esteem, 
when  your  approbation  of  it,  arriving  in  good  time, 
buoyed  it  up  aigain.  It  will  now  keep  possession 
of  the  place  it  holds  in  my  good  opinion,  because 
it  has  been  favoured  with  yours;  and  a  copy  will 
certainly  be  at  your  service  whenever  you  choose 
to  have  one. 

Nothing  is  more  certain  than  that  when  I  wrote 
the  line, 

God  made  the  country,  and  man  made  the  town, 

I  had  not  the  least  recollection  of  that  very  si- 
milar one,  which  you  quote  from  Hawkins  Brown. 
It  convinces  me  that  critics  (and  none  more  than 
Warton,  in  his  notes  on  Milton's  minor  poems), 
have  often  charged  authors  with  borrowing  what 
they  drew  from  their  own  fund.  Brown  was  an 
entertaining  companion  when  he  had  drunk  his 
bottle,  but  not  before;  this  proved  a  snare  to  him, 
and  he  would  sometimes  drink  too  much;  but  I 
know  not  that  he  was  chargeable  with  any  other 
irregularities.  He  had  those  among  his  intimates 
who  would  not  have  been  such  had  he  been  other- 
wise viciously  inclined;  the  Duncombes,  in  parti- 
cular, father  and  son,  who  were  of  unblemished 
morals,  W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,       (  The  Lodge,  June  5, 1789. 

I  AM  going  to  give  you  a  deal  of  trouble,  but 
London  folks  must  be  content  to  be  troubled  by 
country  folks ;  for  in  London  only  can  our  strange 
necessities  be  supplied.  You  must  buy  for  me, 
if  you  please,  a  cuckoo  clock;  and  now  I  will  tell 
you  where  they  are  sold,  which,  Londoner  as  you 
are,  it  is  possible  you  may  not  know.  They  are 
sold,  I  am  informed,  at  more  houses  than  one,  in 
that  narrow  part  of  Holborn  which  leads  into 
Broad  St.  Giles.  It  seems  they  are  well  going 
clocks,  and  cheap,  which  are  the  two  best  recom- 
mendations of  any  clock.  They  are  made  in  Ger- 
many, and  such  numbers  of  them  are  annually 
imported,  that  they  are  become  even  a  considerable 
article  of  commerce. 

I  return  you  many  thanks  for  Boswell's  Tour. 
I  read  it  to  Mrs.  Unwin  after  supper,  and  we  find 
it  amusing.    There  is  much  trash  in  it^  as  thexe 


Let.  299,  300,  301. 


LETTERS. 


333 


must  always  be  in  every  narrative  that  relates  in- 
discriminately all  that  passed.  But  nov^r  and  then 
the  Doctor  speaks  hke  an  oracle,  and  that  makes 
amends  for  all.  Sir  John  v?as  a  coxcomb,  and 
Boswell  is  not  less  a  coxcomb,  though  of  another 
kind.  I  fancy  Johnson  made  coxcombs  of  all  his 
friends,  and  they  in  return  made  him  a  coxcomb; 
for  with  reverence  be  it  spoken,  such  he  certainly 
was,  and.  flattered  as  he  was,  he  was  sure  to  be 
so. 

Thankd  for  your  invitation  to  London,  but  un- 
less London  can  come  to  me,  I  fear  we  shall  never 
meet.  I  was  sure  that  you  would  love  my  friend, 
when  you  should  once  be  well  acquainted  with 
him ;  and  equally  sure  that  he  would  take  kindly 
to  you. 

Now  for  Homer.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  WestoTi,  June  16, 1789. 

You  will  naturally  suppose  that  the  letter  in 
which  you  announced  your  marriage  occasioned 
me  some  concern,  though  in  my  answer  I  had  the 
wisdom  to  conceal  it.  The  account  you  gave  me 
of  the  object  of  your  choice  was  such  as  left  me 
at  liberty  to  form  conjectures  not  very  comfortable 
to  myself,  if  my  friendship  for  you  were  indeed 
sincere.  I  have  since  however  been  sufficiently 
consoled.  Your  brother  C  hester  has  informed  me , 
that  you  have  married  not  only  one  of  the  most 
agreeable,  but  one  of  the  most  accompUshed  wo- 
men in  the  kingdom.  It  is  an  old  maxim,  that  it 
is  better  to  exceed  expectation  than  to  disappoint 
it,  and  with  this  maxim  in  your  view  it  was,  no 
doubt,  that  you  dwelt  only  on  circumstances  of  dis- 
advantage, and  would  not  treat  me  with  a  recital 
of  others  which  abundantly  overweigh  them.  I  now 
congratulate  not  you  only,  but  myself,  and  truly 
rejoice  that  my  friend  has  chosen  for  his  fellow- 
traveller  through  the  remaining  stages  of  his  jour- 
ney, a  companion  who  will  do  honour  to  his  dis- 
cernment, and  make  his  way,  so  far  as  it  can  de- 
pend on  a  wife  to  do  so,  pleasant  to  the  last. 

My  verses  on  the  Clueen's  visit  to  London  either 
have  been  printed,  or  soon  will  be,  in  the  World. 
The  finishing  to  which  you  objected  I  have  alter- 
ed, and  have  substituted  two  new  stanzas  instead 
of  it.  Two  others  also  I  have  struck  out,  another 
critic  having  objected  to  them.  I  think  I  am  a 
very  tractable  sort  of  a  poet.  Most  of  my  frater- 
nity would  as  soon  shorten  the  noses  of  their  chil- 
dren because  they  were  said  to  be  too  long,  as  thus 
dock  their  ^compositions  in  compliance  with  the 
opinion  of  others.  I  beg  that  when  my  life  shall 
be  written  hereafter,  my  authorship's  ductability 
of  temper  may  not  be  forgotten ! 

I  am,  my  dear  friend,  ever  ypurs,  W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 
AMico  Mio,  The  Lodge,  June  20,  1789. 

I  AM  truly  sorry  that  it  must  be  so  long  before 
we  can  have  an  opportunity  to  meet.  My  cousin, 
in  her  last  letter  but  one,  inspired  me  with  other 
expectations,  expressing  a  purpose,  if  the  matter 
could  be  so  contrived,  of  bringing  you  with  her: 
I  was  willing  to  believe  that  you  had  consulted 
together  on  the  subject,  and  found  it  feasible.  A 
month  was  formerly  a  trifle  in  my  account,  but  at 
my  present  age  I  give  it  all  its  importance,  and 
grudge  that  so  many  months  should  yet  pass,  in 
which  I  have  not  even  a  glimpse  of  those  I  love, 
and  of  whom,  the  course  of  nature  considered,  I 
must  ere  long  take  leave  forever — but  I  shall  live 
till  August. 

Many  thanks  for  the  cuckoo,  which  arrived  per- 
fectly safe,  and  goes  well,  to  the  amusement  and 
amazement  of  all  who  hear  it.  Hannah  lies  awake 
to  hear  it,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  we  have  not 
others  in  the  house  that  admire  his  music  as  much 
as  she. 

Having  read  both  Hawkins  and  Boswell,  I  now 
think  myself  almost  as  much  a  master  of  John- 
son's character  as  if  I  had  known  him  personally, 
and  can  not  but  regret  that  our  bards  of  other  times 
found  no  such  biographers  as  these.  They  have 
both  been  ridiculed,  and  the  wits  have  had  their 
laugh ;  but  such  an  history  of  Milton  or  Shak- 
speare,  as  they  have  given  of  Johnson — O,  how 
desirable ! 


TO  MRS.  THROCKMORTON. 

July  18,  1789. 

Many  thanks,  my  dear  madam,  for  your  extract 
from  George's  letter.  I  retain  but  little  Italian, 
yet  that  httle  was  so  forcibly  mustered  by  the  con- 
sciousness that  I  was  myself  the  subject,  that  I 
presently  became  master  of  it.  I  have  always  said 
that  George  is  a  poet,  and  I  am  never  in  his  com- 
pany but  I  discover  proofs  of  it ;  and  the  delicate 
address  by  which  he  has  managed  his  complimen- 
tary mention  of  me,  convinces  me  of  it  still  more 
than  ever.  Here  are  a  thousand  poets  of  us,  who 
have  impudence  enough  to  write  for  the  public ; 
but  amongst  the  modest  men  who  are  by  diffidence 
restrained  from  such  an  enterprise  are  those  who 
would  eclipse  us  all.  I  wish  that  George  would 
make  the  experiment;  I  would  bind  on  his  laurels 
with  my  own  hand. 

Your  gardener  has  gone  after  his  wife,  but  hav- 
ing neglected  to  take  his  lyre,  alias  fiddle,  with 
him,  has  not  yet  brought  home  his  Eurydice.  Your 
clock  in  the  hall  has  stopped,  and  (strange  to  tell!) 
it  stopped  at  the  sight  of  the  watch-maker.  For 
he  only  looked  at  it,  and  it  has  been  motionleiM 


334 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  302,  303, 304. 


ever  since.  Mr.  Grcgson  is  gone,  and  the  Hall  is 
Q  desolation.  Pray  don't  think  any  place  pleasant 
mat  you  may  fmd  in  your  rambles,  that  we  may 
see  you  the  sooner.  Your  aviary  is  all  in  good 
health.  I  pass  it  every  day,  and  often  inquire  at 
the  lattice;  the  inhabitants  of  it  send  their  duty, 
and  wish  for  your  return.  I  took  notice  of  the 
inscription  on  your  seal,  and  had  we  an  artist 
here  capable  of  furnishing  me  with  another,  you 
should  read  on  mine,  "  Encore  une  lettre." 

Adieu,  W.  C, 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

The  Lodge,  July  23,  1789. 
You  do  well,  my  dear  sir,  to  improve  your  op- 
portunity; to  speak  in  the  rural  phrase,  this  is 
your  sowing  time,  and  the  sheaves  you  look  for  can 
never  be  yours  unless  you  make  that  use  of  it. 
The  colour  of  our  whole  life  is  generally  such  as 
the  three  or  four  first  years,  in  which  we  are  our 
own  masters,  make  it.  Then  it  is  that  we  may 
be  said  to  shape  our  own  destiny,  and  to  treasure 
up  for  ourselves  a  series  of  future  successes  or  dis- 
appointments. Had  I  employed  my  time  as  wise- 
ly as  you,  in  a  situation  very  similar  to  yours,  I 
had  never  been  a  poet  perhaps,  but  I  might  by 
this  time  have  acquired  a  character  of  more  im- 
portance in  society;  and  a  situation  in  which  my 
friends  would  have  been  better  pleased  to  see  me. 
But  three  years  misspent  in  an  attorney's  office 
were  almost  of  course  followed  by  several  more 
equally  misspent  in  the  Temple,  and  the  conse- 
quence has  been,  as  the  Italian  epitaph  says,  Sto 
S^it,"— The  only  use  I  can  make  of  myself  now, 
at  least  the  best,  is  to  serve  in  terrorem  to  others, 
when  occasion  may  happen  to  oflfer,  that  they  may 
escape  (so  far  as  my  admonitions  can  have  any 
weight  with  them)  my  folly  and  my  fate.  When 
you  feel  yourself  tempted  to  relax  a  little  of  the 
strictness  of  your  present  discipline,  and  to  indulge 
in  amusement  incompatible  with  your  future  in- 
terests, think  on  your  friend  at  Weston.  ^ 

Having  said  this,  I  shall  next  with  my  whdle 
heart  invite  you  hither,  and  assure  you  that  I  look 
forward  to  approaching  August  with  great  plea- 
sure, because  it  promises  me  your  company.  Af- 
ter a  little  time  (which  we  shall  wish  longer)  spent 
with  us,  you  will  return  invigorated  to  your  stu- 
dies, and  pursue  them  with  the  more  advantage. 
In  the  mean  time  you  have  lost  little,  in  point  of 
season,  by  being  confined  to  London,  Incessant 
rains,  and  meadows  under  water,  have  given  to  the 
summer  the  air  of  winter,  and  the  country  has 
been  deprived  of  half  its  beauties. 

It  IS  time  to  tell  you  that  we  are  well,  and  often 
make  you  our  subject.    This  is  the  third  meeting 


and  a  great  instance  of  good  fortune  I  account  it 
in  such  a  world  as  this,  to  have  expected  such  a 
pleasure  thrice  without  being  once  disappointed. 
Add  to  this  wonder  as  soon  as  you  can  by  making 
yourself  of  the  party.  "w.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 


MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Weston,  Aug.  8,  1789. 

Come  when  you  will,  or  when  you  can,  you  can 
not  come  at  a  wrong  time,  but  we  shall  expect 
you  on  the  day  mentioned. 

If  you  have  any  book,  that  you  think  will  make 
pleasant  evening  reading,  bring  it  with  you.  I 
now  read  Mrs.  Piozzi's  Travels  to  the  ladies  after 
supper,  and  shall  probably  have  finished  them  be- 
fore we  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you.  It 
is  the  fashion,  I  understand,  to  condemn  them. 
But  we  who  make  books  ourselves  are  more  mer- 
ciful to  book-makers.  I  would  that  every  fastidi- 
ous judge  of  authors  were  himself  obliged  to  write; 
there  goes  more  to  the  composition  of  a  volume 
than  many  critics  imagine.  1  have  often  wondered 
that  the  same  poet  who  wrote  the  Dunciad  should 
have  written  these  lines, 

The  mercy  I  to  others  show, 
That  mercy  show  to  me. 
Alas!  for  Pope,  if  the  mercy  he  showed  to  others 
was  the  measure  of  the  mercy  he  received !  he  was 
the  less  pardonable  too,  because  experienced  in  all 
the  difficulties  of  composition. 

I  scratch  this  between  dinner  and  tea ;  a  time 
when  I  can  not  write  much  without  disordering 
my  noddle,  and  bringing  a  flush  into  my  face. 
You  will  excuse  me  therefore  if,  through  respect 
for  the  two  important  considerations  of  health  and 
beauty,  I  conclude  myself, 

Ever  yours,  W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 


that  my  cousin  and  we  have  had  in  this  country;  'in  themselves. 


MY  DEAR  FRIEND,        Wesion,  Sept.  24,  1789. 

You  left  us  exactly  at  the  wrong  time.  Had 
you  staid  till  now,  you  would  have  had  the  plea- 
sure of  hearing  even  my  cousin  say — "  I  am  cold." 
— And  the  still  greater  pleasure  of  being  warm 
yourself;  for  I  have  had  a  fire  in  the  study  ever 
since  you  went.  It  is  the  fault  of  our  summers, 
that  they  are  hardly  ever  warm  or  cold  enough. 
Were  they  warmer,  we  should  not  want  a  fire; 
and  were  they  colder,  we  should  have  one. 

I  have  twice  seen  and  conversed  with  Mr.  J  , 

He  is  witty,  intelligent,  and  agreeable  beyond  the 
common  measure  of  men  who  are  so.  But  it  ig 
the  constant  eflfect  of  a  spirit  of  party  to  make 
those  hateful  to  each  other,  who  are  truly  amiable 


Let.  305,  306, 307. 


LETTERS. 


335 


Bean  sends  his  love ;  he  was  melancholy  the  the  rebellion  of  the  first  pair,  and  as  happy  as  it  is 


whole  day  after  your  departure. 


W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Weston,  Oct.  4,  1789. 

The  hamper  is  come,  and  come  safe :  and  the 
contents  1  can  affirm  on  my  own  knowledge  are 
excellent.  It  chanced  that  another  hamper  and  a 
box  came  by  the  same  conveyance,  all  which  I  un- 
packed and  expounded  in  the  hall;  my  cousin 
sitting,  mean  time,  on  the  stairs,  spectatress  of  the 
business.  We  diverted  ourselves  with  imagining 
the  manner  in  which  Homer  would  have  described 
the  scene.  Detailed  in  his  circumstantial  way,  it 
would  have  furnished  materials  for  a  paragraph 
of  considerable  length  in  an  Odyssey. 


The  straw-stuff' d  hamper  with  his  i 
He  open'd,  cutting  sheer  th'  inserted  cords, 
Which  bound  the  lid  and  lip  secure.    Forth  came 
The  rustling  package  first,  bright  straw  of  wheat, 
Or  oats,  or  barley ;  next  a  bottle  green 
Throat-full,  clear  spirits  the  contents,  distili'd 
Drop  after  drop  odorous,  by  the  art 
Of  the  fair  mother  of  his  friend — the  Rose. 

And  so  on 

I  should  rejoice  to  be  the  hero  of  such  a  tale  in  the 
hands  of  Homer. 

You  will  remember,  I  trust,  that  when  the  state 
of  your  health  or  spirits  calls  for  rural  walks  and 
fresh  air,  you  have  always  a  retreat  at  Weston. 

We  are  all  well,  all  love  you,  down  to  the  very 
dog ;  and  shall  be  glad  to  hear  that  you  have  ex- 
changed langour  for  alacrity,  and  the  debility  that 
you  mentioned  for  indefatigable  vigour. 

Mr.  Throckmorton  has  made  me  a  handsome 
present ;  Villoison's  edition  of  the  Iliad,  elegantly 
bound  by  Edwards.  If  I  live  long  enough,  by 
the  contributions  of  my  friends  I  shall  once  more 
be  possessed  of  a  library.  Adieu,  W.  C. 


possible  they  should  be  in  the  present  life. 

Most  sincerely  yours,  W.  C. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,         Weston,  Dec.  18,  1789. 

The  present  appears  to  me  a  wonderful  period 
in  the  history  of  mankind.  That  nations  so  long 
contentedly  slaves  should  on  a  sudden  become  ena- 
moured of  liberty,  and  understand,  as  suddenly, 
their  own  natural  right  to  it,  feeling  themselves  at 
the  same  time  inspired  with  resolution  to  assert  it, 
seems  difficult  to  account  for  from  natural  causes. 
With  respect  to  the  final  issue  of  all  this,  I  can 
only  say,  that  if,  having  discovered  the  value  of 
liberty,  they  should  next  discover  the  value  of 


peace,  and  lastly  the  value  of  the  word  of  God, 

they  will  be  happier  than  they  ever  were  since '  per,  my  valuable  cousin  and  much  my  benefactor, 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

MY  DEAR  WALTER, 

I  KNOW  that  you  are  too  reasonable  a  man  to 
expect  any  thing  like  punctuality  of  correspond- 
ence from  a  translator  of  Homar,  e.'^pecially  from  one 
who  is  a  doer  also  of  many  other  things  at  the  same 
time ;  for  I  labour  hard  not  only  to  acquire  a  little 
fame  for  myself,  but  to  win  it  also  for  others,  men 
of  whom  I  know  nothing,  not  even  their  names, 
who  send  me  their  poetry,  that  by  translating  it 
out  of  prose  into  verse,  I  may  make  it  more  like 
poetry  than  it  was.  Having  heard  all  this,  you 
will  feel  yourself  not  only  inclined  to  pardon  my 
long  silence,  but  to  pity  me  also  for  the  cause  of  it. 
You  may  if  you  please  believe  likewise,  for  it  is 
true,  that  I  have  a  faculty  of  remembering  my 
friends  even  when  I  do  not  write  to  them,  and  of 
loving  them  not  one  jot  the  less,  though  I  leave 
them  to  starve  for  want  of  a  letter  from  me. 
And  now  I  think  you  have  an  apology  both  as  to 
style,  matter,  and  manner,  altogether  unexcep- 
tionable. 

Why  is  the  winter  hke  a  backbiter  ?  Because 
Solomon  says  that  a  backbiter  separates  between 
chief  friends,  and  so  does  the  winter ;  to  this  dirty 
season  it  is  owing,  that  I  see  nothing  of  the  valua- 
ble Chesters,  whom  indeed  I  see  less  at  all  times 
than  serves  at  all  to  content  me.  I  hear  of  them 
indeed  occasionally  from  my  neighbours  at  the 
Hall,  but  even  of  that  comfort  I  have  lately  en- 
joyed less  than  usual,  Mr.  Throckmorton  having 
been  hindered  by  his  first  fit  of  the  gout  from  his 
usual  visits  to  Chichely.  The  gout  however 
has  not  prevented  his  making  me  a  handsome 
present  of  a  folio  edition  of  the  Iliad,  published 
about  a  year  since  at  Venice,  by  a  literate,  who 
calls  himself  Villoison.  It  is  possible  that  you 
have  seen  it,  and  that  if  you  have  it  not  yourself, 
it  has  at  least  found  its  way  into  Lord  Bagot's 
library.  If  neither  should  be  the  case,  when  I 
write  next  (for  sooner  or  later  I  shall  certainly 
write  to  you  again  if  I  live)  I  will  send  you  some 
pretty  stories  out  of  his  Prolegomena,  which  will 
make  your  hair  stand  on  end,  as  mine  has  stood 
on  end  already,  they  so  horribly  aflfect,  in  point  of 
authenticity,  the  credit  of  the  works  of  the  im- 
mortal Homer. 

Wishing  you  and  Mrs.  Bagot  all  the  happiness 
that  a  new  year  can  possibly  bring  with  it,  I  ro^ 
main  with  Mrs.  Unwin's  best  respects,  yours,  my 
dear  friend,  with  all  sincerity,  W.  C. 

My  paper  mourns  for  the  death  of  Lord  Cow- 


336 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  308, 309. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

I  AM  a  terrible  creature  for  not  writing  soon- 
er, but  the  old  excuse  must  serve,  at  least  I  will 
not  occupy  paper  with  the  addition  of  others  un- 
less you  should  insist  on  it,  in  which  case  I  can 
assure  you  that  I  have  them  ready.  Now  to  bu- 
siness. 

From  Villoison  I  learn  that  it  was  the  avowed 
opinion  and  persuasion  of  Gallimachus  (whose 
hymns  we  both  studied  at  Westminster)  that  Ho- 
mer was  very  imperfectly  understood  even  in  his 
day :  that -his  admirers,  deceived  by  the  perspicuity 
of  his  style,  fancied  themselves  masters  of  his 
meaning,  when  in  truth  they  knew  little  about  it. 

Now  we  know  that  Gallimachus,  as  I  have  hint- 
ed, was  himself  a  poet,  and  a  good  one ;  he  was 
also  esteemed  a  good  critic ;  he  almost,  if  not  ac- 
tually, adored  Homer,  and  imitated  him  as  nearly 
as  he  could. 

What  shall  we  say  to  this  1  I  will  tell  you  what 
I  say  to  it.  Gallimachus  meant,  and  he  could 
mean  nothing  more  by  this  assertion,  than  that 
the  poems  of  Homer  were  in  fact  an  allegory ; 
that  under  tlje  obvious  import  of  his  stories  lay 
concealed  a  mystic  sense,  sometimes  philosophical, 
sometimes  religious,  sometimes  moral,  and  that 
the  generality  either  wanted  penetration  or  indus- 
try, or  had  not  been  properly  qualified  by  their 
studies,  to  discover  it.  This  I  can  readily  believe, 
for  I  am  myself  an  ignoramus  in  these  points,  and 
except  here  and  there,  discern  nothing  more  than 
the  letter.  But  if  Gallimachus  will  tell  me  that 
even  of  that  I  am  ignorant,  I  hope  soon  by  two 
great  volumes  to  convince  him  of  the  contrary. 

I  learn  also  from  the  same  Villoison,  that  Pisis- 
tratus,  who  was  a  sort  of  Mecaenas  in  Athens, 
where  he  gave  great  encouragement  to  literature, 
and  built  and  furnished  a  public  library,  regretting 
that  there  was  no  complete  copy  of  Homer's  works 
in  the  world,  resolved  to  make  one.  For  this  pur- 
pose he  advertised  rewards  in  all  the  newspapers 
to  those,  who,  being  possessed  memoriter  of  any 
part  or  parcels  of  the  poems  of  that  bard,  would 
resort  to  his  house,  and  repeat  them  to  his  secre- 
taries, that  they  might  write  them.  Now  it  hap- 
pened that  more  were  desirous  of  the  reward,  than 
qualified  to  deserve  it.  The  consequence  was  that 
the  nonqualified  persons  having,  many  of  them, 
a  pretty  knack  at  versification,  imposed  on  the 
generous  Athenian  most  egregiously,  giving  him, 
instead  of  Homer's  verses,  which  they  had  not  to 
give,  verses  of  their  own  invention.  Pie,  good 
creature,  suspecting  no  such  fraud,  took  them  all 
for  gospel,  and  entered  them  into  his  volume  ac- 
cordingly. 

Now  let  him  believe  the  story  who  can.  That 
Homer's  works  were  in  this  manner  corrected  I 


can  believe;  but  that  a  learned  Athenian  could 
be  so  imposed  upon,  with  sufficient  means  of  de- 
tection at  hand,  I  can  not.  Would  he  not  be  on 
his  guard  1  Would  not  a  difference  of  style  and 
manner  have  occurred  1  Would  not  that  differ- 
ence have  excited  a  suspicion  1  Would  not  that 
suspicion  have  led  to  inquiry,  and  would  not  that 
inquiry  have  issued  in  detection '?  For  how  easy  was 
it  in  the  multitude  of  Homer-conners  to  find  two, 
ten,  twenty,  possessed  of  the  questionable  pas- 
sage, and  by  confronting  them  with  the  impudent 
impostor,  to  convict  him'?  Abeas  ergo  in  malam 
rem  cum  istis  tuis  hallucinationibus,  Villoisone  I 
Faithfully  yours,  W.  C. 

TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 
MY  DEAR  SIR,  The  Lodge,  Jan.  3,  1790. 

I  HAVE  been  long  silent,  but  you  have  had  the 
charity,  I  hope  and  believe,  not  to  ascribe  my  si- 
lence to  a  wrong  cause.  The  truth  is,  I  have  been 
too  busy  to  write  to  any  body,  having  been  obliged 
to  give  my  mornings  to  the  revisal  and  correction 
of  ^  little  volume  of  Hymns  for  children  written 
by  I  know  not  whom.  This  task  I  finished  but 
yesterday,  and  while  it  was  in  hand  wrote  only 
to  my  cousin,  and  to  her  rarely.  From  her  how- 
ever I  knew  that  you  would  hear  of  my  well  be- 
ing, which  made  me  less  anxious  about  my  debts 
to  you,  than  I  could  have  been  otherwise. 

I  am  almost  the  only  person  at  Weston,  known 
to  you,  who  have  enjoyed  tolerable  health  this  win- 
ter. In  your  next  letter  give  us  some  account  of 
your  own  state  of  health,  for  I  have  had  many 
anxieties  about  you.  The  winter  has  been  mild ; 
but  our  winters  are  in  general  such  that  when  a 
friend  leaves  us  in  the  beginning  of  that  season,  I 
always  feel  in  my  heart  a  perhaps  importing  that 
probably  we  have  met  for  the  last  time,  and  that 
the  robins  may  whistle  on  the  grave  of  one  of  us 
before  the  return  of  summer. 

I  am  still  thrumming  Homer's  lyre ;  that  is  to 
say,  I  am  still  employed  in  my  last  revisal ;  and 
to  give  you  some  idea  of  the  intenseness  of  my 
toils,  I  will  inform  you  that  it  cost  me  all  the  morn- 
ing yesterday,  and  all  the  evening,  to  translate  a 
single  simile  to  my  mind.  The  transitions  from 
one  member  of  the  subject  to  another,  though  easy 
and  natural  in  the  Greek,  turn  out  often  so  intol- 
erably awkward  in  an  English  version,  that  almost 
endless  labour,  and  no  little  address,  are  requisite 
to  give  them  grace  and  elegance.  I  forget  if  I  told 
you  that  your  German  Glavis  has  been  of  consid- 
erable use  to  me.  I  am  indebted  to  it  for  a  right 
understanding  of  the  manner  in  which  Achilles 
prepared  pork,  mutton,  and  goat's  flesh  for  tlie 
entertainment  of  his  friends,  in  the  night  when 
they  came  deputed  by  Agamemnon  to  negotiate  a 
reconciliation.    A  passage  of  wiiich  nobody  in 


L'ET.  310, 311, 312. 


LETTERS. 


337 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

The  Lodge,  Feb.  2,  1790. 


the  world  is  perfectly  master,  myself  only  and 
Schaulfelbergerus  excepted,  nor  ever  was,  ex- 
cept when  Greek  was  a  live  language. 

I  do  not  know  whether  my  cousin  has  told  you  my  dear  friend, 
or  not  how  1  brag  in  my  letters  to  her  concerning  Should  Heyne's  Homer  afp^ar  before  mine 
my  translation;  perhaps  her  modesty  feels  more  which  I  hope  is  not  probable,  and  should  he  adop^ 
for  me  than  mme  for  myself,  and  she  would  blush,  in  it  the  opinion  of  Bentley,  that  the  whole  lasf 
to  let  even  you  know  the  degree  of  my  self-conceit,  Odyssey  is  spurious,  I  will  dare  to  contradict  both 
on  that  subject.  I  will  tell  you,  however,  express-  j  him  and  the  Doctor.  I  am  only  in  part  of  Bent- 
ing  myself  as  decently  as  vanity  will  permit,  that  ley's  mind  (if  indeed  his  mind  were  such)  in  this 
It  has  undergone  such  a  change  for  the  better  in  |  matter,  and  giant  as  he  was  m  learning,  and  eagle- 
this  last  revisal,  that  I  have  much  warmer  hopes  eyed  in  criticism,  am  persuaded,  convinced  and 


of  success  than  formerly. 


Yours,  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

MY  DEAR  coz,         The  Lodge,  Jan.  23,  1790. 
I  HAD  a  letter  yesterday  from  the  wild  boy  John- 


sure  (can  I  be  more  positive?)  that  except  from 
the  moment  when  the  Ithacans  begin  to  meditate 
an  attack  on  the  cottage  of  Laertes,  and  thence 
to  the  end,  that  book  is  the  work  of  Homer.  From 
the  moment  aforesaid,  I  yield  the  point,  or  rather 
have  never,  since  I  had  any  skill  in  Homer,  felt 
myself  at  all  inclined  to  dispute  it.    But  I  beheve 


.  j^^,  ,j         ^^^^  ji.uiii-|iiijj>cu  Ai  till  luciinea  lo  aispute  it.    But  1  beheve 

son,  for  whom  I  have  conceived  a  great  affection,  i  perfectly  at  the  same  time  that.  Homer  himself 
It  was  just  such  a  letter  as  I  like,  of  the  true  belter-  alone  excepted,  the  Greek  poet  never  existed  who 
skelter  kind;  and  though  he  writes  a  remarkably  could  have  written  the  speeches  made  by  the  shade 
good  hand,  scribbled  with  such  rapidity,  that  it  was  of  Agamemnon,  in  which  there  is  more  insight 
barely  legible.  He  gave  me  a  droll  account  of  the  into  the  human  heart  discovered  than  I  ever  saw- 
adventures  of  Lord  Howard's  note,  and  of  his  own  in  any  other  work,  unless  in  Shakspeare's.  I  am 
m  pursuit  of  it.  The  poem  he  brought  me  came  equally  disposed  to  fight  for  the  whole  passage  that 
as  from  Lord  Howard,  with  his  lordship's  request  describes  Laertes,  and  the  interview  between  him 
that  I  would  revise  it.  It  is  in  the  form  of  a  pas-  and  Ulysses.  Let  Bentley  grant  these  to  Homer 
toral,  and  is  entitled  "  The  Tale  of  the  Lute;  or  and  I  will  shake  hands  with  him  as  to  all  the  rest'. 
the  Beauties  of  Audley  End.''  I  read  it  atten- 1  The  battle  with  which  the  book  concludes  is,  I 
lively;  was  much  pleased  with  part  of  it,  and  part  think,  a  paltry  battle,  and  there  is  a  huddle  in  the 
of  It  I  equally  disliked.  I  told  him  so,  and  in  such  management  of  it  altogether  unworthy  of  my  fa- 
terms  as  one  naturally  uses  when  there  seems  to  vourite,  and  the  favourite  of  all  ages, 
be  no  occasion  to  qualify  or  to  alleviate  censure.  1 1  If  you  should  happen  to  fall  into  company  with 
observed  him  afterwards  somewhat  more  thought-  |Dr.  Warton  again,  you  will  not,  I  dare  say,  forget 
fulandsilent,  but  occasionally  as  pleasant  as  usual;  to  make  him  my  respectful  compliments,  and  to 
and  in  Kilwick  wood,  where  we  walked  next  day,  'assure  him  that  I  felt  myself  not  a  little  flattered 
the  truth  came  out;  that  he  was  himself  the  au-jbythe  favourable  mention  he  was  pleased  to  make 
thor;  and  that  Lord  Howard  not  approving  it  al-  jof  me  and  my  labours.  The  poet  who  pleases  a 
together,  and  several  friends  of  his  own  age,  to  man  like  him  has  nothing  to  wish  for.  I  am  glad 
whom  he  had  shown  it,  differing  from  his  lordship  that  you  were  pleased  with  my  young  cousin  John- 
in  opinion,  and  being  highly  pleased  with  it,  he  son;  he  is  a  boy,  and  bashful,  but  has  great  merit 
had  come  at  last  to  a  resolution  to  abide  by  my  ;in  respect  both  of  character  and  intellect.  So  far 
judgment;  a  measure  to  which  Lord  Howard  by  I  at  least  as  in  a  week's  knowledge  of  him  I  could 
all  means  advised  him.  He  accordingly  brought  | possibly  learn;  he  is  very  amiable,  and  very  sensi- 
it,  and  will  bring  it  again  in  the  summer,  when  we  ble,  and  inspired  me  with  a  warm  wish  to  know 


shall  lay  our  heads  together  and  try  to  mend  it. 

1  have  lately  had  a  letter  also  from  Mrs.  Kino- 
to  whom  I  had  written  to  inquire  whether  she  were 
living  or  dead.  She  tells  me  the  critics  expect 
from  my  Homer  every  thing  in  some  parts,  and 
that  in  others  I  shall  fall  short.  These  are  the 
Cambridge  critics;  and  she  has  her  intelligence 
from  the  botanical  professor,  Martyn.  Tl^j^t  gen- 
tleman in  reply  answers  them,  that  I  shall  fall 
short  in  nothing,  but  shall  disappoint  them  all.  It 
shall  be  my  endeavour  to  do  so,  and  I  am  not 
without  lu  pe  of  succeeding,  "W.  C, 


him  better. 


W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  Feb.  9,  1790. 
I  HAVE  sent  you  lately  scraps  instead  of  letters, 
having  had  occasion  to  answer  immediately  on  the 
receipt,  which  always  happens  wliile  I  am  deep 
in  Homer. 

I  knew  when  I  recommended  Johnson  to  you 
that  you  would  find  some  way  to  serve  him,  and 


338 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  313,  314,  315. 


80  it  has  happened,  for  notwithstanding  your  own 
apprehensions  to  the  contrary,  you  have  already 
j)rocured  him  a  chaplainship.  This  is  pretty  well, 
considering  that  it  is  an  early  day,  and  that  you 
have  but  just  begun  to  know  that  there  is  such  a 
man  under  Heaven.  I  had  rather  myself  be  pa- 
tronised by  a  person  of  small  interest,  with  a  heart 
like  yours,  than  by  the  Chancellor  himself,  if  he 
did  not  care  a  farthing  for  me. 

If  I  did  not  desire  you  to  make  my  acknowledg- 
ments to  Anonymous,  as  I  believe  I  did  not,  it  was 
because  1  am  not  aware  that  1  am  warranted  to  do 
so.  But  the  omission  is  of  less  consequence,  be- 
cause whoever  he  is,  though  he  has  no  objection 
to  doing  the  kindest  things,  he  seems  to  have  an 
aversion  to  the  thanks  they  merit. 

You  must  know  that  two,  odes  composed  by 
Horace  have  lately  been  discovered  at  Rome;  I 
wanted  them  transcribed  into  the  blank  leaves  of  a 
little  Horace  of  mine,  and  Mrs.  Throckmorton 
performed  that  service  for  me ;  in  a  blank  leaf  there- 
fore of  the  same  book  I  wrote  the  following.* 

W.  C. 


[TO  MR.  JOHNSON.] 

DEAR  SIR,  Weston,  Feb.  11,  1790. 

I  AM  very  sensibly  obliged  by  the  remarks  of 
Mr.  Fuseli,  and  beg  that  you  will  tell  him  so: 
they  afford  me  opportunities  of  improvement,  which 
I  shall  not  neglect.  When  he  shall  see  the  press- 
copy,  he  will  be  convinced  of  this;  and  will  be 
convinced  likewise  that  smart  as  he  sometimes  is 
he  spares  me  often  when  I  have  no  mercy  on  my- 
self He  will  see  almost  a  new  translation.  *  *  " 
I  assure  you  faithfully,  that  whatever  my  faults 
may  be,  to  be  easily  or  hastily  satisfied  with  what 
I  have  written  is  not  one  of  them. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

rhe  Lodge,  Feb.  26,  1790. 
You  have  set  my  heart  at  ease,  my  cousin,  so 
far  as  you  were  yourself  the  object  of  its  anxieties. 
What  other  troubles  it  feels  can  be  cured  by  God 
alone.  But  you  are  never  silent  a  week  longer 
than  usual,  without  giving  an  opportunity  to  my 
imagination  (ever  fruitful  in  flowers  of  a  sable 
hue)  to  tease  me  with  them  day  and  night.  Lon- 
don is  indeed  a  pestilent  place,  as  you  call  it,  and  I 
would,  with  all  my  heart,  that  thou  hadst  less  to 


I  feel  myself  well  enough  inclined  to  l;he  mea- 
sure you  propose,  and  will  show  to  your  new  ac- 
quaintance with  all  my  heart  a  sample  of  my 
translation,  but  it  shall  not,  if  you  please,  be  taken 
from  the  Odyssey.  It  is  a  poem  of  a  gentler  cha- 
racter than  the  Iliad,  and  as  I  propose  to  carry  her 
by  a  coup  de  main,  I  shall  employ  Acliilles.  Aga- 
memnon, and  the  two  armies  of  Greece  and  Troy 
in  my  service.  I  will  accordingly  send  you  in  the 
box  that  I  received  from  you  last  night,  the  two 
first  books  of  the  Iliad,  for  that  lady's  perusal ;  to 
those  1  have  given  a  third  revisal ;  for  them  there- 
fore I  will  be  answerable,  and  am  not  afraid  to 
stake  the  credit  of  my  work  upon  them  with  her, 
or  with  any  living  wight,  especially  one  who  un- 
derstands the  original.  I  do  not  mean  that  even 
they  are  finished,  for  I  shall  examine  and  cross- 
examine  them  yet  again,  and  so  you  may  tell  her, 
but  I  know  that  they  will  not  disgrace  me;  whereas 
it  is  so  long  since  I  have  looked  at  the  Odyssey 
that  I  know  nothing  at  all  about  it.  They  shall 
set  sail  from  Olney  on  Monday  morning  in  the 
Diligence,  and  will  reach  you  I  hope  in  the  eve- 
ning. As  soon  as  she  has  done  with  them,  I  shall 
be  glad  to  have  them  again,  for  the  time  draws  near 
when  I  shall  want  to  give  them  the  last  touch. 

I  am  delighted  with  Mrs.  Rodham's  kindness, 
in  giving  me  the  only  picture  of  my  own  mother 
that  is  to  be  found  I  suppose  in  all  the  world.  I 
had  rather  possess  it  than  the  richest  jewel  in  the 
British  crown,  for  I  loved  her  with  an  affection 
that  her  death,  fifty-two  years  since,  has  not  in 
the  least  abated.  I  remember  her  too,  young  as 
I  was  when  she  died,  well  enough  to  know  that  it 
is  a  very  exact  resemblance  of  her,  and  as  such  it 
is  to  me  invaluable.  Every  body  loved  her,  and 
with  an  amiable  character  so  impressed  upon  all 
her  features,  every  body  was  sure  to  do  so. 

I  have  a  very  aflfectionate  and  a  very  clever  let- 
ter from  Johnson,  who  promises  me  the  transcript 
of  the  books  entrusted  to  him  in  a  few  days.  I 
have  a  great  love  for  that  young  man;  he  has 
some  drops  of  the  same  stream  in  his  veins  that 
once  animated  the  original  of  that  dear  picture. 

W.  C. 


TO  MRS.  BODHAM. 

MY  DEAREST  ROSE,         Wcston,  Feb.  27,  1790. 

Whom  1  thought  withered,  and  fallen  from  the 
stalk,  but  whom  1  find  still  alive:  nothing  could 
give  me  greater  pleasure  than  to  know  it,  and  to 


do  with  it;  were  you  under  the  same  roof  with  |  learn  it  from  yourself.  ^  I  loved  you  dearly  when 
me,  I  should  know  you  to  be  safe,  and  should 
never  distress  you  with  melancholy  letters. 


•  The  verses  to  Mra  Throckmorton  on  her  beautiful  trans- 
«ri4;i  i)f  Horace's  (Ide  concluded  this  Letter. 


you  were  a  child,  and  love  you  not  a  jot  the  less 
for  having  ceased  to  be  so.  Every  creature  that 
bears  any  affinity  to  my  own  mother  is  dear  to  me, 
and  you,  the  daughter  of  her  brotlier,  are  but  one 
remove  distant  from  her;  I  love  you  therefore,  and 


Let.  316. 


LETTERS. 


339 


love  you  much,  both  for  her  sake,  and  for  your 
own.  The  world  could  not  have  furnished  you 
with  a  present  so  acceptable  to  me,  as  the  picture 
which  you  have  so  kindly  sent  me.  I  received  it 
the  night  before  last,  and  viewed  it  with  a  tre- 
pidation of.  nerves  and  spirits  somewhat  akin  to 
what  I  should  have  felt,  had  the  dear  original 
presented  herself  to  my  embraces.  I  kissed  it, 
and  hung  it  where  it  is  the  last  object  that  I  see 
at  night,  and  of  course  the  first  on  which  1  open 
my  eyes  in  the  morning.  She  died  when  I  had 
completed  my  sixth  year,  yet  I  remember  her 
well,  and  am  an  ocular  witness  of  the  great  fide- 
lity of  the  copy.  I  remember  too  a  multitude  of 
the  maternal  tendernesses  which  I  received  from 
her,  and  which  have  endeared  her  memory  to  me 
beyond  expression.  There  is  in  me,  I  believe, 
more  of  the  Donne  than  of  the  Cowper;  and 
though  I  love  all  of  both  names,  and  have  a  thou- 
sand reasons  to  love  those  of  my  own  name,  yet  I 
feel  the  bond  of  nature  draw  me  vehemently  to 
your  side.  I  was  thought  in  the  days  of  my  child- 
hood much  to  resemble  my  mother,  and  in  my  na- 
tural temper,  of  which  at  the  age  of  fifty-eight  I 
must  be  supposed  a  competent  judge,  can  trace 
both  her,  and  my  late  uncle,  your  father.  Some- 
what of  his  irritability,  and  a  little  I  would  hope 

both  of  his  and  of  her  ,  I  know  not  what  to 

call  it,  without  seeming  to  praise  myself,  which  is 
not  my  intention,  but  speaking  to  you,  I  will  even 
speak  out,  and  say  good  nature.  Add  to  all  this, 
1  deal  much  in  poetry,  as  did  our  venerable  an- 
cestor, the  Dean  of  St.  Paul's,, and  I  think  I  shall 
have  proved  myself  a  Donne  at  all  points.  The 
truth  is,  that  whatever  I  am,  I  love  you  all. 

I  account  it  a  happy  event,  that  brought  the 
dear  boy,  your  nephew,  to  my  knowledge,  and 
that  breaking  through  all  the  restraints  which  his 
natural  bashfulness  imposed  on  him,  he  deter- 
mined to  find  me  out.  He  is  amiable  to  a  degree 
that  I  have  seldom  seen,  and  I  often  long  with  im- 
patience to  see  him  again. 

My  dearest  cousin,  what  shall  I  say  in  answer 
to  your  affectionate  invitation  %  I  must  say  this, 
I  can  not  come  now,  nor  soon,  and  I  wish  with  all 
my  heart  I  could.  But  I  will  tell  you  what  may 
be  done  perhaps,  and  it  will  answer  to  us  just  as 
well:  you  and  Mr.  Bod  ham  can  come  to  Weston, 
can  you  not  1  The  summer  is  at  hand,  there  are 
roads  and  wheels  to  bring  you,  and  you  are  nei- 
ther of  you  translating  Homer.  I  am  crazed  that 
I  can  not  ask  you  all  together  for  want  of  house- 
room 


stead,  and  has  a  share  in  my  warmest  affections. 
Pray  tell  her  so !  Neither  do  I  at  all  forget  my 
cousin  Harriet.  She  and  I  have  been  many  a 
time  merry  at  Catfield,  and  have  made  the  par- 
sonage ring  with  laughter.  Give  my  love  to  her. 
Assure  yourself,  my  dearest  cousin,  that  1  shall 
receive  you  as  if  you  were  my  sister;  and  Mrs. 
Unwin  is,  for  my  sake,  prepared  to  do  the  same. 
When  she  has  seen  you,  she  will  love  you  for 
your  own. 

I  am  much  obliged  to  Mr.  Bodham  for  his 
kindness  to  my  Homer,  and  with  my  love  to  you 
all,  and  with  Mrs.  Unwin's  kind  respects,  am, 
My  dear,  dear  Rose,  ever  yours,  W.  C, 

P.  S. — I  mourn  the  death  of  your  poor  brother 
Castres,  whom  I  should  have  seen  had  he  lived^ 
and  should  have  seen  with  the  greatest  pleasure. 
He  was  an  amiable  boy,  and  I  was  very  fond  of 
him. 

Still  another  P.  S. — I  find  on  consulting  Mrs, 
Unwin,  that  I  have  underrated  our  capabilities; 
and  that  we  have  not  only  room  for  you  and  Mr, 
Bodham,  but  for  two  of  your  sex,  and  even  for 
your  nephew  into  the  bargain.  We  shall  be  happj 
to  have  it  all  so  occupied. 

Your  nephew  tells  me  that  his  sister,  in  the 
qualities  of  the  mind,  resembles  you:  that  is 
enough  to  make  her  dear  to  me,  and  I  beg  you 
will  assure  her  that  she  is  so.  Let  it  not  be  long 
before  I  hear  from  you. 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

Weston,  Feb.  28,  1790. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN  JOHN, 

I  HAVE  much  wished  to  hear  from  you,  and 
though  you  are  welcome  to  write  to  Mrs.  Unwia 
as  often  as  you  please,  I  wish  myself  to  be  num- 
bered among  your  correspondents. 

I  shall  find  time  to  answer  you,  doubt  it  not! 
Be  as  busy  as  we  may,  we  can  always  find  time 
to  do  what  is  agreeable  to  us.  By  the  way,  had 
you  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Unwin  1  I  am  witness 
that  she  addressed  one  to  you  before  you  went 
into  Norfolk;  but  your  mathematico- poetical  head 
forgot  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  it. 

1  was  never  more  pleased  in  my  life  than  to 
learn,  and  to  learn  from  herself,  that  my  dearest 


Rose*  is  still  alive.  Had  she  not  engaged  me  to 
but  for  Mr.  Bodham  and  yourself,  we  have  love  her  by  the  sweetness  of  her  character  when  a 
good  room,  and  equally  good  for  any  third,  in  the  child,  she  would  have  done  it  efiectually  now,  bj 
shape  of  a  Donne,  whether  named  Hewitt,  Bod-  making  me  the  most  acceptable  present  in  the 
ham.  Balls,  or  Johnson,  or  by  whatever  name  dis-  world,  my  own  dear  mother's  picture.    I  am  per- 

tinguished.    Mrs.  Hewitt  has  particular  claims  ;  ^ 

upon  me;  she  was  my  playfellow  at  Berkham- |  .  Mrs.  Anne  Bodham. 

2  E 


340 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  317,  318. 


haps  the  only  person  living  who  remembers  her, 
but  I  remember  her  well,  and  can  attest  on  my 
own  knowledge,  the  truth  of  the  resemblance. 
Amiable  and  elegant  as  the  countenance  is,  such 
exactly  was  her  own ;  she  was  one  of  the  tender- 
est  parents,  and^  so  just  a  copy  of  her  is  therefore 
to  me  invaluable. 

I  wrote  yesterday  to  my  Rose,  to  tell  her  all 
this,  and  to  thank  her  for  her  kindness  in  send- 
ing it !  Neither  do  I  forget  your  kindness,  who 
intimated  to  her  that  I  should  be  happy  to  possess 
it. 

She  invites  me  into  Norfolk,  but  alas  she  might 
as  well  invite  the  house  in  which  I  dwell;  for  all 
other  considerations  and  impediments  apart,  how 
is  it  possible  that  a  translator  of  Homer  should 
lumber  to  such  a  distance !  But  though  I  can  not 
comply  vsdth  her  kind  invitation,  I  have  made  my- 
feelf  the  best  amenfis  in  my  power  by  inviting  her, 
and  all  the  family  of  Donnes,  to  Weston.  Per- 
haps we  could  not  accommodate  them  all  at  once, 
but  in  succession  we  could ;  and  can  at  any  time 
find  room  for  five,  three  of  them  being  females, 
and  one  a  married  one.  You  are  a  mathematician ; 
tell  me  then  how  five  persons  can  be  lodged  in 
three  beds  (two  males  and  three  females),  and  I 
•shall  have  good  hope,  that  you  will  proceed  a  se- 
nior optime'?  It  would  make  me  happy  to  see  our 
house  so  furnished.  As  to  yourself,  whom  I  know 
to  be  a  subscalarian,  or  a  man  that  sleeps  under 
the  stairs,  1  should  have  no  objection  to  all,  nei- 
ther could  you  possibly  have  any  yourself,  to  the 
garret,  as  a  place  in  which  you  might  be  disposed 
of  with  great  felicity  of  accommodation. 

I  thank  you  much  for  your  services  in  the  tran- 
scribing way,  and  would  by  no  means  have  you 
despair  of  an  opportunity  to  serve  me  in  the  same 
way  yet  again; — write  to  me  soon,  and  tell  me 
when  I  shall  see  you. 

I  have  not  said  the  half  that  I  have  to  say,  but 
breakfast  is  at  hand,  which  always  terminates  my 
epistles. 

What  have  you  done  with  your  poemi  The 
trimming  that  it  procured  you  here  has  not,  I  hope, 
put  you  out  of  conceit  with  it  entirely;  you  are 
more  than  equal  to  the  alteration  that  it  needs. 
Only  remember,  that  in  writing,  perspicuity  is  al- 
ways more  than  half  the  battle.  The  want  of  it 
is  the  ruin  of  more  than  half  the  poetry  that  is 
published.  A  meaning  that  does  not  stare  you  in 
the  face  is  as  bad  as  no  meaning,  because  nobody 
will  take  the  pains  to  poke  for  it.  So  now  adieu 
for  the  present.  Beware  of  kilUng  yourself  with 
problems;  for  if  you  do,  you  will  never  five  to  be 
another  Sir  Isaac. 

Mrs.  Unwin's  affectionate  remembrances  attend 
you;  Lady  Hesketh  is  much  disposed  to  love  you; 
perhaps  most  who  know  you  have  some  little  ten- 
dency the  same  way. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  March  8,  1790. 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN, 

I  thank  thee  much  and  oft  for  negotiating  so 

well  this  poetical  concern  with  Mrs.  ,  and 

for  sending  me  her  opinion  in  her  own  hand.  I 
should  be  unreasonable  indeed  not  to  be  highly 
gratified  by  it,  and  I  like  it  the  better  for  being 
modestly  expressed.  It  is,  as  you  know,  and  it 
shall  be  some  months  longer,  my  daily  business  to 
polish  and  improve  what  is  done,  that  when  the 
whole  shall  appear  she  may  find  her  expectations 
answered.  I  am  glad  also  that  thou  didst  send 
her  the  sixteenth  Odyssey,  though,  as  I  said  be- 
fore, I  know  not  at  all  at  present  whereof  it  is 
made :  but  I  am  sure  that  thou  wouldst  not  have 
sent  it,  hadst  thou  not  conceived  a  good  opinion 
of  it  thyself,  and  thought  that  it  would  do  me  cre- 
dit. It  was  very  kind  in  thee  to  sacrifice  to  this 
Minerva  on  my  account. 

For  my  sentiments  on  the  subject  of  the  Test 
Act,  I  can  not  do  better  than  refer  thee  to  my 
poem,  entitled  and  called  "Expostulation."  I 
have  there  expressed  myself  not  much  in  its  fa- 
vour; considering  it  in  a  religious  view;  and  in  a 
pohtical  one  I  like  it  not  a  jot  the  better.  I  am 
neither  Tory  nor  High  Churchman,  but  an  old 
Whig,  as  my  father  was  before  me;  and  an  enemy 
consequently  to  all  tyrannical  impositions. 

Mrs.  Unwin  bids  me  return  thee  many  thanks 
for  thy  inquiries  so  kindly  made  concerning  her 
health.  She  is  a  little  better  than  of  late,  but  has 
been  ill  continually  ever  since  last  November, 
Every  thing  that  could  try  patience  and  submis- 
sion she  has  had,  and  her  submission  and  patience 
have  answered  in  the  trial,  though  mine  on  her 
account  have  often  failed  sadly. 

I  have  a  letter  from  Johnson,  who  tells  me  that 
he  has  sent  his  transcript  to  you,  begging  at  the 
same  time  more  copy.  Let  him  have  it  by  all 
means ;  he  is  an  industrious  youth,  and  I  love  him 
dearly.  1  told  him  that  you  are  disposed  to  love 
him  a  little.  A  new  poem  is  born  on  the  receipt 
of  my  mother's  picture.    Thou  shalt  have  it, 

W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

The  Lodge,  March  11,  1790, 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

I  WAS  glad  to  hear  from  you,  for  a  line  from 
you  gives  me  always  much  pleasure,  but  was  not 
much  gladdenfed  by  the  contents  of  your  letter. 
The  state  of  your  health,  which  I  have  learned 
more  accurately  perhaps  from  my  cousin,  except 
in  tliis  last  instance,  than  from  yourself,  has  rather 
alarmed  me,  and  even  she  has  collected  her  infor- 


Let.  319, 320. 


LETTERS. 


34i 


mation  upon  that  subject  more  from  your  looks 
than  from  your  own  acknowledgments  To  com- 
plain much  and  often  of  pur  indispositions  does 
not  always  ensure  the  pity  of  the  hearer,  perhaps 
sometimes  forfeits  it;  but  to  dissemble  them  alto- 
gether, or  at  least  to  suppress  the  worst,  is  attended 
ultimately  with  an  mconvenience  greater  still;  the 
secret  will  out  at  last,  and  our  friends,  unprepared 
to  receive  it,  are  doubly  distressed  about  us  In 
saying  this  I  squint  a  little  at  Mrs.  Unwin,  who 
will  read  it;  it  is  with  her  as  with  you,  the  only 
subject  on  which  she  practises  any  dissimulation 
at  all;  the  consequence  is,  that  when  she  is  much 
indisposed  I  never  believe  myself  in  possession  of 
the  whole  truth,  live  in  constant  expectation  of 
hearing  something  worse,  and  at  the  long  run  am 
seldom  disappointed.  It  seems  therefore,  as  on 
all  other  occasions,  so  even  in  this,  the  better 
course  on  the  whole  to  appear  what  we  are;  not 
to  lay  the  fears  of  our  friends  asleep  by  cheerful 
looks,  which  do  not  properly  belong  to  us,  or  by 
letters  written  as  if  we  were  well,  when  in  fact 
we  are  very  much  otherwise.  On  condition  how- 
ever that  you  act  differently  toward  me  for  the  fu- 
ture, I  will  pardon  the  past,  and  she  may  gather 
from  my  clemency  stiown  to  you,  some  hopes,  on 
the  same  conditions,  of  similar  clemency  to  herself 

W.  C. 


TO  MRS.  THROCKMORTON. 

The  Lodge,  March  27, 1790. 

MY  DEAREST  MADAM, 

I  SHALL  only  observe  on  the  subject  of  your  ab- 
sence that  you  have  stretched  it  since  you  went, 
and  have  made  it  a  week  longer.  Weston  is  sadly 
unked  witho  ut  you;  and  here  are  two  of  us,  who 
will  be  heartily  glad  to  see  you  again.  I  believe 
you  are  happier  at  home  than  any  where,  which 
is  a  comfortable  belief  to  your  neighbours,  because 
it  affords  assurance  that  since  you  are  neither 
likely  to  ramble  for  pleasure,  nor  to  meet  with  any 
avocations  of  business,  while  Weston  shall  continue 
to  i)e  your  home,  it  will  not  often  want  you. 

The  two  first  books  of  my  Iliad  have  been  sub- 
mitted to  the  inspection  and  scrutiny  of  a  great 
critic  of  your  sex,  at  the  instance  of  my  cousin,  as 
you  may  suppose.  The  lady  is  mistress  of  more 
tongues  than  a  few  (it  is  to  be  hoped  she  is  single), 
and  particularly  she  is  mistress  of  the  Greek.  She 
returned  them  with  expressions  that  if  any  thing 
could  make  a  poet  prouder  than  all  poets  naturally 
are,  would  have  made  me  so.  I  tell  you  this,  be- 
cause I  know  that  you  all  interest  yourselves  in 
the  success  of  the  said  Iliad. 

My  periwig  is  arrived,  and  is  the  very  perfection 
of  all  periwigs,  having  only  one  fault ;  which  is, 
that  my  head  will  only  go  into  the  first  half  of  it,  j 


the  other  half,  or  the  upper  part  of  it,  continmng 
still  unoccupied.  My  artist  in  this  way  at  Olney 
has  however  undertaken  to  make  the  whole  of  it 
tenantable,  and  then  I  shall  be  twenty  years  young- 
er than  you  have  ever  seen  me. 

I  heard  of  your  birthday  very  early  in  the  morn- 
ing; the  news  came  from  the  steeple.     W.  C. 

TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  March  22, 1790. 
I  REJOICE,  my  dearest  cousin,  that  my  MSS. 
have  roamed  the  earth  so  successfully,  and  have 
met  with  no  disaster.  The  single  book  excepted 
that  went  to  the  bottom  of  the  Thames  and  rose 
again,  they  have  been  fortunate  without  exception. 
1  am  not  superstitious,  but  have  nevertheless  as 
good  a  right  to  believe  that  adventure  an  omen, 
and  a  favourable  one,  as  Swift  had  to  interpret,  as 
he  did,  the  loss  of  a  fine  fish,  which  he  had  no 
sooner  laid  on  the  bank,  than  it  flounced  into  the 
water  again.  This  he  tells  us  himself  he  always 
considered  as  a  type  of  his  future  disappointments; 
and  why  may  not  I  as  well  consider  the  marvel- 
lous recovery  of  my  lost  book  from  the  bottom  of 
the  Thames,  as  typical  of  its  future  prosperity  1 
To  say  the  truth,  I  have  no  fears  now  about  the 
success  of  my  Translation,  though  in  time  past  I 
have  had  many.  I  knew  there  was  a  style  some- 
where, could  I  but  find  it,  in  which  Homer  ought 
to  be  rendered,  and  which  alone  would  suit  hun. 
Long  time  I  blundered  about  it,  ere  I  could  attain 
to  any  decided  judgment  on  the  matter;  at  first  I 
was  betrayed  by  a  desire  of  accommodating  my 
language  to  the  simplicity  of  his,  into  much  of  the 
quaintness  that  belonged  to  our  writers  of  the  fif- 
teenth century.  In  the  course  of  many  revisals  I 
have  delivered  myself  from  this  evil,  I  believe,  en- 
tirely ;  but  I  have  done  it  slowly,  and  as  a  man 
separates  himself  from  his  mistress  when  he  is 
going  to  marry.  I  had  so  strong  a  predilection  in 
favour  of  this  style  at  first,  that  I  was  crazed  to  find 
that  others  were  not  as  much  enamoured  with  it 
as  myself  At  every  passage  of  that  sort  which  I 
obliterated,  I  groaned  bitterly,  and  said  to  myself, 
I  am  spoiling  my  work  to  please  those  who  have 
no  taste  for  the  simple  graces  of  antiquity.  But 
in  measure  as  I  adopted  a  more  modern  phraseo- 
logy, I  become  a  convert  to  their  opinion,  and  in 
the  last  revisal,  which  I  am  now  making,  am  not 
sensible  of  having  spared  a  single  expression  of  the 
obsolete  kind.  I  see  my  work  so  much  improved 
by  this  alteration,  that  I  am  filled  with  wonder  at 
my  own  backwardness  to  assent  to  the  necessity 
of  it,  and  the  more  when  I  consider  that  Milton, 
with  whose  manner  I  account  myself  intimately 
acquainted,  is  never  quaint,  never  twangs  through 
j  the  nose,  but  is  every  where  grand  and  elegant, 


342 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  321,  322. 


without  resorting  to  musty  antiquity  for  his  beau- 
ties. On  the  contrary,  he  took  a  long  stride  for- 
ward, left  the  language  of  his  own  day  far  behind 
him,  and  anticipated  the  expressions  of  a  century 
yet  to  come. 

I  have  now,  as  I  said,  no  longer  any  doubt  of 
the  event,  but  I  will  give  thee  a  shilling  if  thou  wilt 
tell  me  what  I  shall  say  in  my  preface.  It  is  an 
affair  of  much  delicacy,  and  I  have  as  many 
•pinions  about  it  as  there  are  whims  in  a  weather- 
cock. 

Send  my  MSS.  and  thine  when  thou  wilt.  In 
a  day  or  two  I  shall  enter  on  the  last  Iliad.  When 


have  said  composed.  Very  likely— but  1  am  not 
writing  to  one  of  that  snarling  generation. 

My  boy,  I  long  to  see  thee  again.  It  has  hap- 
pened some  way  or  other,  that  Mrs.  Unwin  and 
I  have  conceived  a  great  affection  for  thee.  That 
I  should,  is  the  less  to  be  wondered  at  (because 
thou  art  a  shred  of  my  own  mother) ;  neither  is 
the  wonder  great  that  she  should  fall  into  the  same 
predicament :  for  she  loves  every  thing  that  I  love. 
You  will  observe  that  your  own  personal  right  to 
be  beloved  makes  no  part  of  the  consideration. 
There  is  nothing  that  I  touch  with  so  much  ten- 
derness as  the  vanity  of  a  young  man ;  because  I 


I  have  finished  it  I  shall  give  the  Odyssey  one  more ,  know  how  extremely  he  is  susceptible  of  impres- 
reading,  and  shall  therefore  shortly  have  occasion  |  sions  that  might  hurt  him  in  that  particular  part 
for  the  copy  in  thy  possession ;  but  you  see  that  j  of  his  composition.  If  you  should  ever  prove  a 
there  is  no  need  to  hurry.  coxcomb,  from  which  character  you  stand  just 


I  leave  the  little  space  for  Mrs.  Unwin's  use, 
who  means,  I  believe,  to  occupy  it. 

And  am  evermore  thine  most  truly,  W.  C. 

Postscript  in  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Unwin. 
You  can  not  imagine  how  much  your  ladyship 
would  oblige  your  unworthy  servant,  if  you  would  tented  to  be  dear  to  me  on  these  conditions,  so  you 
be  so  good  to  let  me  know  in  what  point  I  differ  shall;  but  other  terms  more  advantageous  than 
from  you.    All  that  at  present  I  can  say  is,  that  these,  or  more  inviting,  none  have  I  to  propose. 
I  will  readily  sacrifice  my  own  opinion,  unless     Farewell.    Puzzle  not  yourself  about  a  subject 
I  can  give  you  a  substantial  reason  for  adhering  when  you  write  to  either  of  us;  everything  is  sub- 
to  it.  I  ject  enough  from  those  we  love,  W.  C. 


now  at  a  greater  distance  than  any  young  man  I 
know,  it  shall  never  be  said  that  I  have  made  you 
one ;  no,  you  will  gain  nothing  by  me  but  the 
honour  of  being  much  valued  by  a  poor  poet,  who 
can  do  you  no  good  while  he  lives,  and  has  nothing 
to  leave  you  when  he  dies.    If  you  can  be  con- 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

Weston,  April  17,  1790, 
YoDR  letter  that  now  lies  before  me  is  almost 
'  three  weeks  old,  and  therefore  of  full  age  to  re- 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

Weston,  March  23,  1790. 
Your  MS.  arrived  safe  in  new  Norfplk  Street, 
and  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  labours. 

Were  you  now  at  Weston  I  could  furnish  you  with ;  ceive  an  answer,  which  it  shall  without  Jelay,  if 
employment  for  some  weeks,  and  shall  perhaps  be :  the  interval  between  the  present  moment  and 
equally  able  to  do  it  in  summer,  for  I  have  lost  my  that  of  breakfast  should  prove  sufficient  for  the 
best  amanuensis  in  this  place,  Mr.  George  Throck-  purpose. 

loorton,  who  is  gone  to  Bath.  Yours  to  Mrs.  Unwin  was  received  yesterday, 

You  are  a  man  to  be  envied,  who  have  never  for  which  she  will  thank  you  in  due  time.    1  have 


read  the  Odyssey,  which  is  one  of  the  most  amus- 
ing story-books  in  the  world.  There  is  also  much 
of  the  finest  poetry  in  the  world  to  be  found  in  it, 
notwithstanding  all  that  Longinus  has  insinuated 
to  the  contrary.  His  comparison  of  the  Iliad  and 
Odyssey  to  the  meridian,  and  the  dechning  sun, 
is  pretty,  but  I  am  persuaded,  not  just.  The  pret- 
tiness  of  it  seduced  him ;  he  was  otherwise  too  judi- 
cious a  reader  of  Homer  to  have  made  it 
find  in  the  latter  no  symptoms  of  impaired  ability, 
none  of  the  effects  of  age ;  on  the  contrary,  it 
«eems  to  me  a  certainty,  that  Homer,  had  he  writ- 
ten the  Odvssey  in  his  youth,  could  not  have  writ- 


also  seen,  and  have  now  in  my  desk  your  letter  to 
Lady  Hesketh ;  she  sent  it  thinking  it  would  di- 
vert me ;  in  which  she  was  not  mistaken.  I  shall 
tell  her  when  I  write  to  her  next,  that  you  long  to 
receive  a  line  from  her.  Give  yourself  no  trouble 
on  the  subject  of  the  politic  device  you  saw  good 
to  recur  to,  when  you  presented  me  with  the  man- 
uscript ;  it  was  an  innocent  deception,  at  least  it 
can  could  harm  nobody  save  yourself ;  an  effect  which 
it  did  not  fail  to  produce ;  and  since  the  punish- 
ment followed  it  so  closely,  by  me  at  least  it  may 
very  well  be  forgiven.  You  ask,  how  can  I  tell 
that  you  are  not  addicted  to  practices  of  the  de- 


*en  it  heHar;  and  if  the  Iliad  in  his  old  age,  that  ceptive  kindl  And  certainly,  if  the  little  time 
he  would  have  written  it  just  as  well.  A  critic  that  I  have  had  to  study  you  were  alone  to  be  con 
Would  toll  me,  that  instead  of  written,  I  should  sidered,  the  question  would  not  be  unreasonable , 


Let.  323,  324,  325. 


LETTERS. 


343 


but  in  general  a  man  who  reaches  my  years  finds 

"  That  long  experience  does  attain 
To  something  like  prophetic  strain." 

I  am  very  much  of  Lavater's  opinion,  and  per- 
suaded that  faces  are  as  legible  as  books,  only  with 
these  circumstances  to  recommend  them  to  our 
perusal,  that  they  are  read  in  much  less  time,  and 
are  much  less  likely  to  deceive  us.  Yours  gave 
me  a  favourable  impression  of  you  the  moment  I 
beheld  it,  and  though  I  shall  not  tell  you  in  par- 
ticular what  I  saw  in  it,  for  reasons  mentioned  in 
my  last,  I  will  add  that  I  had  observed  in  you 
nothing  since,  that  has  not  confirmed  the  opinion 
I  then  formed  in  your  favour.  In  fact,  I  can  not 
recollect  that  my  skill  in  physiognomy  has  ever  de- 
ceived me,  and  I  should  add  more  on  this  subject, 
liad  I  room. 

When  you  have  shut  up  your  mathematical 
books,  you  must  give  yourself  to  the  study  of 
Greek  ;  not  merely  that  you  may  be  able  to  read 
Homer  and  the  other  Greek  classics  with  ease,  but 
the  Greek  Testament,  and  the  Greek  fathers  also. 
Thus  quaUfied,  and  by  the  aid  of  your  fiddle  into 
the  bargain,  together  with  some  portion  of  the 
grace  of  God  (without  which  nothing  can  be  done) 
to  enable  you  to  look  well  to  your  flock,  when  you 
shall  get  one,  you  will  be  well  set  up  for  a  parson. 
In  which  character,  if  I  live  to  see  you  in  it,  I 
shall  expect  and  hope  that  you  will  make  a  very 
different  figure  from  most  of  your  fraternity. 

Ever  yours.  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  April  19,  1790, 

MY  DEAREST  COZ, 

I  THANK  thee  for  my  cousin  Johnson's  letter, 
which  diverted  me.  I  had  one  from  him  lately,  in 
which  he,  expressed  an  ardent  desire  of  a  hue  from 
you,  and  the  delight  he  would  feel  in  receiving  it, 
1  know  not  whether  you  will  have  the  charity  to 
,satisfy  his  longings,  but  mention  the  matter,  think- 
ing it  possible  that  you  may.  A  letter  from  a 
lady  to  a  youth  immersed  in  mathematics  must 
be  singularly  pleasant. 

I  am  finishing  Homer  backward,  having  begun 
at  the  last  book,  and  designing  to  persevere  in 
that  crab-like  fashion,  till  I  arrive  at  the  first 
This  may  remind  you  perhaps  of  a  certain  poet's 
prisoner  in  the  Bastile  (thank  Heaven !  in  the 
Bastile  now  no  more)  counting  the  nails  in  the 
door  for  variety's  sake  in  all  directions,  I  find  so 
little  to  do  in  the  last  revisal,  that  I  shall  soon  reach 
the  Odyssey,  and  soon  want  those  books  of  it 
which  are  in  thy  possession ;  the  two  first  of  the 
Iliad,  which  are  also  in  thy  possession,  much  sooner ; 
thou  must  therefore  send  them  by  the  first  fair  op- 

23  2  £  2 


portunity.  I  am  in  high  spirits  on  tliis  subject, 
and  think  that  1  have  at  last  licked  the  clumsy  cub 
into  a  shape  that  will  secure  to  it  the  favourable 

notice  of  the  public.    Let  not  retard  me, 

and  1  shall  hope  to  get  it  out  next  winter. 

I  am  glad  that  thou  hast  sent  the  General  those 
verses  on  ray  mother's  picture.  They  will  amusje 
him — only  I  hope  that  he  will  not  miss  my  mother- 
in-law,  and  think  that  she  ought  to  have  made  a 
third.  On  such  an  occasion  it  was  not  possible  to 
mention  her  with  any  propriety.  I  rejoice  at  the 
General's  recovery ;  may  it  prove  a  perfect  one. 

W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Weston,  April  30,  1790. 
To  my  old  friend,  Dr.  Madan,  thou  couldst  not 
have  spoken  better  than  thou  didst.  Tell  him,  I 
beseech  you,  that  I  have  not  forgotten  him ;  tell 
him  also  that  to  my  heart  and  home  he  will  be 
always  welcome;  nor  heonly,%ut  all  that  are  his. 
His  judgment  of  my  translation  gave  me  the  high- 
est satisfaction,  because  1  know  him  to  be  a  rare 
old  Grecian. 

The  General's  approbation  of  my  picture  verses 
gave  me  also  much  pleasure.  I  wrote  them  not 
without  tears,  therefore  I  presume  it  may  be  that 
they  are  felt  by  others.  Should  he  offer  me  my 
father's  picture,  I  shall  gladly  accept  it.  A  melan- 
choly pleasure  is  better  than  none,  nay  verily  better 
than  most.  He  had  a  sad  task  imposed  on  him, 
but  no  man  could  acquit  himself  of  such  a  one 
with  more  discretion,  or  with  more  tenderness. 
The  death  of  the  unfortunate  young  man  remind- 
ed me  of  those  lines  in  Lycidas, 

It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark, 
Built  in  th'  eclipse,  and  rigg'd  with  curses  dark, 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine !  


How  beautiful 


W.  C. 


TO  MRS.  THROCKMORTON. 

The  Lodge,  May  10,  1790. 

MY  DEAR  MRS.  FROG,* 

You  have  by  this  time  (I  presume)  heard  from 
the  Doctor,  whom  I  desired  to  present  to  you  our 
best  affections,  and  to  tell  you  that  we  are  well. 
He  sent  an  urchin  (I  do  not  mean  a  hedge-hog, 
commonly  called  an  urchin  in  old  times,  but  u 
boy,  commonly  so  called  at  present)  expecting 
that  he  would  find  you  at  Buckland's,  whither  }ip 
supposed  you  gone  on  Thursday.  He  sent  him 
charged  with  divers  articles,  and  among  others  with 


•  The  sportive  title  generally  bestowed  by  Cowper  ou  bie 
amiable  friends  the  Throckmortons. 


344 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  326,327,328. 


letters,  or  at  least  with  a  letter ;  when  I  mention 
that  if"  the  boy  should  be  lost,  together  with  his 
despatches,  past  all  possibility  of  recovery,  you 
may  yet  know  that  the  Doctor  stands  acquitted  of 
not  writing. — That  he  is  utterly  lost  (that  is  to 
Bay  the  boy,,  for  the  Doctor  being  the,  last  antece- 
dent, as  the  grammarians  say,  you  might  other- 
wise suppose  he  was  intended)  is  the  more  proba- 
ble, because  he  was  never  four  miles  from  his  home 
before,  having  only  traveled  at  the  side  of  a  plough- 
team  ;  and  when  the  Doctor  gave  him  his  direc- 
tion to  Buckland's,  he  asked,  very  naturally,  if 
that  place  was  in  England.  So  what  has  become 
®f  him  Heaven  knows ! 

I  do  not  know  that  any  adventures  have  pre- 
sented themselves  since  your  departure  worth  men- 
tioning, except  that  the  rabbit,  that  infested  your 
wilderness,  has  beei^  shot  for  devouring  your  car- 
nations; and  that  I  myself  have  been  in  some  dan- 
ger of  being  devoured  in  like  manner  by  a  great 
dog,  viz.  Pearson's.  But  I  wrote  him  a  letter  on 
Friday  (I  mean  a  letter  to  Pearson,  not  to  his  dog, 
which  I  mention  to  prevent  mistakes — for  the  said 
*ast  antecedent  might  occasion  them  in  this  place 
also)  informing  him,  that  unless  he  tied  up  his 
great  mastiff  in  the  day-time,  I  would  send  him  a 
worse  thing,  commonly  called  and  known  by  the 
name  of  an  attorney.  When  I  go  forth  to  ramble 
in  the  fields,  I  do  not  sally  like  Don  Gluixote,  with 
a  purpose  of  encountering  monsters,  if  any  such 
can  be  found;  but  am  a  peaceable  poor  gentleman, 
and  a  poet,  who  mean  nobody  any  harm,  the  fox- 
hunters  and  the  two  universities  of  this  land  ex- 
cepted. 

I  can  not  learn  from  any  creature  whether  the 
Turnpike  bill  is  alive  or  dead.  So  ignorant  am  I, 
and  by  such  ignoramuses  surrounded.  But  if  I 
know  little  else,  this  at  least  I  know,  that  I  love 
you,  and  Mr.  Frog ;  that  I  long  for  your  return, 
and  that  I  am,  with  Mrs.  Unwin's  best  affections. 
Ever  yours,  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  May  28,  1790. 

MY  DEAREST  COZ, 

I  THANK  thee  for  the  offer  of  thy  best  services 
on  this  occasion.  But  heaven  guard  my  brows 
from  the  wreath  you  mention,  whatever  wreath 
beside  may  hereafter  adorn  them !  It  would  be  a 
leaden  extinguisher  clapped  on  all  the  fire  of  my 
genius,  and  I  should  never  more  produce  a  line 
worth  reading.  To  speak  seriously,  it  would 
inake  me  miserable,  and  therefore  I  am  sure  that 
thou  of  all  my  friends,  wouldst  least  wish  me  to 
wear  it. 

Adieu,  ever  thine — in  Homer-hurry,  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Weston,  June  3,  1790. 
You  will  wonder  when  I  tell  you  that  I,  even  I, 
am  considered  by  people,  who  live  at  a  great  dis- 
tance, as  having  interest  and  influence  sufficient 
to  procure  a  place  at  court  for  those  who  may 
happen  to  want  one.  I  have  accordingly  been 
applied  to  within  these  few  days  by  a  Welshman, 
with  a  wife  and  many  children,  to  get  him  made 
poet-laureat  as  fast  as  possible.  If  thou  wouldst 
wish  to  ma;ke  the  world  merry  twice  a  year,  thou 
canst  not  do^  better  than  to  procure  the  office  for 
him.  1  will  promise  thee,  that  he  shall  afford  thee 
a  hearty  laugh  in  return,  every  birth  day,  and 
every  new  year.    He  is  an  honest  man. 

Adieu!    W.  C. 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  JOHN,  Weston,  June  7, 1790. 

You  know  my  engagements,  and  are  consequent- 
ly able  to  account  for  my  silence.  I  will  not  there- 
fore waste  time  and  paper  in  mentioning  them, 
but  will  only  say  that  added  to  those  with  which 
you  are  acquainted,  I  had  other  hindrances,  such 
as  business,  and  a  disorder  of  my  spirits,  to  which 
I  have  been  all  my  life  subject.  At  present  I  am, 
thank  God !  perfectly  well  both  in  mind  and  body. 
Of  you  I  am  always  mindful,  whether  I  write  or 
not,  and  very  desirous  to  see  you.  You  will  re- 
member, I  hope,  that  you  are  under  engagements 
to  us,  and,  as  soon  as  your  Norfolk  friend  can 
spare  you,  will  fulfil  them.  Give  us  all  the  time 
you  can,  and  all  that  they  can  spare  to  us ! 

You  never  pleased  me  more  than  when  you  told 
me  you  had  abandoned  your  mathematical  pur- 
suits. It  grieved  me  to  think  that  you  were  wast- 
ing your  time  merely  to  gain  a  little  Cambridge 
fame,  not  worth  your  having.  I  can  not  be  con- 
tented that  your  renown  should  thrive  nowhere 
but  on  the  banks  of  the  Cam.  Conceive  a  nobler 
ambition,  and  never  let  your  honour  be  circum- 
scribed by  the  paltry  dimensions  of  an  university? 
It  is  well  that  you  have  already,  as  you  observe, 
acquired  sufficient  information  in  that  science,  to 
enable  you  to  pass  creditably  such  examinations  as 
I  suppose  you  must  hereafter  undergo.  Keep 
what  you  have  gotten,  and  be  content.  More  is 
needless. 

You  could  not  apply  to  a  worse  than  I  am  to 
advise  you  concerning  your  studies.  I  was  never 
a  regular  student  myself,  but  lost  the  most  valua- 
ble years  of  my  life  in  an  attorney's  office,  and  in 
the  Temple.  I  will  not  therefore  give  myself  airs, 
and  affect  to  know  what  I  know  not.    The  aiBair 


Let.  329,  330. 


LETTERS. 


345 


is  of  great  importance  to  you,  and  you  should  be 
directed  in  it  by  a  wiser  than  I.  To  speak  how- 
ever in  very  general  terms  on  the  subject,  it  seems 
to  me  that  your  chief  concern  is  with  history,  na- 
tural philosophy,  logic,  and  divinity.  As  to  meta- 
physics, I  know  little  about  them.  But  the  very 
little  that  I  do  know  has  not  taught  me  to  admire 
them.  Life  is  too  short  to  afford  time  even  for 
serious  trifles.  Pursue  what  you  know  to  be  at- 
tainable, make  truth  your  object,  and  your  studies 
will  make  you  a  wise  man!  Let  your  divinity, 
if  1  may  advise,  be  the  divinity  of  the  glorious  Re- 
formation: I  mean  in  contradistinction  to  Armi- 
nianism,  and  all  the  isms  that  were  ever  broached 
in  this  world  of  error  and  ignorance. 

The  divinity  of  the  Reformation  is  called  Cal- 
vinism, but  injuriously.  It  has  been  that  of  the 
church  of  Christ  in  all  ages.  It  is  the  divinity  of 
St.  Paul,  and  of  St.  Pavd's  master,  who  met  him 
in  the  way  to  Damascus. 

I  have  written  in  great  haste,  that  I  might  finish 
if  possible  before  breakfast.  Adieu !  Let  us  see 
you  soon ;  the  sooner  the  better.  Give  my  love 
to  the  silent  lady,  the  Rose,  and  all  my  friends 
around  you.  W.  C. 


of  raiment  by  it,  as  Samson  did  by  his,  let  me  tell 
you,  they  will  be  no  contemptible  acquisition  to  a 
young  beginner. 

You  will  not,  I  hope,  forget  your  way  to  Wes- 
ton, in  consequence  of  your  marriage,  where  you 
and  yours  will  be  always  welcome.        W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

The  Lodge,  June  8,  1790. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

Among  the  many  who  love  and  esteem  you, 
there  is  none  who  rejoices  more  in  your  felicity 
than  myself.  Far  from  blaming,  I  commend  you 
much  for  connecting  yourself,  young  as  you  are, 
with  a  well-chosen  companion  for  life.  Entering 
on  the  state  with  uncontaminated  morals,  you  have 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  June  17, 1790 

MY  DEAREST  COZ, 

Here  am  I,  at  eight  in  the  morning,  in  full 
dress,  going  a  visiting  to  Chicheley.  We  are  a 
strong  party,  and  fill  two  chaises;  Mrs.  F.  the 
elder,  and  Mrs.  G.  in  one;  Mrs.  F.  the  younger, 
and  myself  in  another.  Were  it  not  that  I  shall  find 
Chesters  at  the  end  of  my -journey,  I  should  be 
inconsolable.  That  expectation  alone  supports 
my  spirits;  and  even  with  this  prospect  before  me, 
when  I  saw  this  moment  a  poor  old  woman  coming 
up  the  lane  opposite  my  window,  I  could  not  help 
sighing,  and  saying  to  myself—"  Poor,  but  happy 
old  woman !  thou  art  exempted  by  thy  situation 
in  life  from  riding  in  chaises,  and  making  thyself 
fine  in  a  morning,  happier  therefore  in  my  account 
than  I,  who  am  under  the  cruel  necessity  of  doing 
both.  Neither  dost  thou  write  verses,  neither  hast 
thou  ever  heard  of  the  name  of  Homer,  whom  I  am 
miserable  to  abandon  for  a  whole  morning !"  This, 
and  more  of  the  same  sort,  passed  in  my  mind  on 
seeing  the  old  woman  above  said. 

The  troublesome  business,  with  which  I  filled 
my  last  letter,  is  (I  hope)  by  this  time  concluded, 
and  Mr.  Archdeacon  satisfied.  I  can,  to  be  sure, 
but  ill  afford  to  pay  fifty  pounds  for  another  man's 
negligence,  but  would  be  happy  to  pay  a  hundred 


the  best  possible  prospect  of  happiness,  and  will |  rather  than  be  treated  as  if  I  were  insolvent; 
be  secure  against  a  thousand  and  ten  thousand ,  threatened  with  attorneys  and  bums.    One  would 
temptations,  to  which,  at  an  early  period  of  life,  think  that,  living  where  I  live,  I  might  be  ex- 
-  -  '  ;i„  empted  from  trouble.    But  alas!  as  the  philoso- 

phers often  affirm,  there  is  no  nook  under  heaven 
in  which  trouble  can  not  enter;  and  perhaps  had 
there  never  been  one  philosopher  in  the  world, 
this  is  a  truth  that  would  not  have  been  always 
altogether  a  secret. 

I  have  made  two  inscriptions  lately  at  the  re- 
quest of  Thomas  Gifford,  Esq.  who  is  sowing  twen- 
ty acres  with  acorns  on  one  side  of  his  house,  and 
twenty  acres  with  ditto  on  the  other.  He  erects 
two  memorials  of  stone  on  the  occasion,  that  when 
posterity  shall  be  curious  to  know  the  age  of  the 
oaks,  their  curiosity  ipay  be  gratified.* 

My  works  therefore  will  not  all  perish,  or  will 
not  all  perish  soon,  for  he  has  ordered  his  lapidary 
to  cut  the  characters  very  deep,  and  in  stone  ex- 
tremely hard.    It  is  not  in  vain  then,  that  I  have 


in  such  a  Babylon  as  you  must  necessarily  inha- 
bit, you  would  otherwise  have  been  exposed.  1 
see  it  too  in  the  light  you  do,  as  likely  to  be  ad- 
vantageous to  you  in  your  profession.  Men  of 
business  have  a  better  opinion  of  a  candidate  for 
employment,  who  is  married,  because  he  has  given 
bond  to  the  world,  as  you  observe,  and  to  himself, 
for  diligence,  industry,  and  attention.  It  is  alto- 
gether therefore  a  subject  of  much  congratulation : 
and  mine,  to  which  1  add  Mrs.  Unwin's,  is  very 
sincere.  Samson  at  his  marriage  proposed  a  rid- 
dle to  the  Philistines.  I  am  no  Samson,  neither 
are  you  a  Philistine.  Yet  expound  to  me  the  fol- 
lowing, if  you  can. 

What  are  they,  which  stand  at  a  distance  from 
each  other,  and  meet  without  ever  moving  ? 

Should  you  be  so  fortunate  as  to  guess  it,  you 
may  propose  it  t»  the  company,  when  you  celebrate 
your  nuptials  j  and  if  you  can  win  thirty  changes 


'  The  Inscriptions  were  inserted  hero.  See  Poenw. 


346 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  331,  333 


BO  long  exercised  the  business  of  a  poet.  I  shall 
at  least  reap  the  reward  of  my  labours,  and  be  im- 
moital  probably  for  many  years. 

Ever  thine,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND,        Wcston,  June  22,  1790. 


Villoison  makes  no  mention  of  the  serpent, 
whose  skin,  or  bowels,  or  perhaps  both,  were  ho- 
noured with  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  inscribed  upon 
them.  But  I  have  conversed  with  a  living  eye- 
witness of  an  African  serpent  long  enough  to  have 
afforded  skin  and  guts  for  the  purpose.  In  Africa 
there  are  ants  also,  vvhich  frequently  destroy  those 
monsters.  They  are  not  much  larger  than  ours, 
but  they  travel  in  a  column  of  immense  length, 
and  eat  through  every  thing  that  opposes  them. 
Their  bite  is  like  a  spark  of  fire.  When  these 
serpents  have  killed  their  prey,  lion  or  tiger  or  any 
other  large  animal,  before  they  swallow  him,  they 
take  a  considerable  circuit  round  about  the  car- 
case, to  see  if  the  ants  are  coming,  because  when 
they  have  gorged  their  prey,  they  are  unable  to 
escape  them.  They  are  nevertheless  sometimes 
surprised  by  them  in  their  unwieldy  state,  and  the 
ants  make  a  passage  through  them.  Now  if  you 
thought  your  own  story  of  Homer,  bound  in  snake- 
skin,  worthy  of  three  notes  of  admiration,  you  can 
not  do  less  than  add  six  to  mine,  confessing  at  the 
same  time,  that  if  I  put  you  to  the  expense  of  a 
letter,  I  do  not  make  you  pay  your  money  for  no- 
thing. But  this  account  I  had  from  a  person  of 
most  unimpeached  veracity. 

I  rejoice  with  you  in  the  good  Bishop's  removal 
to  St.  Asaph,  and  especially  because  the  Norfolk 
parsons  much  more  resemble  the  ants  above-men- 
tioned, than  he  the  serpent.  He  is  neither  of  vast 
size,  nor  unwieldy,  nor  voracious;  neither,  I  dare 
say,  does  he  sleep  after  dinner,  according  to  the 
practice  of  the  said  serpent.  But,  harmless  as  he 
is,  I  am  mistaken  if  his  mutinous  clergy  did  not 
sometimes  disturb  his  rest,  and  if  he  did  not  find 
their  bite,  though  they  could  not  actually  eat 
through  him,  in  a  degree  resembling  fire.  Good 
men  like  him,  and  peaceable,  should  have  good 
and  peaceable  folks  to  deal  with,  and  1  heartily 
wish  him  such  in  his  new  diocese.  But  if  he  will 
keep  the  clergy  to  their  bijsiness,  he  shall  have 
■trouble,  let  him  go  where  he  may;  and  this  is 
boldly  spoken,  considering  that  I  speak  it  to  one 
of  that  reverend  body.  But  ye  are  like  Jeremiah's 
basket  of  figs.  Some  of  you  could  not  be  better, 
and  some  of  you  are  stark  naught.  Ask  the  bishop 
himself,  if  this  be  not  true!  W.  C. 


TO  MRS.  BODHAM. 

The  Lodge,  June  29,  1790, 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN, 

It  is  true  that  I  did  sometimes  complain  to  Mrs. 
Unwin  of  your  long  silence.  But  it  is  likewise 
true,  that  1  made  many  excuses  for  you  in  my  own 
mind,  and  did  not  feel  myself  at  all  inclined  to  be 
angry,  nor  even  much  to  wonder.  There  is  an 
awkwardness,  and  a  difliculty  in  writing  to  those 
whom  distance  and  length  of  time  have  made  in 
a  manner  new  to  us,  that  naturally  gives  us  a 
check,  when  we  would  otherwise  be  glad  to  ad- 
dress them.  But  a  time,  I  hope,  is  near  at  hand, 
when  you  and  I  shall  be  effectually  delivered  from 
all  such  constraints,  and  correspond  as  fluently  as 
if  our  intercourse  had  suffered  much  less  inten-up- 
tion. 

You  must  not  suppose,  my  dear,  that  though  I 
may  be  said  to  have  lived  many  years  with  a  pen 
in  my  hand,  I  am  myself  altogether  at  my  ease  on 
this  tremendous  occasion.  Imagine  rather,  and 
you  will  come  nearer  to  the  truth,  that  when  I 
placed  this  sheet  before  me  I  asked  myself  more 
than  once,  "  how  shall  I  fill  it?'  One  subject  in- 
deed presents  itself,  the  pleasant  prospect  that 
opens  upon  me  of  our  coming  once  more  together, 
but  that  once  exhausted,  with  what  shall  I  pro- 
ceed 7  Thus  I  questioned  myself;  but  finding 
neither  end  nor  profit  of  such  questions,  I  bravely 
resolved  to  dismiss  them  all  at  once,  and  to  engage 
in  the  great  enterprise  of  a  letter  to  my  quondam 

Rose  at  a  venture  There  is  great  truth  in  a 

rant  of  Nat.  Lee's,  or  of  Dryden's,  I  know  not 
which,  who  makes  an  enamoured  youth  say  to  his 
mistress, 


And  nonsense  shall  be  eloquence  in  love. 
For  certain  it  is,  that  they  who  truly  love  one  an- 
other are  not  very  nice  examiners  of  each  other's 
style  or  matter;  if  an  epistle  comes,  it  is  always 
welcome,  though  it  be  perhaps  neither  so  wise  nor 
so  witty  as  one  might  have  wished  to  make  it. 
And  now,  my  cousin,  let  me  tell  thee  how  much 
feel  myself  obliged  to  Mr.  Bodham,  for  the  readi- 
ness he  expresses  to  accept  my  invitation.  Assure 
him  that,  stranger  as  he  is  to  me  at  present,  and 
natural  as  the  dread  of  strangers  has  ever  been  to 
me,  I  shall  yet  receive  him  with  open  arms,  be- 
cause he  is  your  husband,  and  loves  you  dearly 
That  consideration  alone  will  endear  him  to  me 
and  I  dare  say  that  I  shall  not  find  it  his  only  re- 
commendation to  my  best  affections.  May  the 
healtli  of  his  relation  (his  mother,  1  suppose)  be 
soon  restored,  and  long  continued,  and  may  nothing 
melancholy,  of  what  kind  soever,  interfere  to  pre- 
vent our  joyful  meeting.  Between  the  present 
moment  and  September  our  house  is  clear  for  your 
reception,  and  you  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  give 


Let.  333.  334, 335. 


LETTERS. 


347 


us  a  day  or  two's  notice  of  your  coming.  In  Sep- 
tember we  expect  Lady  Hesketh,  and  I  only  re- 
gret that  our  house  is  not  large  enough  to  hold  all 
together,  for  were  it  possible  that  you  could  meet, 
you  would  love  each  other. 

Mrs.  Unwin  bids  me  offer  you  her  best  love. 
She  is  never  well,  but  always  patient,  and  always 
cheerful,  and  feels  beforehand  that  she  shall  be  loth 
to  part  with  you. 

My  love  to  all  the  dear  Donnes  of  every  name ! — 
write  soon,  no  matter  about  what,         W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

July  7,  1790. 
Instead  of  beginning  with  the  saffron-vested 
morning,  to  which  Homer  invites  me,  on  a  morn- 
ing that  has  no  saffron  vest  to  boast,  I  shall  begin 
with  you. 

It  is  irksome  to  us  both  to  wait  so  long  as  we 
must  for  you,  but  we  are  willing  to  hope  that  by 
a  longer  stay  you  will  make  us  amends  for  all  this 
tedious  procrastination. 

Mrs.  Unwin  has  made  known  her  whole  case 
to  Mr.  Gregson,  whose  opinion  of  it  has  been  very 
consolatory  to  me :  he  says  indeed  it  is  a  case  per- 
fectly out  of  the  reach  of  all  physical  aid,  but  at 
the  same  time  not  at  all  dangerous.  Constant 
pain  is  a  sad  grievance,  whatever  part  is  affected, 
and  she  is  hardly  ever  free  from  an  aching  head, 
as  well  as  an  uneasy  side,  but  patience  is  an  ano- 
dyne of  God's  own  preparation,  and  of  that  he 
gives  her  largely. 

The  French,  who  like  all  hvely  folks  are  ex- 
treme in  every  thing,  are  such  in  their  zeal  for 
freedom ;  and  if  it  were  possible  to  make  so  noble 
a  cause  ridiculous,  their  manner  of  promoting  it 
could  not  fail  to  do  so.  Princes  and  peers  reduced 
to  plain  gentlemanship,  and  gentles  reduced  to  a 
level  with  their  own  lackeys,  are  excesses  of  which 
they  will  repent  hereafter.  Difference  of  rank 
and  subordination  are,  I  believe,  of  God's  appoint- 
ment, and  consequently  essential  to  the  well-being 
of  society :  but  what  we  mean  by  fanaticism  in 
religion  is  exactly  that  which  animates  their  po- 
litics; and  unless  time  should  sober  them,  they 
will,  after  all,  be  an  unhappy  people.  Perhaps  it 
deserves  not  mucli  to  be  wondered  at,  that  at  their 
first  escape  from  tyrannic  shackles  they  should  act 
extravagantly,  and  treat  their  kings  as  they  have 
sometimes  treated  their  idols.  To  these  however 
they  are  reconciled  in  due  time  again,  but  their 
respect  lor  monarchy  is  at  an  end.  They  want  no- 
thing now  but  a  little  English  sobriety,  and  that 
they  want  extremely:  I  heartily  wish  them  some 
wit  in  their  anger,  for  it  were  great  pity  that  so 
many  millions  should  be  miserable  for  want  of  it. 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  JOHNNY,  Weston,  July  8,  1790. 

You  do  well  to  perfect  yourself  on  the  violin. 
Only  beware,  that  an  amusement  so  very  bewitch- 
ing as  music,  especially  when  we  produce  it  our- 
selves, do  not  steal  from  you  all  those  hours,  that 
should  be  given  to  study.  I  can  be  well  content, 
that  it  should  serve  you  as  a  refreshment  aftei 
severer  exercises,  but  not  that  it  should  engross 
you  wholly.  Your  own  good  sense  will  most  pro- 
bably dictate  to  you  this  precaution,  and  I  might 
have  spared  you  the  trouble  of  it;  but  I  have  a 
degree  of  zeal  for  your  proficiency  in  more  im- 
portant pursuits,  that  would  not  suffer  me  to  sup- 
press it. 

Having  delivered  my  conscience  by  giving  you 
this  sage  admonition,  I  will  convince  you  that  I 
am  a  censor  not  over  and  above  severe,  by  ac- 
knowledging in  the  next  place  that  I  have  known 
very  good  performers  on  the  violin  very  learned 
also ;  and  my  cousin.  Dr.  Spencer  Madan,  is  an 
instance. 

I  am  delighted  that  you  have  engaged  your  sis- 
ter to  visit  us;  for  I  say  to  myself,  if  John  be 
amiable,  what  must  Catharine  be'?  For  we  males, 
be  we  angelic  as  we  may,  are  always  surpassed 
by  the  ladies.  But  know  this,  that  I  shall  not  be 
in  love  with  either  of  you,  if  you  stay  with  us  only 
a  few  days,  for  you  talk  of  a  week  or  so.  Correct 
this  erratum,  I  beseech  you,  and  convince  us  by 
a  much  longer  continuance  here,  that  it  was  one. 

W.  C. 

Mrs.  Unwin  has  never  been  well  since  you  saw 
her.  You  are  not  passionately  fond  of  letter- 
writing,  I  perceive,  who  have  dropped  a  lady; 
but  you  will  be  a  loser  by  the  bargain ;  for  one 
letter  of  hers  in  point  of  real  utility,  and  sterling 
value,  is  worth  twenty  of  mine,  and  you  will  never 
have  another  from  her,  till  you  have  earned  it. 

W.  C. 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

Weston,  July  31,  1790. 
You  have  by  this  time,  I  presume,  answered 
Lady  Hesketh's  letter'?  If  not,  answer  it  without 
delay;  and  this  injunction  I  give  you,  judging  that 
it  may  not  be  entirely  unnecessary;  for  though 
I  have  seen  you  but  once,  and  only  for  two  or 
three  days,  J  have  found  out  that  you  are  a  scat- 
ter-brain. I  made  the  discovery  perhaps  the  sooner, 
because  in  this  you  very  much  r^^semble  myself, 
who  in  the  course  of  my  hfe  have,  through  mere 
carelessness  and  inattention,  lost  many  advan- 


348 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  33G,  337,  338. 


tages :  and  insuperable  shyness  lias  also  deprived 
me  of  many.  And  here  again  there  is  a  resem- 
blance between  us.  You  will  do  well  to  ruard 
against  both,  for  of  both,  I  believe,  you  Lave  a 
considerable  share  as  well  as  myst-lf 

We  long  to  see  you  again,  and  are  only  con- 
cerned at  the  short  stay  you  propose  to  make  with 
us.  If  time  should  seem  as  sliort  to  you  at  Wes- 
ton, as  it  seems  to  us,  your  visit  here  will  be  gone 
"  as  a  dream  when  one  awaketh,  or  as  a  watch  in 
the  night.'' 

It  is  a  life  of  dreams,  but  the  pleasantest  one 
naturally  wishes  longest. 

I  shall  find  employment  for  you,  having  made 
already  some  part  of  the  fair  copy  of  the  Odyssey 
a  foul  one.  I  am  revising  it  for  the  last  time,  and 
spare  nothing  that  I  can  mend.*  The  Iliad  is 
finished.  I 


rines  unseasonable  ii)(li.s|M)siU(»ii  h;i.s  jilso  eost  us 
a  disappointment,  wliicit  wc  jiiuch  rcirnjt;  and 
were  it  not  that  Johnny  has  made  shift  to  reach 
us,  we  should  think  ourselves  completcily  unfortu- 
nate. But  him  we  have,  and  him  we  will  hold  aa 
long  as  we  can,  so  expect  not  very  soon  to  see  him 
in  Norfolk.  He  is  so  harmless,  cheerful,  gentle, 
and  good-tempered,  and  I  am  so  entirely  at  my 
ease  with  him,  that  I  can  not  surrender  him  with- 
out a  needs  must,  even  to  those  who  have  a  su- 
perior claim  upon  him.  He  left  us  yesterday 
morning,  and  whither  do  you  think  he  is  gone, 
and  on  what  errand'?  Gone,  as  sure  as  you  are 
alive,  to  London,  and  to  convey  my  Homer  to  the 
bookseller's.  But  he  will  return  the  day  after  to- 
morrow, and  I  mean  to  part  with  him  no  more 
till  necessity  shall  force  us  asunder.  Suspect  me 
not,  mv  cousin,  of  being 


^  -        ,       ^       ,  ,  cousm,  of  being  such  a  monster  as  to 

11  you  have  Donne  s  poems,  brmg  them  with  |  have  imposed  this  task  myself  on  your  kind  ne- 
you,  for  I  have  not  seen  them  many  years,  and  phew,  or  even  to  have  thought  of  doing  it.  It 


should  like  to  look  them  over. 

You  may  treat  us  too,  if  you  please,  with 


lit- 


tle of  your  music,  for  I  seldom  hear  any,  and  de- 
light much  in  it.  You  need  not  fear  a  rival^  for 
we  have  but  two  fiddles  in  the  neighbourhood — 
one  a  gardener's,  the  other  a  tailor's:  terrible  per- 
formers both !  "VV.  C, 


[TO  MR.  JOHNSON.] 

Sept.  7,  1790. 
It  grieves  me  that  after  all  I  am  obliged  to  go 
into  public  without  the  whole  advantage  of  Mr. 
Fuseli's  judicious  strictures.  My  only  considera- 
tion is,  that  I  have  not  forfeited  them  by  my  own 
impatience.  Five  years  are  no  small  portion  of  a 
man's  life,  especially  at  the  latter  end  of  it;  and  in 
those  five  years,  being  a  man  of  almost  no  en- 
gagements, I  have  done  more  m  the  way  of  hard 
work,  than  most  could  have  done  in  twice  the 
number.  I  beg  you  to  present  my  compliments 
to  Mr.  Fuseli,  with  many  and  sincere  thanks  for 
the  services  that  his  own  more  important  occupa- 
tions would  allow^  him  to  render  me. 


TO  MRS.  BODHAM. 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN,      Weston,  Sept.  9,  1790. 

I  AM  truly  sorry  to  be  forced  after  all  to  resign 
the  hope  of  seeing  you  and  Mr.  Bodham  at  Wes- 
ton this  year;  the  next  may  possibly  be  more  pro- 
pitious, and  I  heartily  wish  it  may.    Poor  Catha- 


happened  that  one  day,  as  we  chatted  by  the,fire- 
side,  I  expressed  a  wish,  that  I  could  hear  of  some 
trusty  body  going  to  London,  to  whose  care  I 
might  consign  my  voluminous  labours,  the  work 
of  five  years.  For  I  purpose  never  to  visit  that 
city  again  myself,  and  should  have  been  uneasy  to 
have  left  a  charge,  of  so  much  importance  to  me, 
altogether  to  the  care  of  a  stage-coachman.  Johnny 
had  no  sooner  heard  my  wish,  than  oflfering  him- 
self to  the  service,  he  fulfilled  it,  and  his  offer  was 
made  in  such  terms,  and  accompanied  with  a  coun- 
tenance and  manner  expressive  of  so  much  alacri- 
ty, that  unreasonable  as  I  thought  it  at  first,  to 
give  him  so  much  trouble,  I  soon  found  that  1 
should  mortify  him  by  a  refusal.  He  is  gone 
therefore  with  a  box  full  of  poetry,  of  which  I 
think  nobody  will  plunder  him.  He  has  only  to 
say  what  it  is,  and  there  is  no  commodity  I  think  a 
freebooter  would  covet  less.  W.  C. 


*  The  revisal  was  completed  on  the  25th  of  August  follow- 
ing; five  years  and  one  month  (exclusive  of  the  period  of 
illness  before-mentioned)  from  the  writer's  entering  on  the 
ti'anslation  of  Homer. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

The  Lodge,  Sept.  13,  1790. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

Your  letter  was  particularly  welcome  to  me, 
not  only  because  it  came  after  a  long  silence,  but 
because  it  brought  me  good  news— news  of  your 
naarriage,  and  consequently,  I  trust,  of  your  hap- 
piness. May  that  happiness  be  durable  as  your 
lives,  and  may  you  be  the  Felices  ter  et  amplius 
of  whom  Horace  sings  so  sweetly !  This  is  my 
sincere  wish,  and,  though  expressed  in  prose,  shall 
serve  as  your  epithalamium.  You  comfort  me 
when  you  say  that  your  marriage  will  not  deprive  us 
of  the  sight  of  you  hereafter.  If  you  do  not  wish 
that  I  should  regret  your  union,  you  must  make 
that  assurance  good  as  often  as  you  have  oppor- 
tunity. 


Let.  339,  340, 341. 


LETTERS. 


34S 


After  perpetual  versification  during  five  years,  I : 
find  myself  at  last  a  vacant  man,  and  reduced  to  | 
read  for  my' amusement.  My  Homer  is  gone  to  ; 
the  press,  and  you  will  imagine  that  I  feel  a  void  j 
in  consequence.  The  proofs  however  will  be  com- 
ing soon,  and  I  shall  avail  myself,  with  all  my 
force,  of  this  last  opportunity,  to  make  my  work 
as  perfect  as  I  wish  it.  I  shall  not  therefore  be 
long  time  destitute  of  employment,  but  shall  have 
sufficient  to  keep  me  occupied  all  the  winter,  and 
part  of  the  ensuing  spring,  for  Johnson  purposes 
to  publish  either  in  March,  April,  or  May— my 
very  preface  is  finished.  It  did  not  cost  me  much 
trouble,  being  neither  long  nor  learned.  I  have 
spoken  my  mind  as  freely  as  decency  would  per- 
mit on  the  subject  of  Pope's  version,  allowing  him, 
at  the  same  time,  all  the  merit  to  which  1  think 
him  entitled.  I  have  given  my  reasons  for  trans- 
lating in  blank  verse,  and  hold  some  discourse  on 
the  mechanism  of  it,  chiefly  with  a  view  to  obviate 
thoiprejudices  of  some  people  against  it.  I  expa- 
tiate a  little  on  the  manner  in  w^hich  I  think  Ho- 
mer ought  to  be  rendered,  and  in  which  I  have  en- 
deavoured to  render  him  m.yself,  and  anticipated 
two  or  three  cavils,  to  wliich  I  foresee  that  I  shall 
be  liable  from  the  ignorant,  or  uncandid,  in  order, 
if  possible,  to  prevent  them.  These  are  the  chief 
heads  of  my  preface,  and  the  whole  consists  of 
about  twelve  pages. 

It  is  possible  when  I  come  to  treat  with  John- 
son about  the  copy,  I  may  want  some  person  to 
negotiate  for  me ;  and  knowing  no  one  so  intelli- 
gent as  yourself  in  books,  or  so  well  qualified  to 
estimate  their  just  value,  I  shall  beg  leave  to  resort 
to  and  rely  on  you  as  my  negotiator.  But  I  will 
not  trouble  you  unless  I  should  see  occasion.  My 
cousin  was  the  bearer  of  my  Mss.  to  London.  He 
went  on  purpose,  and  returns  to-'morrow.  Mrs. 
Un win's  affectionate  felicitations,  added  to  my  own, 
conclude  me, 

My  dear  friend,  sincerely  yours,  W.  C. 

The  trees  of  a  colonnade  will  solve  my  riddle. 

[TO  MR.  JOHNSON.] 

Wesion,  Oct.  3,  1790. 
Mr.  Newton  having  again  requested  that  the 
preface  which  he  wrote  for  my  first  volume  may  be 
prefixed  to  it,  I  am  desirous  to  gratify  him  in  a 
particular  that  so  emphatically  bespeaks  his  friend- 
ship for  me ;  and  should  my  books  see  another 
edition,  shall  be  obliged  to  you  if  you  will  add  it 
accordingly. 


I  beg  that  you  will  not  suffer  your  reverence 
either  for  Homer,  or  his  translator,  to  check  your 
eontinual  examinations.    I  never  knew  with  cer- 


tainty, till  now,  that  the  marginal  strictures  I 
found  in  the  Task  proofs  were  yours.  The  just- 
ness of  them,  and  the  benefit  I  derived  froiA  thenj 
are  fresh  in  my  memory,  and  I  doubt  not  tha 
their  utility  will  be  the  same  in  the  present  in 
stance.* 

Weston,  Oct.  30,  1790 


TO  MRS.  BODHAM. 

MY  DEAR  coz,  Wcston,  Nov.  21,  1790. 

Our  kindness  to  your  nephew  is  no  more  than 
he  must  entitle  himself  to  wherever  he  goes.  His 
amiable  disposition  and  manners  will  never  fail  to 
secure  him  a  warm  place  in  the  E\,ffection  of  all 
who  know  him.  The  advice  I  gave  respecting  his 
poem  on  Audley  End  was  dictated  by  my  love  of 
him,  and  a  sincere  desire  of  his  success.  It  is  one 
thing  to  write  what  may  please  our  friends,  who, 
because  they  are  such,  are  apt  to  be  a  little  biased 
in  our  favour;  and  another  to  write  what  may 
please  every  body  ;  because  they  who  have  no  con- 
nexion, or  even  knowledge  of  the  author,  will  be 
sure  to  find  fault  if  they  can.  My  advice,  how- 
ever salutary  and  necessary  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
was  such  as  I  dared  not  give  to  a  poet  of  less  diffi- 
dence than  he.  Poets  are  to  a  proverb  irritable, 
and  he  is  the  only  one  I  ever  knew,  who  seems  to 
have  no  spark  of  that  fire  about  him.  He  has 
left  U.S  about  a  fortnight,  and  sorry  we  were  to  lose 
him ;  but  had  he  been  my  son,  he  must  have  gone, 
and  I  could  not  have  regretted  him  more.  If  his 
sister  be  still  with  you,  present  my  love  to  her,  and 
tell  her  how  much  I  wish  to  see  them  at  Weston 
together. 

Mrs.  Hewitt  probably  remembers  more  of  my 
childhood,  than  1  can  recollect  either  of  hers  or 
my  own ;  but  this  I  recollect,  that  the  days  of  that 
period  were  happy  days,  compared  with  most  I 
have  seen  since.  There  are  few  perhaps  in  the 
world,  who  have  not  cause  to  look  back  with  re- 
gret on  the  days  of  infancy;  yet,  to  say  the  truth, 
I  suspect  some  deception  in  this  For  infancy  it- 
self has  its  cares ;  and  though  we  can  not  now 
conceive  how  trifles  could  aflfect  us  much,  it  is  cer- 
tain that  they  did.  Trifles  they  appear  now,  but 
such  they  were  not  then.  W.  C. 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

MY  BIRTH-DAY. 

Friday,  Nov.  26,  1790. 

MY  DEAREST  JOHNNY, 

I  AM  happy  that  you  have  escaped  from  the  claws 


*  1  am  anxious  to  preserve  this  singular  anecdote ;  as  is 
is  honourable  both  to  the  modest  poet,  and  to  his  intelligent 
bookseller.  Hayky. 


a50 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  342,  343- 


of  Euclid  into  the  bosom  of  Justinian.  It  is  use- 
ful I  suppose  to  every  man,  to  be  w(!ll  grounded  in 
the  principles  of  juris])rudence ;  and  1  take  it  to 
be  a  branch  of  science  that  bids  much  fairer  to 
enlarge  the  mind,  and  give  an  accuracy  of  rea- 
soning, that  all  the  mathematics  in  the  world. 
Mind  your  studies,  and  you  will  soon  be  wiser  than 
I  can  hope  to  be. 

We  had  a  visit  on  Monday,  from  one  of  the 
first  women  in  the  world ;  in  point  of  character,  I 
mean,  and  accomplishments,  the  dowager  lady 
Spencer !  I  may  receive  perhaps  some  honours 
hereafter,  should  my  translation  speed  according 
to  my  wishes,  and  the  pains  I  have  taken  with  it ; 
but  shall  never  receive  any  that  1  shall  esteem  so 
highly.  She  is  indeed  worthy  to  whom  I  should 
dedicate,  and  may  but  my  Odyssey  prove  as  wor- 
thy of  her,  I  shall  have  nothing  to  fear  from  the 
critics.       Yours,  my  dear  Johnny, 

With  much  affection,  W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

The  Lodge,  Nov.  30,  1790. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

I  WILL  confess  that  I  thought  your  letter  some- 
what tardy,  though  at  the  same  time  I  made  every 
excuse  for  you,  except,  as  it  seems,  the  right. 
TTiat  indeed  was  out  of  the  reach  of  all  possible 
conjecture.  I  could  not  guess  that  your  silence 
was  occasioned  by  your  being  occupied  with  ei- 
ther thieves  or  thief-takers.  Since  however  the 
cause  was  such,  I  rejoice  that  your  labours  were 
not  in  vain,  and  that  the  freebooters  who  had  plun- 
dered your  friend,  are  safe  in  limbo.  I  admire  too,  as 
much  as  I  rejoice  in  your  success,  the  indefatiga- 
ble spirit  that  prompted  you  to  pursue,  with  such 
unremitting  perseverance,  an  object  not  to  be 
reached  but  at  the  exj-snse  of  infinite  trouble,  and 
that  must  have  led  you  into  an  acquaintance  with 
scenes  and  characters  the  most  horrible  to  a  mind 
like  yours.  I  see  in  this  conduct  the  zeal  and 
firmness  of  your  friendship  to  whomsoever  pro- 
fessed ;  and  though  1  wanted  not  a  proof  of  it 
myself,  contemplate  so  unequivocal  an  indication 
of  what  you  really  are,  and  of  what  I  always  be- 
lieved you  to  be,  with  much  pleasure.  May  you 
rise  from  the  condition  of  an  humble  prosecutor, 
or  witness,  to  the  bench  of  judgment ! 

When  your  letter  arrived,  it  found  me  with  the 
worst  and  most  obstinate  cold  that  I  ever  caught. 
This  was  one  reason  why  it  had  not  a  speedier 
answer.  Another  is,  that,  except  Tuesday  morn- 
ing, there  is  none  in  the  week  in  which  I  am  not 
engaged  in  the  last  revisal  of  my  translation ;  the 
revisal  I  mean  of  my  proof  sheets.  To  this  busi- 
ness I  give  myself  with  an  assiduity  and  attention 
truly  admirable,  and  set  an  example,  which  if 


other  poets  could  be  apprised  of,  they  would  do 
well  to  follow.  Miscarriages  in  authorship  (I  am 
persuaded)  ate  as  often  to  be  ascribed  to  want  of 
painstaking,  as  to  want  of  ability. 

Lady  Hesketh,  Mrs.  Unwin,  and  myself  often 
mention  you,  and  always  in  terms,  that  though  you 
would  blush  to  hear  them,  you  need  not  be  ashamed 
of;  at  the  same  time  wishing  much  that  you  could 
change  our  trio  into  a  quartetto.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Weston,  Dec.  1,  1790. 

It  is  plain  that  you  understand  trap,  as  we  used 
to  say  at  school:  for  you  begin  with  accusing  me 
of  long  silence,  conscious  yourself  at  the  same  time 
that  you  have  been  half  a  year  in  my  debt,  or  there- 
about. But  1  will  answer  your  accusations  with 
a  boast,  with  a  boast  of  having  intended  maijy  a 
day  to  write  to  you  again,  notwithstanding  your 
long  insolvency.  Your  brother  and  sister  of  Chi- 
cheley  can  both  witness  for  me  that,  weeks  since, 
I  testified  such  an  intention ;  and  if  I  did  not  exe- 
cute it,  it  was  not  for  want  of  good  will,  but  for 
want  of  leisure.  W^hen  will  you  be  able  to  glory 
of  such  designs,  so  liberal  and  magnificent,  you, 
who  have  nothing  to  do  by  your  own  confession 
but  to  grow  fat  and  saucy  ?  Add  to  all  this,  that  I 
have  had  a  violent  cold,  such  as  I  never  have  but 
at  the  first  approach  of  winter,  and  such  as  at  that 
time  I  seldom  escape.  A  fever  accompanied  it, 
and  an  incessant  cough. 

You  measure  the  speed  of  printers,  of  my  printer 
at  least,  rather  by  your  own  wishes  than  by  any 
just  standard.  Mine  (I  believe)  is  as  nimble  a 
one  as  falls  to  the  share  of  poets  in  general,  though 
not  nimble  enough  to  satisfy  either  the  author  or 
his  friends.  I  told  you  that  my  work  would  go  to 
press  in  autumn,  and  so  it  did.  But  it  had  been 
six  weeks  in  London  ere  the  press  began  to  work 
upon  it.  About  a  month  since  we  began  to  print, 
and  at  the  rate  of  nine  sheets  in  a  fortnight  have 
proceeded  to  about  the  middle  of  the  sixth  Iliad. 
"  No  further?'  you  say,  I  answer — No,  nor  even 
so  far,  without  much  scolding  on  my  part  both  at 
the  bookseller  and  the  printer.  But  courage,  my 
friend!  Fair  and  softly  as  we  proceed,  we  shall 
find  our  way  through  at  last;  and  in  confirmation 
of  this  hope,  while  I  write  this,  another  sheet  ar- 
rives.   I  expect  to  publish  in  the  spring. 

I  love  and  thank  you  for  the  ardent  desire  you 
express  to  hear  me  bruited  abroad,  el  per  ora  vir ilvi 
volitantem.  For  your  encouragement  I  will  tell 
you  that  I  read,  myself  at  least,  with  wonderful 
complacence  what  I  have  done;  and  if  the  world, 
when  it  shall  appear,  do  not  like  it  as  well  as  1, 
we  will  both  say  and  swear  with  Fluellin,  that  it 


Let.  344,345,  346. 


LETTERS. 


351 


is  an  ass  and  a  fool  (look  you!)  and  a  prating  cox- 
comb. 

I  felt  no  ambition  of  the  laurel.  Else,  though 
vainly  perhaps,  I  had  friends  who  would  have  made 
a  stir  on  my  behalf  on  that  occasion.  I  confess 
that  when  I  learned  the  new  condition  of  the  of- 
fice, that  odes  were  no  longer  required,  and  that 
the  salary  was  increased,  I  felt  not  the  same  dis- 
like of  it.  But  I  could  neither  go  to  court,  nor 
could  I  kiss  hands,  were  it  for  a  much  more  valua- 
ble consideration.  Therefore  never  expect  to  hear 
that  royal  favours  find  out  me ! 

Adieu,  my  dear  old  friend!  I  will  send  you  a 
mortuary  copy  soon,  and  in  the  mean  time  remain, 
Ever  yours,  W.  C. 

TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

Weston,  Dec.  18,  1790. 
I  BERCEiVE  myself  so  flattered  by  the  instances 
of  illustrious  success  mentioned  in  your  letter,  that 
I  feel  all  the  amiable  modesty,  for  which  I  was 
once  so  famous,  sensibly  giving  way  to  a  spirit  of 
vain  glory. 

The  King's  College  subscription  makes  me 
proud — the  effect  that  my  verses  have  had  on 
your  two  young  friends,  the  mathematicians,  makes 
me  proud;  and  I  am,  if  possible,  prouder  still  of  the 
contents  of  the  letter  that  you  enclosed. 

You  complained  of  being  stupid,  and  sent  me 
one  of  the  cleverest  letters.  I  have  not  complained 
of  being  stupid,  and  have  sent  you  one  of  the  dull- 
est. But  it  is  no  matter;  I  never  aim  at  any  thing 
above  the  pitch  of  every  day's  scribble,  when  I 
write  to  those  I  love. 

Homer  proceeds,  my  boy !  We  shall  get  through 
it  in  time,  and  (I  hope)  by  the  time  appointed. 
We  are  now  in  the,  tenth  Iliad.  I  expect  the  la- 
dies every  minute  to  breakfast.  You  have  their 
best  love.  Mine  attends  the  whole  army  of  Donnes 
at  Mattishall  Green  assembled.  How  happy  should 
I  find  myself,  were  I  but  one  of  the  party!  My 
capering  days  are  over.  But  do  you  caper  for  me, 
that  you  may  give  them  some  idea  of  the  happiness 
I  should  feel,  were  I  in  the  midst  of  them ! 

W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Weston,  Jan  4, 1791. 

You  would  long  since  have  received  an  answer 
to  your  last,  had  not  the  wicked  Clerk  of  North- 
ampton delayed  to  send  me  the  printed  copy  of  my 
annual  dirge,  which  I  waited  to  enclose.  Here  it 
is  at  last,  and  much  good  may  it  do  the  readers ! 

I  have  regretted  that  I  could  not  write  sooner, 
especially  because  it  well  became  me  to  reply  as 

2 


soon  as  possible  to  your  kind  inquiries  after  my 
health,  which  has  been  both  better  and  worse  since 
I  wrote  last.  The  cough  was  cured,  or  nearly  so, 
when  I  received  your  letter,  but  I  have  lately  been 
afflicted  with  a  nervous  fever,  a  malady  formidable 
to  me  above  all  others,  on  account  of  the  terror  and 
dejection  of  spirits,  that  in  my  case  always  accom' 
pany  it.  I  even  looked  forward,  for  this  reason, 
to  the  month  now  current,  with  the  most  miserable 
apprehensions,  for  in  this  month  the  distemper  has 
twice  seized  me  I  wish  to  be  thankful  however 
to  the  sovereign  Dispenser  both  of  health  and  sick- 
ness, that,  though  I  have  felt  cause  enough  to 
tremble,  he  gives  me  now  encouragement  to  hope 
that  I  may  dismiss  my  fears,  and  expect,  for  this 
January  at  least,  to  escape  it. 

*  *  *  *  *  :|e 

The  mention  of  quantity  reminds  me  of  a  re- 
mark that  I  have  seen  somewhere,  possibly  in 
Johnson,  to  this  purport,  that  the  syllables  in  our 
language  being  neither  long  nor  short,  our  verse 
accordingly  is  less  beautiful  than  the  verse  of  the 
Greeks  or  Romans,  because  requiring  less  artifice 
in  its  construction.  But  I  deny  the  fact,  and  am 
ready  to  depose  on  oath,  that  I  find  every  syllable 
as  distinguishably  and  clearly  either  long  or  short, 
in  our  language,  as  in  any  other.  I  know  also 
that  without  an  attention  to  the  quantity  of  our 
syllables,  good  verse  can  not  possibly  be  written; 
and  that  ignorance  of  this  matter  is  one  reason 
why  we  see  so  much  that  is  good  for  nothing.  The 
movement  of  a  verse  is  always  either  shuffling  or 
graceful,  according  to  our  management  in  this  par- 
ticular, and  Milton  gives  almost  as  many  proofs 
of  it  in  his  Paradise  Lost  as  there  are  lines  in  the 
poem.  Away  therefore  with  all  such  unfounded 
observations  !  I  would  not  give  a  farthing  for  many 
bushels  of  them — nor  you  perhaps  for  this  letter. 
Yet  upon  recollection,  forasmuch  as  I  know  you 
to  be  a  dear  lover  of  literary  gossip,  I  think  it  pos- 
sible you  may  esteem  it  highly. 

Believe  me,  my  dear  friend,  most  truly  yours, 

W.  C 


[TO  MR.  JOHNSON.*] 

Note  by  the  Editor. 

This  extract  is,  in  fact,  entitled  to  a  much  earlier  place  in  the 
collection ;  but  having  a  common  subject  with  the  conclud- 
ing paragraph  of  the  preceding  Letter,  it  seemed  to  call  for 
insertion  immediately  after  it. 

1  DID  not  write  in  the  line,  that  has  been  tam- 


*  It  happened  that  some  accidental  reviser  of  the  manu- 
script had  taken  the  liberty  to  alter  a  line  in  a  poem  of  Cow- 
per's : — This  liberty  drew  from  the  offended  poet  the  following 
very  just  and  animated  remonstrance,  which  I  am  anxious  to 
preserve,  because  it  elucidates,  with  great  felicity  of  expres- 
sion, his  deliberate  ideas  on  English  versification.   Hay  ley. 


352 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  347, 348. 


percd  with,  hastily,  or  without  due  attention  to  the 
construction  of  it;  and  what  appeared  to  me  its 
only  merit  is,  in  its  present  state,  entirely  anni- 
liilated. 

I  know  that  the  ears  of  modern  verse-writers  are 
delicate  to  an  excess,  and  their  readers  are  troubled 
with  the  same  squeamishness  as  themselves.  So 
that  if  a  line  do  not  run  as  smooth  as  quicksilver 
they  are  offended.  A  critic  of  the  present  day 
serves  a  poem  as  a  cook  serves  a  dead  turkey,  when 
she  fastens  the  legs  of  it  to  a  post,  and  draws  out 
all  the  sinews.  For  this  we  may  thank  Pope ; 
but  unless  we  could  imitate  him  in  the  closeness 
and  compactness  of  his  expression,  as  well  as  in 
the  smoothness  of  his  numbers,  we  had  better  drop 
the  imitation,  which  serves  no  other  purpose  than 
to  emasculate  and  weaken  all  we  write.  Give  me 
a  manly,  rough  line,  with  a  deal  of  meaning  in  it, 
rather  than  a  whole  poem  full  of  musical  periods, 
that  have  notmng  but  their  oily  smoothness  to  re- 
commend them! 

I  have  said  thus  much,  as  I  hinted  in  the  be- 
ginning, because  I  have  just  finished  a  much  long- 
er poem  than  the  last,  which  our  common  friend 
will  receive  by  the  same  messenger  that  has  the 
charge  of  this  letter.  In  that  poem  there  are  many 
lines,  which  an  ear,  so  nice  as  the  gentleman's  who 
made  the  above-mentioned  alteration,  would  un- 
doubtedly condemn;  and  yet  (if  I  may  be  permit- 
ted to  say  it)  they  can  not  be  made  smoother  with- 
out being  the  worse  for  it.  There  is  a  roughness 
on  a  plum,  which  nobody  that  understands  fruit, 
would  rub  off,  though  the  plum  would  be  much 
more  poHshed  without  it.  But  lest  I  tire  you,  I 
will  only  add,  that  I  wish  you  to  guard  me  from  all 
such  meddling;  assuring  you,  that  I  always  write 
as  smoothly  as  I  can;  but  that  I  never  did,  never 
will  sacrifice  the  spirit  or  sense  of  a  passage  to  the 
sound  of  it 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

Weston,  Jan.  21, 1791. 
I  KNOW  that  you  have  already  been  catechised 
by  Lady  Hesketh  on  the  subject  of  your  return 
hither  before  the  winter  shall  be  over,  and  shall 
therefore  only  say  that  if  you  can  come,  we  shall 
be  happy  to  receive  you.  Remember  also,  that 
nothing  can  excuse  the  nonperformance  of  a  pro- 
mise but  absolute  necessity !  In  the  mean  time  my 
faith  in  your  veracity  is  such,  that  1  am  persuaded 
you  will  suffer  nothing  less  than  necessity  to  pre- 
vent it.  Were  you  not  extremely  pleasant  to  us, 
and  just  the  sort  of  youth  that  suits  us,  we  should 
neither  of  us  have  said  half  so  much,  or  perhaps  a 
word  on  the  subject. 


Yours,  my  dear  Johnny,  an;  vagaries  that  I 
shall  never  see  practised  by  any  other;  and  whe- 
ther you  slap  your  ancle,  or  reel  as  if  you  were 
fuddled,  or  dance  in  the  path  before  me,  all  is  cha- 
racteristic of  yourself,  and  therefore  to  me  delight- 
ful. I  have  hinted  to  you  indeed  sometimes,  that 
you  should  be  cautious  of  indulging  antic  habits 
and  singularities  of  all  sorts,  and  young  men  in 
general  have  need  enough  of  such  admonition. 
But  yours  are  a  sort  of  fairy  habits,  such  as  might 
belong  to  Puck  or  Robin  Goodfellow,  and  there- 
fore, good  as  the  advice  is,  I  should  be  half  sorry 
should  you  take  it. 

This  allowance  at  least  I  give  you.  Continue 
to  take  your  walks,  if  walks  they  may  be  called, 
exactly  in  their  present  fashion,  till  you  have  taken 
orders!  Then,  indeed,  forasmuch  as  a  skipping, 
curveting,  bounding  divine  might  be  a  spectacle 
not  altogether  seemly,  I  shall  consent  to  your  adop- 
tion of  a  more  grave  demeanour.  W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,         The  Lodge,  Feb.  5, 1791. 

My  letters  to  you  were  all  either  petitionary,  or 
in  the  style  of  acknowledgments  and  thanks,  and 
such  nearly  in  an  alternate  order.  In  my  last  I 
loaded  you  with  commissions,  for  the  due  dis- 
charge of  which  I  am  now  to  say,  and  say  truly, 
how  much  I  feel  myself  obliged  to  you ;  neither  can 
I  stop  there,  but  must  thank  you  likewise  for  new 
honours  from  Scotland,  which  have  left  me  no- 
thing to  wish  for  from  that  country;  for  my  list  is 
now  I  believe  graced  with  the  subscription  of  all 
its  learned  todies.  I  regret  only  that  some  of  them 
arrived  too  late  to  do  honour  to  my  present  publi- 
cation of  names.  But  there  are  those  among  them 
and  from  Scotland  too,  that  may  give  an  useful 
hint  perhaps  to  our  own  universities.  Your  very 
handsome  present  of  Pope's  Homer  has  arrived 
safe,  notwithstanding  an  accident  that  befel  him 
by  the  way.  The  Hall-servant  brought  the  parcel 
from  Olney,  resting  it  on  the  pommel  of  the  saddle, 
and  his  horse  fell  with  him.  Pope  was  in  conse- 
quence rolled  in  the  dirt,  but  being  well  coated  got 
no  damage.  If  augurs  and  soothsayers  were  not 
out  of  fashion,  I  should  have  consulted  one  or  two 
of  that  order,  in  hope  of  learning  from  them  that 
this  fall  was  ominous.  I  have  found  a  place  for 
him  in  the  parlour,  where  he  makes  a  splendid 
appearance,  and  where  he  shall  not  long  want  a 
neighbour,  one  who,  if  less  popular  than  himself, 
shall  at  least  look  as  big  as  he.  How  has  it  hap- 
pened that,  since  Pope  did  certainly  dedicate  both 
lUad  and  Odyssey,  no  dedication  is  found  in  this 
first  edition  of  them'?  W.  C. 


Let.  349,  350,  351. 


LETTERS. 


353 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Feb.  13,  1791. 
I  CAN  now  send  you  a  full  and  true  account  of 
this  business.  Having  learned  that  your  inn  at 
Woburn  was  the  George,  we  sent  Samuel  thither 
yesterday.  Mr.  Martin,  master  of  the  George, 
told  him  *         *  *  *  * 

*****  *j 

W.  C. 

P.  S.  I  can  not  help  adding  a  circumstance  that 
will  divert  you,  Martin,  having  learned  from  Sam 
whose  servant  he  was,  told  him  that  he  had  never 
seen  Mr.  Cowper,  but  he  had  heard  him  frequently 
spoken  of  by  the  companies  that  had  called  at  his 
house,  and  therefore,  when  Sam  would  have  paid 
for  his  breakfast,  would  take  nothing  from  him 
Who  says  that  fame  is  only  empty  breath?  On 
the  contrary,  it  is  good  ale,  and  cold  beef  into  the 
bargain. 


I 


TO  THE  REY.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

Weston  Underwood,  Feb.  26, 1791. 

MY  DEiiR  FRIEND, 

It  is  a  maxim  of  much  weight, 
Worth  coraiing  o'er  and  o'er, 
He,  who  has  Homer  to  translate, 
Had  need  do  nothing  more. 


But  notwithstanding  the  truth  and  importance 
of  this  apophthegm,  to  which  I  lay  claim  as  the 
original  author  of  it,  it  is  not  equally  true  that  my 
application  to  Homer,  close  as  it  is,  has  been  the 
sole  cause  of  my  delay  to  answer  you.  No.  In  ob- 
serving so  long  a  silence  I  have  heM.  influenced 
much  more  by  a  vindictive  purpose,  a  purpose  to 
punish  you  for  your  suspicion  that  I  could  possi 
bly  feel  myself  hurt  or  offended  by  any  critical  sug 
gestion  of  yours  that  seemed  to  reflect  on  the  pu- 
rity of  my  nonsense  verses.  Understand,  if  you 
please,  for  the  future,  that  whether  I  disport  my- 
self in  Greek  or  Latin,  or  in  whatsoever  other 
language,  you  are  hereby,  henceforth,  and  for  ever, 
entitled  and  warranted  to  take  any  liberties  with 
it  to  which  you  shall  feel  yourself  inclined,  not 
excepting  even  the  lines  themselves  which  stand 
at  the  head  of  this  letter ! 

You  delight  me  when  you  call  blank  verse  the 
English  heroic;  for  I  have  always  thought,  and 
often  said,  that  we  have  no  other  verse  worthy  to 
be  so  entitled.  When  you  read  my  Preface,  you 
will  be  made  acquainted  with  my  sentiments  on 


+  This  letter  contained  the  history  of  a  servant's  cruelty  to 
a  posihorse,  which  a  reader  of  humanity  could  not  wish  to  see 
in  print.  But  the  postscript  describes  so  pleasantly  the  signal 
influence  of  a  poet's  reputation  on  the  spirit  of  a  liberal  inn-' 
keeper,  that  it  surely  ought  not  to  be  suppressed.  Hayley, 


this  subject  pretty  much  at  large;  for  which  rea- 
son I  will  curb  my  zeal,  and  say  the  less  about 
it  at  present.  That  Johnson,  who  wrote  harmo- 
niously in  rhyme,  should  have  had  so  defective  an 
ear  as  never  to  have  discovered  any  music  at  all 
in  blank  verse,  till  he  heard  a  particular  friend  of 
his  reading  it,  is  a  wonder  never  sufficiently  to  be 
wondered  at.  Yet  this  is  true  on  his  own  acknow- 
ledgment, and  amounts  to  a  plain  confession  (of 
which  perhaps  he  was  not  aware  when  he  made 
it)  that  he  did  not  know  how  to  read  blank  verse 
himself  In  short,  he  either  suffered  prejudice  to 
lead  him  in  a  string  whithersoever  it  would,  or  his 
taste  in  poetry  was  worth  little.  I  don't  believe  he 
ever  read  any  thing  of  that  kind  with  enthusiasm 
in  his  life:  and  as  good  poetry  can  not  be  composed 
without  a  considerable  share  of  that  quality  in  the 
mind  of  the  author,  so  neither  can  it  be  read  or 
tasted  as  it  ought  to  be  without  it. 

I  have  said  all  this  in  the  morning  fasting,  but 
am  soon  going  to  my  tea.  When,  therefore,  I  shall 
have  told  you  that  we  are  now,  in  the  course  of 
our  printing,  in  the  second  book  of  the  Odyssey,  I 
shall  only  have  time  to  add,  that 

I  am,  my  dear  friend. 

Most  truly  yours,  W.  C. 

I  think  your  Latin  quotations  very  applicable  to 
the  present  state  of  France.  But  France  is  in  a 
situation  new  and  untried  before. 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

Feb.  27,  1791. 
Now,  my  dearest  Johnny,  I  must  tell  thee  m 
few  words  how  much  I  love  and  am  obliged  to 
thee  for  thy  aflfectionate  services. 

My  Cambridge  honours  are  all  to  be  ascribed  to 
you,  and  to  you  only.  Yet  you  are  but  a  little 
man ;  and  a  little  man  into  the  bargain  who  have 
kicked  the  mathematics,  their  idol,  out  of  your  stu- 
dy. So  important  are  the  endings  which  Provi- 
dence frequently  connects  with  small  beginnings. 
Had  you  been  here,  I  could  have  furnished  you 
with  much  employment ;  for  I  have  so  dealt  with 
your  fair  MSS.  in  the  course  of  my  polishing  and 
improving,  that  I  have  almost  blotted  out  the  whole. 
Such,  however,  as  it  is,  I  must  now  send  it  to  the 
printer,  and  he  must  be  content  with  it,  for  theie 
is  not  time  to  make  a  fresh  copy.  We  are  now 
printing  the  second  book  of  the  Odyssey. 

Should  the  Oxonians  bestow  none  of  their  no- 
tice on  me  on  this  occasion,  it  will  happen  singu- 
larly enough,  that  as  Pope  received  all  his  univer- 
sity honours  in  the  subscription  way  from  Oxford, 
and  none  at  all  from  Cambridge,  so  I  shall  have 
received  all  mine  from  Cambridge,  and  none  from 
Oxford.  This  is  the  more  likely  to  be  the  case, 
because  I  understand  that  on  whatsoever  occasion 


354 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  352,  353,  354,  355. 


either  of  those  learned  bodies  thinks  fit  to  move, 
the  other  always  makes  it  a  point  to  sit  still,  thus 
proving  its  superiority. 

I  shall  send  up  your  letter  to  Lady  Hesketh  in 
a  day  or  two,  knowing  that  the  intelligence  con- 
tained in  it  will  afford  her  the  greatest  pleasure. 
Know  likewise  for  your  own  gratification,  that  all 
the  Scotch  universities  have  subscribed,  none  ex- 
cepted. 

We  are  all  as  vy^ell  as  usual ;  that  is  to  say,  as 
well  as  reasonable  folks  expect  to  be  on  the  crazy 
side  of  this  frail  existence. 

I  rejoice  that  we  shall  so  soon  have  you  again  at 
our  fireside.  W.  C. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

'  Weston,  March  6,  1791. 

After  all  this  ploughing  and  sowing  on  the 
plains  of  Troy,  once  fruitful,  such  at  least  to  my 
translating  predecessor,  some  harvest  I  hope  will 
arise  for  me  also.  My  long  work  has  received  its 
last,  last  touches ;  and  I  am  now  giving  my  pre- 
face its  final  adjustment.  We  are  in  the  fourth 
Odyssey  in  the  course  of  our  printing,  and  I  ex- 
pect that  I  and  the  swallows  shall  appear  together. 
They  have  slept  all  the  winter,  but  I,  on  the  con- 
trary, have  been  extremely  busy.    Yet  if  I  can 

viriim  volitare  per  ora"  as  swiftly  as  they  through 
the  air,  I  shall  account  myself  well  requited. 

Adieu !  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  MR.  HURDIS. 

giR^  Weston,  March  6,  1791. 

I  HAVE  always  entertained,  and  have  occasion- 
ally avowed,  a  great  degree  of  respect  for  the  abi- 
lities of  the  unknown  author  of  the  Village  Curate, 
unknown  at  that  time,  but  now  well  known,  and 
not  to  me  only,  but  to  many.  For  before  I  was 
favoured  with  your  obliging  letter,  I  knew  your 
name,  your  place  of  abode,  your  profession,  and 
that  you  had  four  sisters ;  all  which  I  learned  nei- 
ther from  our  bookseller,  nor  from  any  of  his  con- 
nexions ;  you  will  perceive,  therefore,  that  you  are 
no  longer  an  author  incognito.  The  writer  in- 
deed of  many  passages  that  have  fallen  from  your 
pen  could  not  long  continue  so.  Let  genius,  true 
genius,  conceal  itself  where  it  may,  we  may  say 
of  it,  as  the  young  man  in  Terence  of  his  beauti- 
ful mistress,  "  Diu  latere  non  potest." 

I  am  obliged  to  you  for  your  kind  offers  of  ser- 
vice, and  will  not  say  that  I  shall  not  be  trouble- 
some to  you  hereafter ;  but  at  present  I  have  no 
need  to  be  so.  I  have  within  these  two  days  given 
the  very  last  stroke  of  my  pen  to  my  long  Trans- 
lation, and  what  will  be  my  next  career  I  know  not. 


At  any  rate  we  shall  not,  I  hope,  hereafter  be 
known  to  each  other  as  poets  only,  for  your  writ- 
ings have  made  me  ambitious  of  a  nearer  approach 
to  you.  Your  door,  however,  will  never  be  open- 
ed to  me.  My  fate  and  fortune  have  combined 
with  my  natural  disposition  to  draw  a  circle  round 
me  which  1  can  not  pass ;  nor  have  I  been  more 
than  thirteen  miles  from  home  these  twenty  years, 
and  so  far  very  seldom.  But  you  are  a  younger 
man,  and  therefore  may  not  be  quite  so  immovea- 
ble ;  in  which  case,  should  you  choose  at  any  time 
to  move  Weston-ward,  you  will  always  find  me 
happy  to  receive  you ;  and  in  the  mean  time  I  re- 
main, with  much  respect. 

Your  most  obedient  servant,  critic,  and  friend, 

W.C. 

P.  S.  I  wish  to  know  what  you  mean  to  do  with 
Sir  Thomas.*  For  though  I  expressed  doubts 
about  his  theatrical  possibilities,  I  think  him  a  very- 
respectable  person,  and  with  some  improvement 
well  worthy  of  being  introduced  to  the  public. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

March  10,  1791. 

Give  my  affectionate  remembrances  to  your  sis- 
ters, and  tell  Ihem  I  am  impatient  to  entertain  them 
with  my  old  story  new  dressed. 

I  have  two  French  prints  hanging  in  my  study, 
both  on  Iliad  subjects ;  and  I  have  an  English  one 
in  the  parlour,  on  a  subject  from  the  same  poem. 
In  one  of  the  former,  Agamemnon  addresses  Achil- 
les exactly  in  the  attitude  of  a  dancing-master 
turning  miss  in  a  minuet ;  in  the  latter  the  figures 
are  plain,  ^  the  attitudes  plain  also.  This  is,  in 
some  considerable  measure  I  believe,  the  difference 
between  my  translation  and  Pope's ;  and  will  serve 
as  an  exemplification  of  what  I  am  going  to  lay 
before  you  and  the  public.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,       Wcston,  March  18, 1791. 

I  GIVE  you  joy  that  you  are  about  to  receive 
some  more  of  my  elegant  prose,  and  I  feel  myself 
in  danger  of  attempting  to  make  it  even  more  ele- 
gant than  usual,  and  thereby  of  spoiling  it,  under 
the  influence  of  your  commendations.  But  my 
old  helter-skelter  manner  has  already  succeeded  so 
well,  that  I  will  not,  even  for  the  sake  of  entitling 
myself  to  a  still  greater  portion  of  your  praise, 
abandon  it. 

I  did  not  call  in  question  Johnson's  true  spirit 
of  poetry,  because  he  was  not  qualified  to  relish 
blank  verse  (though,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  think 


•  Sir  Thomas  More,  a  Tragedy. 


Let.  356,  357. 


LETTiL'RS. 


355 


that  but  an  ugly  symptom ;)  but  if  I  did  not  ex- 
press it  I  meant  however  to  infer  it  from  the  per- 
verse judgment  that  he  has  formed  of  our  poets  in 
general ;  depreciating  some  of  the  best,  and  mak 
ing  honourable  mention  of  others,  in  my  opinion 
not  undeservedly  neglected.  I  will  lay  you  six 
pence  that,  had  he  lived  in  the  days  of  Milton,  and 
by  any  accident  had  met  with  his  Paradise  Lost 
he  would  neither  have  directed  the  attention  of 
others  to  it,  nor  have  much  admired  it  himself 
Good  sense,  in  short,  and  strength  of  intellect,  seem 
to  me,  rather  than  a  fine  taste,  to  have  been  his 
distinguished  characteristics.  But  should  you  still 
think  otherwise,  you  have  my  free  permission ;  for 
so  long  as  you  yourself  have  a  taste  for  the  beau- 
ties of  Cowper,  I  care  not  a  fig  whether  Johnson 
had  a  taste  or  not. 

1  wonder  where  you  find  all  your  quotations, 
pat  as  they  are  to  the  present  condition  of  France. 
Do  you  make  them  yourself,  or  do  you  actually  find 
them  1  I  am  apt  to  suspect  sometimes,  that  you 
impose  them  only  on  a  poor  man  who  has  but  twen- 
ty books  in  the  world,  and  two  of  them  are  your 
brother  Chester's.  They  are  however  much  to  the 
purpose,  be  the  author  of  them  who  he  may. 

I  was  very  sorry  to  learn  lately  that  my  friend 
at  Chicheley  has  been  sometimes  indisposed,  either 
with  gout  or  rheumatism,  (for  it  seems  to  be  un- 
certain which)  and  attended  by  Dr.  Kerr.  I  am 
at  a  loss  to  conceive  how  so  temperate  a  man 
should  acquire  the  gout,  and  am  resolved  therefore 
to  conclude  that  it  must  be  the  rheumatism,  which, 
bad  as  it  is,  is  in  my  judgment  the  best  of  the  two; 
and  will  afford  me  besides  some  opportunity  to 
sympathize  with  him,  for  I  am  not  perfectly  ex- 
empt from  it  myself  Distant  as  yoT^pre  in  situa- 
tion, you  are  yet  perhaps  nearer  to  him  in  point 
of  intelligence  than  I;  and  if  you  can  send  me 
any  particular  news  of  him,  pray  do  it  in  your 
next. 

I  love  and  thank  you  for  your  benediction.  If 
God  forgive  me  my  sins,  surely  I  shall  love  him 
much,  for  I  have  much  to  be  forgiven.  But  the 
quantum  need  not  discourage  me,  since  there  is 
One  whose  atonement  can  suffice  for  all. 

Tj<  Xitfi*  CtlfXCt'fiiV,  KCtl  a-Otf  UStt  'ifJLOl  KAl  etj"i\^ois 
'HfMTifiOlS,  aVTiS  7O0^0fA.tVQli  BoLVUTCil. 

Accept  our  joint  remembrances,  and  believe  me 
affectionately  yours,  W.  C. 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

Weston,  March  19,  179  L 

MY  DEAREST  JOHNNY, 

You  ask  if  it  may  not  be  improper  to  solicit 
Lady  Hesketh's  subscription  to  the  poems  of  the 

2  F 


Norwich  maiden^  To  which  I  reply,  it  will  be 
by  no  means  improper.  On  the  contrary,  I  am 
persuaded  that  she  will  give  her  name  with  a  very 
good  will,  for  she  is  much  an  admirer  of  poesy 
that  is  worthy  to  be  admired,  and  such  I  think, 
judging  by  the  specimen,  the  poesy  of  this  maid- 
en, Elizabeth  Bentley  of  Norwich, .  is  likely  to 
prove. 

Not  that  I  am  myself  inclined  to  expect  in 
general  great  matters,  in  the  poetical  way,  from 
persons  whose  ill  fortune  it  has  been  to  want  the 
common  advantages  of  education;  neither  do  I 
account  it  in  general  a  kindness  to  such,  to'  en- 
courage them  in  the  indulgence  of  a  propensity 
more  likely  to  do  them  harm  in  the  end,  than  to 
advance  their  interest.  Many  such  phenomena 
have  arisen  within  my  remembrance,  at  which  all 
the  world  has  wondered  for  a  season,  and  has  then 
forgot  them. 

The  fact  is,  that  though  strong  natural  genius 
is  always  accompanied  with  strong  natural  ten- 
dency to  its  object,  yet  it  often  happens  that  the 
tendency  is  found  where  the  genius  is  wanting. 
In  the  present  instance,  however  (the  poems  of  a 
certain  Mrs.  Leapor  excepted,  who  published, 
some  forty  years  ago)  I  discern,  I  think,  more 
marks  of  a  true  poetical  talent  than  I  remem- 
ber to  have  observed  in  the  verses  of  any 
other,  male  or  female,  so  disadvantageously  cir- 
cumstanced. I  wish  her  therefore  good  speed, 
and  subscribe  to  her  with  all  ray  heart. 

You  will  rejoice  when  I  tell  you  that  I  have 
some  hopes,  after  all,  of  a  harvest  from  Oxford 
also;  Mr.  Throckmorton  has  written  to  a  person 
of  considerable  influence  there,  which  he  has  de- 
sired him  to  exert  in  my  favour;  and  his  request, 
should  imagine,  will  hardly  prove  a  vain  one. 

Adieu.  W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,      Weston,  March.  24,  1791, 

You  apologize  for  your  silence  in  a  manner 
which  affords  me  so  much  pleasure,  that  I  can 
not  but  be  satisfied.  Let  business  be  the  cause, 
and  I  am  contented.  That  is  a  cause  to  which  1 
would  even  be  accessary  myself,  and  would  in- 
crease yours  by  any  means,  except  by  a  lawsuit 
of  my  own,  at  the  expense  of  all  your  opportuni- 
ties of  writing  oftener  than  thrice  in  a  twelve- 
month. 

Your  application  to  Dr.  Dunbar  reminds  me 
of  two  lines  to  be  found  somewhere  in  Dr. 
Young : 

"  And  now  a  poet's  gratitude  you  see : 
"  Grant  him  two  favours,  and  he'll  ask  for  three,' 

In  this  particular  therefore  I  perceive  that  a  poet, 


356 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  358, 359. 


and  a  poet's  friend,  bear  a  striking  resemblance  to 
each  other.  The  Doctor  will  bless  himself  that 
the  number  of  Scotch  universities  is  not  larger, 
assured  that  if  they  equalled  those  in  England,  in 
number  of  colleges,  you  would  give  him  no  rest 
till  he  had  engaged  them  all.  It  is  true,  as  Lady 
Hesketh  told  you,  that  I  shall  not  fear  in  the 
matter  of  subscription  a  comparison  even  with 
Pope  himself;  considering  (I  mean)  that  we  live 
in  days  of  terrible  taxation,  and  when  verse,  not 
being  a  necessary  of  life,  is  accounted  dear,  be  it 
what  it  may,  even  at  the  lowest  price.  I  am  no 
very  good  arithmetician,  yet  I  calculated  the  other 
day  in  my  morning  walk,  that  my  two  volumes, 
at  the  price  of  three  guineas,  will  cost  the  pur- 
chaser less  than  the  seventh  part  of  a  farthing 
per  line.  Yet  there  are  lines  among  them,  that 
have  cost  me  the  labour  of  hours,  and  none  that 
have  not  cost  me  some  labour.  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Friday  night,  March  25,  1791. 

MY  DEAREST  COZ, 

Johnson  writes  me  word  that  he  has  repeated- 
ly called  on  Horace  Walpole,  and  has  never 
found  him  at  home.  He  has  also  written  to  him, 
and  received  no  answer.  I  charge  thee  therefore 
on  thy  allegiance,  that  thou  move  not  a  finger 
more  in  this  business.  My  back  is  up,  and  I  can 
not  bear  the  thought  of  wooing  him  any  further, 
nor  would  do  it,  though  he  were  as  pig  a  gentle- 
man (look  you!)  as  Lucifer  himself.  I  have 
Welch  blood  in  me,  if  the  pedigree  of  the  Donnes 
say  true,  and  every  drop  of  it  says — "  Let  him 
alone!" 

I  should  have  dined  at  the  Hall  to-day,  having 
engaged  myself  to  do  so;  but  an  untoward  occur- 
rence, that  happened  last  night,  or  rather  this 
morning,  prevented  me.  It  was  a  thundering 
rap  at  the  door,  just  after  the  clock  struck  three. 
First,  I  thought  the  house  was  on  fire.  Then  I 
thought  the  Hall  was  on  fire.  Then  I  thought 
it  was  a  house-breaker's  trick.  Then  I  thought  it 
was  an  express.  In  any  case  I  thought  that  if  it 
should  be  repeated,  it  would  awaken  and  terrify 
Mrs.  Unwin,  and  kill  her  with  spasms.  The 
consequence  of  all  these  thoughts  was  the  worst 
nervous  fever  I  ever  had  in  my  life,  although  it 
was  the  shortest.  The  rap  was  given  but  once, 
though  a  multifarious  one.  Had  I  heard  a  second, 
I  should  have  risen  myself  at  all  adventures.  It 
was  the  only  minute  since  you  went,  in  which  I 
have  been  glad  that  you  were  not  here.  Soon 
after 'I  came  down,  I  learned  that  a  drunken  party 
had  passed  through  the  village  at  that  time,  and 
they  were  no  doubt  the  authors  of  this  witty,  but 
Uoublcsomc  invention. 


Our  thanks  are  due  to  you  for  the  book  you 
sent  us.  Mrs.  Unwin  has  read  me  several  parts 
of  it,  which  I  have  much  admired.  The  obser- 
vations are  shrewd  and  pointed;  and  there  is 
much  wit  in  the  similes  and  illustrations.  Yet  a 
remark  struck  me,  which  I  could  not  help  makmg 
viva  voce  on  the  occasion.  If  the  book  has  any 
real  value,  and  does  in  truth  deserve  the  notice 
taken  of  it  by  those  to  whom  it  is  addressed,  its 
claim  is  founded  neither  on  the  expression,  nor  on 
the  style,  nor  on  the  wit  of  it,  but  altogether  on 
the  truth  that  it  contains.  Now  the  same  truths 
are  delivered,  to  my  knowledge,  perpetually  from 
the  pulpit  by  ministers,  whom  the  admirers  of  this 
writer  would  disdain  to  hear.  Yet  the  truth  is 
not  the  less  important  for  not  being  accompanied 
and  recommended  by  brilliant  thoughts  and  ex- 
pressions ;  neither  is  God,  from  whom  comes  all 
truth,  any  more  a  respecter  of  wit  than  he  is  of 
persons.  It  will  appear  soon  whether  they  apr 
plaud  the  book  for  the  sake  of  its  unanswerable 
arguments,  or  only  tolerate  the  argument  for  the 
sake  of  the  splendid  manner  in  which  it  is  en- 
forced. I  wish  as  heartily  that  it  may  do  them 
good,  as  if  I  were  myself  the  author  of  it.  But 
alas !  my  wishes  and  hopes  are  much  at  variance. 
It  will  be  the  talk  of  the  day,  as  another  publica- 
tion of  the  same  kind  has  been ;  and  then  the 
noise  of  Vanity-fair  will  drown  the  voice  of  the 
preacher. 

I  am  glad  to  learn  that  the  Chancellor  does  not 
forget  me,  though  more  for  his  sake  than  my  own; 
for  I  see  not  how  he  can  ever  serve  a  man  like 
me.  Adieu,  my  dearest  Coz,  W.  C. 

f  — 

TO  MRS.  THROCKMORTON. 

MY  DEAR  MRS.  FROG,  April  1,  1791. 

A  WORD  or  two  before  breakfast ;  which  is  all 
that  I  shall  have  time  to  send. — You  have  not,  I 
hope,  forgot  to  tell  Mrs.  Frog,  how  much  1  am 
obliged  to  him  for  his  kind,  though  unsuccessful 
attempt  in  my  favour  at  Oxford.  It  seems  not  a 
little  extraordinary,  that  persons  so  nobly  patron- 
ized themselves,  on  the  score  of  literature,  should 
resolve  to  give  no  encouragement  to  it  in  return. 
Should  I  find  a  fair  opportunity  to  thank  them 
hereafter,  1  will  not  neglect  it. 

Could  Homer  come  himself,  distress'd  and  poor, 
And  tune  his  harp  at  Rhedicina's  door, 
The  rich  old  vixen  would  exclaim  (I  fear 
"  Begone !  no  tramper  gets  a  farthing  here." 

I  have  read  your  husband's  pamphlet  through 
and  through.  You  may  think  perhaps,  and  so  may 
he,  that  a  question  so  remote  from  all  concern  of 
mine  could  not  interest  me ;  but  if  you  think  so, 
you  are  both  mistaken.    He  can  write  nothing 


Let.  360,  361,  362. 


LETTERS. 


857 


that  will  not  interest  me ;  in  the  first  place,  for 
the  writer's  sake ;  and  in  the  next  place  because 
he  writes  better  and  reasons  better  than  any  body, 
with  more  candour,  and  more  sufficiency;  and 
consequently  with  more  satisfaction  to  all  his 
leaders,  save  only  his  opponents.  They,  I  think, 
by  this  time,  wish  that  they  had  let  him  alone. 

Tom  is  delighted  past  measure  with  his  wooden 
nag,  and  gallops  at  a  rate  that  would  kill  any 
horse  that  had  a  life  to  lose.       Adieu,  "W.  C. 


Hojtner  has  no  news  to  tell  us ;  and  when,  all  other 
comforts  of  life  having  risen  in  price,  poetry  has 
of  course  fallen.  I  call  it  a  "  comfort  of  life it 
is  so  to  others,  but  to  myself  it  has  become  even  a 


These  holiday  times  are  very  unfavourable  to 
jthe  printer's  progress.  He  and  all  his  demons  are 
making  themselves  merry,  and  me  sad,  for  1  mourn 
at  every  hindrance.  W.  C. 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  JOHNNY,         Weston,  April  6,  179L 

A  THOUSAND  thanks  for  your  splendid  assem- 
blage of  Cambridge  luminaries !  If  you  are  not 
contented  with  your  collection  it  can  only  be  be- 
cause you  are  u'nreasonable ;  for  I  who  may  be 
supposed  more  covetous  on  this  occasion  than  any 
body,  am  highly  satisfied,  and  even  delighted  with 
it.  If  indeed  you  should  find  it  practicable  to  add 
still  to  the  number,  I  have  not  the  least  objection. 
But  this  charge  I  give  you : 

Akko  cTs  rot  ifiO)  trxi  S  m  ^ejuri  /2aKMo  a-uru 

Stay  not  an  hour  beyond  the  time  you  have  men- 
tioned, even  though  you  should  be  able  to  add  a 
thousand  names  by  so  doing !  For  I  can  not  af- 
ford to  purchase  them  at  that  cost.  I  long  to  see 
you,  and  so  do  we  both,  and  will  not  suffer  you  to 
postpone  your  visit  for  any  such  consideration. 
No,  my  dear  boy !  in  the  affair  of  subscriptions 
we  are  already  illustrious  enough ;  shall  be  so  at 
least,  when  you  shall  have  enlisted  a  college  or  two 
more,  which  perhaps  you  may  be  4ll^hled  to  do  in 
the  course  of  the  ensuing  week.  I  feel  myself 
much  obliged  to  your  university,  and  much  dis- 
posed to  admire  the  liberality  of  spirit  they  have 
shown  on  this  occasion.  Certainly  I  had  not  de- 
served much  favour  of  their  hands,  all  things  con- 
sidered. But  the  cause  of  literature  seems  to  have 
some  weight  with  them,  and  to  have  superseded 
the  resentment  they  might  be  supposed  to  enter- 
tain on  the  score  of  certain  censures,  that  you  wot 
of.    It  is  not  so  at  Oxford.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Wesfon,  May  2,  179L 

Monday  being  a  day  in  which  Homer  has  now 
no  demands  on  me,  I  shall  give  part  of  the  present 
Monday  to  you.  But  it  this  moment  occurs  to 
me  that  the  proposition  with  which  I  begin  will  be 
obscure  to  you,  unless  followed  by  an  explanation. 
You  are  to  understand  therefore  that  Monday  be- 
ing no  postday,  I  have  consequently  no  proof-sheets 
to  correct,  the  correction  of  which  is  nearly  all 
that  I  have  to  do  with  Homer  at  present :  I  say 
nearly  all,  because  I  am  likewise  occasionally  em- 
ployed in  reading  over  the  whole  of  what  is  already- 
printed,  that  I  may  make  a  table  of  errata  to  each 
of  the  poems.    How  much  is  already  printed  say 


you 


-I  answer — the  whole  Iliad,  and  almost 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

my  DEAR  FRIEND,  April  29,  179L 

I  FORGOT  if  I  told  you  that  Mr.  Throckmorton 

had  applied  through  the  medium  of  to 

the  university  of  Oxford.  He  did  so,  but  without 
success.  Their  answer  was,  "  that  they  subscribe 
to  nothing." 

Pope's  subscriptions  did  not  amount,  I  think,  to 
six  hundred  ;  and  mine  will  not  fall  very  far  short 
of  five.    Noble  doings,  at  a  time  of  day  when 


seventeen  books  of  the  Odyssey. 

About  a  fortnight  since,  perhaps  three  weeks,  I 
had  a  visit  from  your  nephew,  Mr.  Bagot,  and  his 
tutor,  Mr.  Hurlock,  who  came  hither  under  con- 
duct of  your  niece.  Miss  Barbara.  So  were  the 
friends  of  Ulysses  conducted  to  the  palace  of  An- 
tiphates,  the  Laestrigonian,  by  that  monarch's 
daughter.  But  mine  is  no  palace,  neither  am  I 
a  giant,  neither  did  I  devour  any  one  of  the  par- 
ty— on  the  contrary,  I  gave  them  chocolate,  and 
permitted  them  to  depart  in  peace.  I  was  much 
pleased  both  with  the  young  man  and  his  tutor. 
In  the  countenance  of  the  former  I  saw  much 
Bagotism,  and  not  less  in  manners,  I  will  leave 
you  to  guess  what  I  mean  by  that  expression. 
Physiognomy  is  a  study  of  which  I  have  almost 
as  high  an  opinion  as  Lavater  himself,  the  profes- 
sor of  it,  and  for  this  good  reason,  because  it  never 
yet  deceived  me.  But  perhaps  I  shall  speak  more 
truly  if  I  say  that  I  am  somewhat  of  an  adept  in 
the  art,  although  I  have  never  stvditd  it;  for 
whether  I  will  or  not,  I  judge  of  every  human 
creature  by  the  countenance,  and,  as  I  say,  have 
never  yet  seen  reason  to  repent  of  my  judgment. 
Sometimes  I  feel  myself  powerfully  attracted,  as 
I  was  by  your  nephew,  and  sometimes  with  equal 
vehemence  repulsed,  which  attraction  and  repul- 
sion have  always  been  justified  in  the  sequel. 

I  have  lately  read,  and  with  more  attention  thau 
I  ever  gave  them  before,  Milton's  I<atin  poems. 
But  these  I  must  make  the  subject  of  some  futiuo 


S58 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  363,  364,  365,  366 


letter,  in  which  it  will  be  ten  to  one  tliat  your 
friend  Samuel  Johnson  gets  another  slap  or  two 
at  the  hands  of  your  humble  servant.  Pray  read 
them  yourself,  and  with  as  much  attention  as  I 
did ;  then  read  the  Doctor's  remarks  if  you  have 
tliem,  and  then  tell  me  what  you  think  of  both. 
It  will  be  pretty  sport  for  you  on  such  a  day  as  this, 
which  is  the  fourth  that  we  have  had  of  almost 
incessant  rain.  The  weather,  and  a  cold,  the 
effect  of  it,  have  confined  me  ever  since  last  Thurs- 
day. Mrs.  Unwin  however  is  well,  and  joins  me 
in  every  good  wish  to  you  and  your  family.  I  am, 
my  good  friend,  Most  truly  yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  MR.  BUCHANAN. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  ,  Weston,  May  11,  1791. 

You  have  sent  me  a  beautiful  poem,  wanting 
nothing  but  metre.  I  would  to  Heaven  that 
you  would'  give  it  that  requisite  yourself ;  for  he 
who  could  make  the  sketch,  can  not  but  be  well 
qualified  to  finish.  But  if  you  will  not,  I  will ; 
provided  always  nevertheless,  that  God  gives  me 
ability,  for  it  will  require  no  common  share  to  do 
justice  to  your  conceptions, 

I  am  much  yours,  W.  C. 

Your  little  messenger  vanished  before  I  could 
iatch  him. 


1791. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  May  18, 

MY  DEAREST  COZ, 

Has  another  of  my  letters  fallen  short  of  its 
destination ;  or  wherefore  is  it,  that  thou  writ- 
est  not"?  One  letter  in  five  weeks  is  a  poor  allow- 
ance for  your  friends  at  Weston.  One  that 
I  received  two  or  three  days  since  from  Mrs.  Frog, 
has  not  at  all  enlightened  me  on  this  head.  But 
I  wander  in  a  wilderness  of  vain  conjecture, 

I  have  had  a  letter  lately  from  New  York,  from 
a  Dr.  Cogswell  of  that  place  to  thank  me  for  my 
fine  verses,  and  to  tell  me,  which  pleased  me  par- 
ticularly, that  after  having  read  the  Task,  my  first 
volume  fell  into  his  hands,  which  he  read  also,  and 
was  equally  pleased  with.  This  is  the  only  in- 
stance I  can  recollect  of  a  reader,  who  has  done 
justice  to  my  first  effusions :  for  I  am  sure,  that  in 
point  of  expression  they  do  not  fall  a  jot  below  my 
second,  and  that  in  point  of  subject  they  are  for 
the  most  part  superior.  But  enough,  and  too 
much  of  this.  The  Task,  he  tells  me,  has  been 
reprinted  in  that  city. 

Adieu !  my  dearest  coz. 

We  have  blooming  scenes  under  wintry  skies, 
and  with  iry  blasts  to  fan  them. 

Ever  thine,  W.  C. 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa 

Weston,  M-ay  23,  1791. 

MY  DEAREST  JOHNNY, 

Did  I  not  know  that  you  are  never  more  in  your 
element,  than  when  you  are  exerting  yourself  in 
my  cause,  I  should  congratulate  you  on  the  hope 
there  seems  to  be  that  your  labour  will  soon  have* 
an  end. 

You  will  wonder  perhaps,  my  Johnny,  that 
Mrs.  Unwin,  by  my  desire,  enjoined  you  to  secre- 
cy concerning  the  translation  of  the  Frogs  and 
Mice.  Wonderful  it  may  well  seem  to  you  that  I 
should  wish  to  hide  for  a  short  time  from  a  few, 
what  I  am  just  going  to  publish  to  all.  But  I  had 
more  reasons  than  one  for  this  mysterious  man- 
agement; that  is  to  say,  I  had  two.  In  the  first 
place,  I  wished  to  surprise  my  readers  agreeably; 
and  secondly,  I  wished  to  allow  none  of  my  friends 
an  opportunity  to  object  to  the  measure,  who  might 
think  it  perhaps  a  measure  more  bountiful  than 
prudent.  But  I  have  had  my  sufficient  reward, 
though  not  a  pecuniary  one.  It  is  a  poem  of  much 
humour,  and  accordingly  I  found  the  translation 
of  it  very  amusing.  It  struck  me  too,  that  I  must 
either  make  it  part  of  the  present  publication,  or 
never  publish  it  at  all;  it  would  have  been  so  ter- 
ribly out  of  its  place  in  any  other  volume, 

1  long  for  the  time  that  shall  bring  you  once 
more  to  Weston,  and  all  your  et  ce/e?-c5  with  you, 
O!  what  a  month  of  May  has  this  been!  Let 
never  poet,  English  poet  at  least,  give  himself  to 
the  praises  of  May  again.  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

MY  DEAREST  COZ,    The  Lodge,  May  27,  1791. 

I,  WHO  am  neither  dead,  nor  sick,  nor  idle 
should  have  no  excuse,  were  I  as  tardy  in  answer 
ing,  as  you  in  writing.  I  live  indeed  where  leisure 
abounds;  and  you,  where  leisure  is  not:  a  differ- 
ence that  accounts  sufficiently  both  for  your  silence 
and  my  loquacity. 

When  you  told  Mrs,  ,  that  my  Homer 

would  come  forth  in  May,  you  told  her  what  you 
believed,  and  therefore  no  falsehood.  But  you  told 
her  at  the  same  time  what  will  not  happen,  and 
therefore  not  a  truth.  There  is  a  medium  between 
truth  and  falsehood ;  and  (I  believe)  the  word  mis- 
take expresses  it  exactly.  I  will  therefore  say 
that  you  were  mistaken.  If  instead  of  May  you 
had  mentioned  June,  I  flatter  myself  that  you 
would  have  hit  the  mark.  For  in  June  there  is 
every  probability  that  we  shall  publish.  You  will 
say,  "  hang  the  printer! — for  it  is  his  fault!"  But 
stay,  my  dear,  hang  him  not  just  now !  For  to 
execute  him,  and  find  another,  will  cost  us  time, 


Let.  367,  368. 


LETTERS. 


359 


and  so  much  too,  that  I  question  if,  in  that  case, 
we  should  publish  sooner  than  in  August.  To 
say  truth,  I  am  not  perfectly  sure  that  there  will 
be  any  necessity  to  hang  him  at  all !  though  that 
is  a  matter  which  I  desire  to  leave  entirely  at  your 
discretion,  alleging  only  in  the  mean  time,  that 
the  man  does  not  appear  to  me  during  the  last 
half-year  to  have  been  at  all  in  fault.  His  re- 
mittance of  sheets  in  all  that  time  has  been  punc- 
tual, save  and  except  while  the  Easter  holidays 
lasted,  when  (I  suppose)  he  found  it  impossible  to 
keep  his  devils  to  their  business.  I  shall  however 
receive  the  last  sheet  of  the  Odyssey  to-morrow,  and 
have  already  sent  up  the  Preface,  together  with 
all  the  needful.  You  see  therefore  that  the  pub- 
lication of  this  famous  work  can  not  be  delayed 
much  longer. 

As  for  politics,  I  reck  not,  having  no  room  in 
my  head  for  any  thing  but  the  Slave-bill.  That 
3«  lost ;  and  all  the  rest  is  a  trifle.  I  have  not  seen 
Paine's  book,  but  refused  to  see  it  when  it  was 
offered  to  me.  No  man  shall  convince  me  that  I 
am  improperly  governed,  while  I  feel  the  contrary. 

Adieu !  W.  C. 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

Weston,  June  1,  1791. 

MY  DEAREST  JOHNNY, 

Now  you  may  rest — Now  I  can  give  you  joy 
of  the  period,  of  which  1  gave  you  hope  in  my 
last ;  the  period  of  all  your  labours  in  my  service. 
— But  this  I  can  foretell  you  also,  that  if  you  per- 
severe in  serving  your  friends  at  this  rate,  your 
life  is  likely  to  be  a  life  of  labour: — persevere! 
your  rest  will  be  the  sweeter  hereOTrer!  In  the 
mean  time  I  wish  you,  if  at  any  time  you  should 
find  occasion  for  him,  just  such  a  friend  as  you 
have  proved  to  me!  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  MR.  HURDIS. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  Westou,  June  13,  1791. 

I  OUGHT  to  have  thanked  you  for  your  agreeable 
and  entertaining  letter  much  sooner,  but  I  have 
many  correspondents,  who  will  not  be  said,  nay ; 
and  have  been  obliged  of  late  to  give  my  last  atten- 
tions to  Homer.  The  very  last  indeed;  for  yes- 
terday I  despatched  to  town,  after  revising  them 
carefully,  the  proof  sheets  of  subscribers'  names, 
among  which  I  took  special  notice  of  yours,  and 
am  much  obliged  to  you  for  it.  We  have  con- 
trived, or  rather  my  bookseller  and  printer  have 
contrived  (for  they  have  never  waited  a  moment 
for  me,)  to  publish  as  critically  at  the  vnrong  time, 
as  if  my  whole  interest  and  success  had  depended 
upon  it.  March,  April,  and  May,  said  Johnson 
24 


to  me  in  a  letter  that  I  received  from  him  in  Febru- 
ary, are  the  best  months  for  pubUcation.  There- 
fore  now  it  is  determined  that  Homer  shall  come 
out  on  the  first  of  July;  that  is  to  say,  exactly  at 
the  moment  when,  except  a  few  lawyers,  not  a 
creature  will  be  left  in  town  who  will  ever  care 
one  farthing  about  him.  To  which  of  these  two 
friends  of  mine  I  am  indebted  for  this  manage- 
ment, I  know  not.  It  does  not  please ;  but  I  would 
be  a  philosopher  as  well  as  a  poet,  and  therefore 
make  no  complaint,  or  grumble  at  all  about  it. 
You,.  I  presume,  have  had  dealings  with  them 
both — how  did  they  manage  for  youl  And  if  as 
they  have  for  me,  how  did  you  behave  under  it  1 
Some  who  love  me  complain  that  I  am  too  passive; 
and  I  should  be  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  justify 
myself  by  your  example.  The  fact  is,  should  I 
thunder  ever  so  loud,  no  efforts  of  that  sort  will 
avail  me  now  ;  therefore  like  a  good  economist  of 
my  bolts,  I  choose  to  reserve  them  for  more  pro- 
fitable occasions. 

I  am  glad  to  find  that  your  amusements  have 
been  so  similar  to  mine ;  for  in  this  instance  too  1 
seemed  to  have  need  of  somebody  to  keep  me  in 
countenance,  especially  in  my  attention  and  at- 
tachment to  animals.  Aft  the  notice  that  we  lords 
of  the  creation  vouchsafe  to  bestow  on  the  crea- 
tures, is  generally  to  abuse  them;  it  is  well  there- 
fore that  here  and  there  a  man  should  be  found  a 
little  womanish,  or  perhaps  a  little  childish  in  this 
matter,  who  will  make  some  amends,  by  kissing, 
and  coaxing,  and  laying  them  in  one's  bosom. 
You  remember  the  little  ewe  lamb,  mentioned  by 
the  prophet  Nathan ;  the  prophet  perhaps  invented 
the  tale  for  the  sake  of  its  application  to  David's 
conscience;  but  it  is  more  probable  that  God  in- 
spired him  with  it  for  that  purpose.  If  he  did,  it 
amounts  to  a  proof  that  he  does  not  overlook,  but 
on  the  contrary  much  notices  such  little  partiali- 
ties and  kindness  to  his  dumb  creatures,  as  we, 
because  we  articulate,  are  pleased  to  call  them. 

Your  sisters  are  fitter  to  judge  than  I,  whether 
assembly  rooms  are  the  places  of  all  others,  in 
which  the  ladies  may  be  studied  to  most  advan- 
tage. I  am  an  old  fellow,  but  I  had  once  my 
dancing  days,  as  you  have  now;  yet  I  could  never 
find  I  learned  half  so  much  of  a  woman's  real 
character  by  dancing  with  her,  as  by  conversing 
with  her  at  home,  where  I  could  observe  her  be- 
haviour at  the  table,  at  the  fireside,  and  in  all  the 
trying  circumstances  of  domestic  hfe.  We  are  all 
good  when  we  are  pleased;  but  she  is  the  good 
woman,  who  wants  not  a  fiddle  to  sweeten  her. 
If  I  am  wrong,  the  young  ladies  will  set  me  right; 
in  the  mean  time  I  will  not  tease  you  with  graver 
arguments  on  the  subject,  especially  as  I  have  a 
hope  that  years,  and  the  study  of  the  Scripture, 
and  His  Spirit,  whose  word  it  is,  will,  in  due  time, 
bring  you  to  my  way  of  thinking.    I  am  not  one 


360 


COWPER'! 


•S  WORKS. 


Let.  369,  370. 


of  those  sajTcs,  who  require  that  young  men  sliould 
be  as  old  as  themselves  before  they  have  time  to 
be  so. 

With  my  love  to  your  fair  sisters,  I  remain, 
Dear  sir,  most  truly  yours,    W.  C. 

TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

The  Lodge,  June  15, 1791. 

MV  DEAR  FRIEND, 

If  it  will  afford  you  any  comfort  that  you  have 
a  share  in  my  affections,  of  that  comfort  you  may 
avail  yourself  at  all  times.  You  have  acquired  it 
by  means  which,  unless  I  should  become  worthless 
myself,  to  an  uncommon  degree,  will  always  se- 
cure you  from  the  loss  of  it.  You  are  learning 
what  all  learn,  though  few  at  so  early  an  age,  that 
man  is  an  ungratefuj  animal;  and  that  benefits 
too  often,  instead  of  securing  a  due  return,  operate 
rather  as  provocations  to  ill  treatment.  This  I 
take  to  be  the  summum  malum  of  the  human 
heart.  Towards  God  we  are  all  guilty  of  it  more 
or  less ;  but  between  man  and  man,  we  may  thank 
God  for  it,  there  are  some  exceptions  He  leaves 
this  peccant  principle  to  operate  in  some  degree 
against  himself  in  all,  0t  our  humiliation  I  sup- 
pose; and  because  the  pernicious  effects  of  it  in 
reality  can  not  injure  him,  he  can  not  suffer  by 
them ;  but  he  knows  that  unless  he  should  restrain 
its  influence  on  the  dealings  of  mankind  with  each 
other,  the  bonds  of  society  would  be  dissolved,  and 
all  charitable  intercourse  at  an  end  amongst  us.  It 
was  said  of  Archbishop  Cranraer,  "  Do  him  an  ill 
turn,  and  you  make  him  your  friend  for  ever ;" 
of  others  it  may  be  said,  "Do  them  a  good  one, 
and  they  will  be  for  ever  your  enemies."  It  is  the 
Grace  of  God  only  that  makes  the  difference. 

The  absence  of  Homer  (for  we  have  now  shaken 
hands  and  parted)  is  well  supplied  by  three  rela- 
tions of  mine  from  Norfolk.  My  cousin  Johnson, 
an  aunt  of  his,  and  his  sister.  I  love  them  all 
dearly,  and  am  well  contented  to  resign  to  them 
the  place  in  my  attentions  so  lately  occupied  by  the 
chiefs  of  Greece  and  Troy.  His  aunt  and  I  have 
spent  many  a  merry  day  together,  when  we  were 
some  forty  years  younger;  and  we  make  shift  to  be 
merry  together  still.  His  sister  is  a  sweet  young 
woman,  graceful,  good-natured,  and  gentle,  just 
what  I  had  imagined  her  to  be  before  I  had  seen 
her.  Farewell.    W.  C. 


TO  DR.  JAMES  COGSWELL, 

NEW  YORK. 

Weston  Underwood,  near  Olney,  Bucks, 
DEAR  SIR,  June  15,  1791. 

Your  letter  and  obliging  present  from  so  great 
a  distance  de  erved  a  speedier  acknowledgment, 


and  should  not  have  wanted  one  so  long  had  not 
circumstances  so  fallen  out  since  1  received  them 
as  to  make  'it  impossible  for  me  to  write  sooner.  It 
is  indeed  but  within  this  day  or  two  that  I  have 
heard  how,  by  the  help  of  my  bookseller,  I  may 
transmit  an  answer  to  you. 

My  title  })age,  as  it  well  might,  misled  you.  It 
speaks  me  of  the  Inner  Temple,  and  so  I  am,  but 
a  member  of  that  society  only,  not  as  an  inhabi- 
tant. I  live  here  almost  at  the  distance  of  sixty 
miles  from  London,  which  I  have  not  visited  these 
eight  and  twenty  years,  and  probably  never  shall 
again.  Thus  it  fell  out  that  Mr.  Morewood  had 
sailed  again  for  America  before  your  parcel  reached 
me,  nor  should  I  (it  is  likely)  have  received  it  at 
all,  had  not  a  cousin  of  mine,  who  lives  in  the 
Temple,  by  good  fortune,  received  it  first,  and 
opened  your  letter;  finding  for  whom  it  was  in- 
tended, he  transmitted  to  me  both  that  and  the 
parcel.  Your  testimony  of  approbation  of  what  I 
have  published,  coming  from  another  quarter  of 
the  globe,  could  not  but  be  extremely  flattering,  aa 
v/as  your  obliging  notice,  that  the  Task  had  been 
reprinted  in  your  city.  Both  volumes,  I  hope,  have 
a  tendency  to  discountenance  vice,  and  promote 
the  best  interests  of  mankind.  But  how  far  they 
shall  be  effectual  to  these  invaluable  purposes,  de- 
pends altogether  on  his  blessing,  whose  truths  I 
have  endeavoured  to  inculcate.  In  the  mean  time 
I  have  sufficient  proof  that  readers  may  be  pleased, 
may  approve,  and  yet  lay  down  the  book  unedified. 

During  the  last  five  years  I  have  been  occupied 
with  a  work  of  a  very  different  nature,  a  transla- 
tion of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  into  blank  verse, 
and  the  work  is  now  ready  for  publication.  I 
undertook  |M|partly  because  Pope's  is  too  lax  a 
version,  wl^m  has  lately  occasioned  the  learned 
of  this  country  to  call  aloud  for  a  new  ope,  and 
partly  because  I  could  fall  on  no  better  expedient 
to  amuse  a  mind  too  much  addicted  to  melan- 
choly. 

I  send  you  in  return  for  the  volumes  with  which 
you  favoured  me,  three  on  religious  subjects,  popu- 
lar productions  that  have  not  been  long  published, 
and  Uiat  may  not  therefore  yet  have  reached  your 
country ;  The  Christian  Officer's  Panoply,  by  a 
marine  officer — The  Importance  of  the  Mahners 
of  the  Great,  and  an  Estimate  of  the  Religion  of 
the  Fashionable  World.  The  two  last  are  said  to 
be  written  by  a  lady.  Miss  Hannah  More,  and  are 
universally  read  by  people  of  that  rank  to  which 
she  addresses  them.  Your  manners  I  suppose  may 
be  more  pure  than  ours,  yet  it  is  not  unlikely  that 
even  among  you  may  be  found  some  to  whom  her 
strictures  are  applicable.  I  return  you  my  thanks, 
sir,  for  the  volumes  you  sent  me,  two  of  which  I 
have  read  with  pleasure,  Mr.  Edwards'  book,  and 
the  Conquest  of  Canaan.  The  rest  I  have  not 
had  time  to  read,  except  Dr.  Dwight's  Sermon, 


Let.  371,  372. 


LETTERS. 


3(3 


which  pleased  me  almost  more  than  any  that  I 
have  either  seen  or  heard. 

I  shall  account  a  correspondence  with  you  an 
honour,  and  shall  remain,  dear  sir, 

Your  obliged  and  obedient  servant,  W.  C, 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Weston,  Aug.  2, 1791. 

I  WAS  much  obliged,  and  still  feel  myself  much 
obliged  to  Lady  Bagot,  for  the  visit  with  which 
she  favoured  me.  Had  it  been  possible  that  I 
could  have  seen  Lord  Bagot  too,  I  should  have 
been  completely  happy.  For,  as  it  happened,  I 
was  that  morning  in  better  spirits  than  usual;  and 
though  I  arrived  late,  and  after  a  long  walk,  and 
extremely  hot,  which  is  a  circumstance  very  apt 
to  disconcert  me,  yet  I  was  not  disconcerted  half  so 
much  as  I  generally  am  at  the  sight  of  a  stranger, 
especially  of  a  stranger  lady,  and  more  especially 
at  the  sight  of  a  stranger  lady  of  quality.  When 
the  servant  told  me  that  lady  Bagot  was  in  the 
parlour,  I  felt  my  spirits  sink  ten  degrees;  but  the 
moment  I  saw  her,  at  least  when  I  had  been  a 
minute  in  her  company,  I  felt  them  rise  again, 
and  they  soon  rose  above  their  former  pitch.  I 
know  two  ladies  of  fashion  now,  whose  manners 
have  this  effect  upon  me.  The  lady  in  question, 
and  the  lady  Spencer.  I  am  a  shy  animal,  and 
want  much  kindness  to  make  me  easy.  Such  I 
shall  be  to  my  dying  day. 

Here  sit  /,  calling  myself  shy,  yet  have  just  pub- 
lished by  the  by,  two  great  volumes  of  poetry. 

This  reminds  me  of  Ranger's  observation  in  the 
Suspicious  Husband,  who  says  to  somebody,  I  for 


or  not  well,  or  because  1  stay  till  something  occu 
that  may  make  my  letter  at  least  a  little  bett 
than  mere  blank  paper.  I  therefore  write  speedi 
in  reply  to  yours,  being  at  present  neither  muc. 
occupied,  nor  at  all  indisposed,  nor  forbidden  by  a 
dearth  of  materials. 

1  wish  always  when  I  have  a  new  piece  in  hand 
to  be  as  secret  as  you,  and  there  was  a  time  when 
I  could  be  so.  Then  I  lived  the  life  of  a  solitary, 
was  not  visitpd  by  a  single  neighbour,  because  I 
had  none  with  whom  I  could  associate;  nor  ever 
had  an  inmate.  This  was  when  I  dwelt  at  01- 
ney;  but  since  I  have  removed  to  ^Veston  the  case 
is  different.  Here  I  am  visited  by  all  around  me, 
and  study  in  a  room  exposed  to  all  manner  of  in- 
roads. It  is  on  the  ground  floor,  the  room  in  which 
we  dine,  and  in  which  1  am  sure  to  be  found  by  all 
who  seek  me.  They  find  me  generally  at  my  desk, 
and  with  my  work,  whatever  it  be,  before  me,  un- 
less perhaps  I  have  conjured  it  into  its  hiding 
place  before  they  have  had  time  to  enter.  This 
however  is  not  always  the  case,  and  consequently, 
sooner  or  later,  I  can  not  fail  to  be  detected.  Pos- 
sibly you,  who  I  suppose  have  a  snug  study,  would 
find  it  impracticable  to  attend  to  any  thing  closely 
in  an  apartment  exposed  as  mine;  but  use  has 
made  it  famihar  to«ie,  and  so  familiar,  that  neither 
servants  going  and  coming  disconcert  me;  nor  even 
if  a  lady,  with  an  oblique  glance  of  her  eye,  catches 
two  or  three  lines  of  my  MS.,  do  I  feel  myself  in- 
clined to  blush,  though  naturally  the  shyest  of  man- 
kind. 

You  did  well,  I  believe,  to  cashier  the  subject 
of  which  you  gave  me  a  recital.  It  certainly  wants 
those  agremens,  vphich  are  necessary  to  the  suc- 
cess of  any  subject  in  verse.  It  is  a  curious  story, 
get  whom—"  There  is  a  degree  of  assurance  in\  and  so  far  as  the  poor  young  lady  was  concerned 
you  modest  men,  that  we  impudent  fellows  can\  a  very  affecting  one;  but  there  is  a  coarseness  in 
never  arrive  at  .'"—Assurance  indeed !  Have  you ;  the  character  of  the  hero,  that  would  have  spoiled 
seen  'em  What  do  you  think  they  are '?  Nothing '  all.  In  fact,  I  find  it  myself  a  much  easier  matter 
less  I  can  tell  you  than  a  translation  of  Homer.  Of  to  write,  than  to  get  a  convenient  theme  to  write  on. 
the  sublimest  poet  in  the  world.  That's  all.  Can  1  j  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  comparing  me  as  you  go 
ever  have  the  impudence  to  call  myself  shy  again  %  both  with  Pope  and  with  Homer.  It  is  impossible 
You  live,  I  think,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Bir-  in  any  other  way  of  management  to  know  whether 
mingham]  What  must  you  not  have  felt  on  the  the  Translation  be  well  executed  or  not,  and  if 
late  alarming  occasion !  You  I  suppose  could  see  well,  in  what  degree.  It  was  in  the  course  of  such 
the  fires  from  your  windows.  We,  who  only  heard  a  process,  that  I  first  became  dissatisfied  with 
the  news  of  them  have  trembled.  Never  sure  was  Pope.  More  than  thirty  years  since,  and  when  I 
religious  zeal  more  terribly  manifested,  or  more  was  a  young  Templar,  I  accompanied  him  with 
to  the  prejudice  of  its  own  cause.  |  his  original,  line  by  line,  through  both  poems.  A 

Adieu,  my  dear  friend.    I  am,  with  Mrs.  Un-  ' fellow  student  of  mine,  a  person  of  fine  classic 


win's  best  compliments,        Ever  yours,  W  C. 

TO  THE  REV.  MR.  HURDIS. 
MY  DEAR  SIR,  Weston,  Aug.  9, 1791. 

I  NEVER  make  a  correspondent  wait  for  an  an- 


I  taste,  joined  himself  with  me  in  the  labour.  We 
j  were  neither  of  us,  as  you  may  imagine,  very  dili- 
!  gent  in  our  proper  business, 
j  I  shall  be  glad  if  my  Reviewers,  whosoever  they 
[  may  be,  will  be  at  the  pains  to  read  me  as  you  do. 
I  want  no  praise  that  I  am  not  entitled  to;  but 
swer  through  idleness  or  want  of  proper  respect  of  that  to  which  I  am  entitled  I  should  be  loth  to 
for  him;  but  if  I  am  silent  it  is  because  I  am  busy,  lose  a  tittle,  having  worked  hard  to  earn  it. 


36^2 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  373,  374, 375. 


of  I  would  lieartily  second  the  bishop  of  Salisbury- 
be  recommending  to  you  a  close  pursuit  of  your 
be.ebrew  s<tudics,  were  it  not  that  I  wish  you  to 
)ubUsh  what  I  may  understand.  Do  both,  and  1 
shall  be  satisfied. 

Your  remarks,  if  I  may  but  receive  them  soon 
enough  to  serve  me  in  case  of  a  new  edition,  will 
be  extremely  welcome.  W.  C. 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

MY  DEAREST  JOHNNY,       Weston,  Aug.  9,  1791. 

The  little  that  I  have  heard  about  Homer  my- 
self has  been  equally,  or  more  flattering  than  Dr. 

•  's  intelligence,  so  that  I  have  good  reason 

to  hope  that  I  have  not  studied  the  old  Grecian, 
and  how  to  dress  him,,  so  long,  and  so  intensely,  to 
no  purpose.  At  present  I  am  idle,  both  on  ac- 
count of  my  eyes,  and  because  I  know  not  to  what 
to  attach  myself  in  particular.  Many  different 
plans  and  projects  are  recommended  to  me.  Some 
call  aloud  for  original  verse,  others  for  more  trans- 
lation, and  others  for  other  things.  Providence,  I 
hope,  will  direct  me  in  my  choice ;  for  other  guide 
I  have  none,  nor  wish  for  another. 

God  bless  you,  my  dearest  Johnny.    W.  C* 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,    The  Lodge,  Sept.  14,  1791. 

Whoever  reviews  me  will  in  fact  have  a  labo- 
rious task  of  it,  in  the  performance  of  which  he 
ought  to  move  leisurely,  and  to  exercise  much 
critical  discernment.  In  the  mean  time  my  cou- 
rage is  kept  up  by  the  arrival  of  such  testimonies 
in  my  favour,  as  give  me  the  greatest  pleasure; 
coming  from  quarters  the  most  respectable.  I 
have  reason  therefore  to  hope  that  our  periodical 
judges  will  not  be  very  adverse  to  me,  and  that 
perhaps  they  may  even  favour  me.  If  one  man 
of  taste  and  letters  is  pleased,  another  man  so 
qualified  can  hardly  be  displeased ;  and  if  critics 
of  a  different  description  grumble,  they  will  not 
however  materially  hurt  me. 

You,  who  know  how  necessary  it  is  to  me  to  be 
employed,  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  I  have  been 
called  to  a  new  literary  engagement,  and  that  I 
have  not  refused  it.  A  Milton  that  is  to  rival, 
and  if  possible  to  exceed  in  splendour  Boydell's 
Shakspeare,  is  in  contemplation,  and  I  am  in  the 
editor's  office.  Fuseli  is  the  painter.  My  busi- 
ness will  be  to  select  notes  from  others,  and  to 
write  original  notes;  to  translate  the  Latin  and 


•  The  translation  alluded  to  in  this  letter  was  that  of  the 
Latin  and  Italian  poetry  of  Milton,  which  Cowper  was  re- 
quested by  his  bookseller  to  undertake. 


Italian  poems,  and  to  give  a  correct  text.  I  shall 
have  years  allowed  me  to  do  it  in.         W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,         Weston,  Sept.  21, 1791. 

Of  all  the  testimonies  in  favour  of  my  Homer 
that  1  have  received,  none  has  given  me  so  sin- 
cere a  pleasure  as  that  of  Lord  Bagot.  It  is  an 
unmixed  pleasure  and  without  a  drawback:  be- 
cause I  know  him  to  be  perfectly,  and  in  all  re- 
spects, whether  erudition,  or  a  fine  taste  be  in 
question,  so  well  qualified  to  judge  me,  that  I  can 
neither  expect  nor  wish  a  sentence  more  valuable 
than  his — 

 wok'  avT/u» 

'Ev  a-Tn^icra-t  mm,  nut  /uot  <^tKct  yHva.r'  opa^u. 

I  hope  by  this  time  you  have  received  your  vo 
lumes,  and  are  prepared  to  second  the  applauses 
of  your  brother— else,  wo  be  to  you!  I  wrote  to 
Johnson  immediately  on  the  receipt  of  your  last, 
giving  him  a  strict  injunction  to  despatch  them  to 
you  without  delay.  He  had  sold  some  time  since 
a  hundred  of  the  unsubscribed-for  copies. 

I  have  not  a  history  in  the  world  except  Baker's 
Chronicle,  and  that  I  borrowed  three  years  ago 
from  Mr.  Throckmorton.  Now  the  case  is  this ; 
I  am  translating  Milton's  third  Elegy — his  Elegy 
on  the  death  of  the  Bishop  of  Winchester.  Ho 
begins  it  with  saying  that  while  he  was  sitting 
alone,  dejected,  and  musing  on  many  melancholy 
themes ;  first,  the  idea  of  the  plague  presented  it- 
self to  his  mind,  and  of  the  havoc  made  by  it 
among  the  great. — Then  he  proceeds  thus; 

Turn  meniini  clarique  ducis,  fratrisque  verendi  * 

Intempestivis  ossa  cremata  rogis : 
Et  memini  Heroum,  quos  vidit  ad  cethera  raptos. 

Flevit  et  amissos  Belgia  tota  duces. 

I  can  not  learn  from  my  only  oracle,  Baker,  who 
this  famous  leader  and  his  reverend  brother  were. 
Neither  does  he  at  all  ascertain  for  me  the  event 
alluded  to  in  the  second  of  these  couplets.  I  am 
not  yet  possessed  of  Warton,  who  probably  ex- 
plains it,  nor  can  be  for  a  month  to  come.  Con- 
sult him  for  me  if  you  have  him,  or  if  3''ou  have 
him  not  consult  some  other.  Or  you  may  find 
the  intelligence  perhaps  in  your  own  budget ;  no 
matter  how  you  come  by  it,  only  send  it  to  me  if 
you  can,  and  as  soon  as  you  can,  for  I  hate  to 
leave  unsolved  difficulties  behind  me.  In  the 
first  year  of  Charles  the  First,  Milton  was  seven- 
teen years  of  age,  and  then  wrote  this  Elegy. 
The  period  therefore  to  which  I  would  refer 
you,  is  the  two  or  three  last  years  of  James  the 
First. 

Ever  yours,  W.  C. 


Let.  376,  377,  378. 


LETTERS. 


363 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,         Weston,  Oct.  25,  179L 

Your  unexpected  and  transient  visit,  like  every 
thing  else  that  is  past,  has  now  the  appearance  of 
a  dream;  but  it  was  a  pleasant  one,  and  I  heartily 
wish  that  such  dreams  could  recur  more  frequent- 
ly. Your  brother  Chester  repeated  his  visit  yes- 
terday, and  I  never  saw  him  in  better  spirits.  At 
such  times  he  has,  now  and  then,  the  very  look 
that  he  had  when  he  was  a  boy ;  and  when  I  see 
it,  I  seem  to  be  a  boy  myself,  and  entirely  forget 
for  a  short  moment  the  years  that  have  intervened 
since  I  was  one.  The  look  that  I  mean  is  one 
that  you,  I  dare  say,  have  observed. — Then  we 
are  at  Westminster  again.  He  left  with  me  that 
poem  of  your  brother  Lord  Bagot's,  which  was 
mentioned  when  you  were  here.  It  w^s  a  treat 
to  me,  and  I  read  it  to  my  cousin  Lady  Hesketh 
and  to  Mrs.  Unwin,  to  whom  it  was  a  treat  also. 
It  has  great  sweetness  of  numbers,  and  much  ele- 
gance of  expression,  and  is  just  such  a  poem  as  I 
should  be  happy  to  have  composed  myself  about 
a  year  ago,  when  I  was  loudly  called  upon  by  a 
certain  nobleman,  to  celebrate  the  beauties  of  his 
villa.  But  I  had  two  insurmountable  difficulties 
to  contend  with.  One  was,  that  I  had  never  seen 
his  villa ;  and  the  other,  that  I  had  no  eyes  at  that 
time  for  any  thing  but  Homer.  Should  I  at  any 
time  hereafter  undertake  the  task,  I  shall  now  at 
least  know  how  to  go  about  it,  which,  till  I  had 
seen  Lord  Bagot's  poem,  I  verily  did  not.  I  was 
particularly  charmed  with  the  parody  of  those 
beautiful  hues  of  Milton. 

"The  sorig  was  partial,  but  the  harmony  

(What  could  it  less,  when  spirits  immortal  sing  ?) 
Suspended  Hell,  and  took  with  ravishment 
The  thronging  audience." 

There's  a  parenthesis  for  you !  The  parenthesis 
it  seems  is  out  of  fashion,  and  perhaps  the  moderns 
are  in  the  right  to  proscribe  what  they  can  not 
attain  to.  I  will  answer  for  it  that,  had  we  the 
art  at  this  day  of  insinuating  a  sentiment  in  this 
graceful  manner,  no  reader  of  taste  would  quarrel 
with  the  practice.  Lord  Bagot  showed  his  by 
selecting  the  passage  for  his  imitation. 

I  would  beat  Warton  if  he  were  living,  for  sup- 
posing that  Milton  ever  repented  of  his  compli- 
ment to  the  memory  of  Bishop  Andrews.  I  nei- 
ther do,  nor  can,  nor  will  believe  it.  Milton's 
mind  could  not  be  narrowed  by  any  thing;  and 
though  he  quarrelled  with  episcopacy  in  the 
church  of  England  idea  of  it,  I  am  persuaded  that 
a  good  bishop,  as  well  as  any  other  good  man,  of 
whatsoever  rank  or  order,  had  always  a  share  of 
his  veneration.    Yours,  my  dear  friend, 

Very  affectionately,  W,  C. 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  JOHNNY,  WestOTl,  Oct.  31,  179L 

YoriR  kind  and  affectionate  letter  well  deserves 
my  thanks,  and  should  have  had  them  long  ago, 
had  I  not  been  obliged  lately  to  give  my  attention 
to  a  mountain  of  unanswered  letters,  which  I  have 
just  now  reduced  to  a  molehill;  yours  lay  at  the 
bottom,  and  I  have  at  last  worked  my  way  down 
to  it. 

It  gives  me  great  pleasure  that  you  have  found 
a  house  to  your  minds.  May  you  all  three  be 
happier  in  it  than  the  happiest  that  ever  occupied 
it  before  you!  But  my  chief  delight  of  all  is  to' 
learn  that  you  and  Kitty  are  so  completely  cured 
of  your  long  and  threatening  maladies.  I  always 
thought  highly  of  Dr.  Kerr,  but  his  extraordinary 
success  in  your  two  instances  has  even  inspired 
me  with  an  affection  for  him.  . 

My  eyes  are  much  better  than  when  I  wrote 
last,  though  seldom  perfectly  well  many  days  to- 
gether. At  this  season  of  the  year  I  catch  perpe- 
tual colds,  and  shall  continue  to  do  so,  till  I  have 
got  the  better  of  that  tenderness  of  habit  with 
which  the  summer  never  fails  to  affect  me. 

I  am  glad  that  you  have  heard  well  of  my  work 
in  your  country.  Sufficient  proofs  have  reached 
me  from  various  quarters,  that  I  have  not  plough- 
ed the  field  of  Troy  in  vain. 

Were  you  here  I  would  gratify  you  with  an 
enumeration  of  particulars;  but  since  you  are  not, 
it  must  content  you  to  be  told,  that  I  have  every 
reason  to  be  satisfied. 

Mrs.  Unwin,  I  think,  in  her  letter  to  cousin 
Balls,  made  mention  of  my  new  engagement.  I 
have  just  entered  on  it,  and  therefore  can  at  pre- 
sent say  little  about  it. 

It  is  a  very  creditable  one  in  itself;  and  may  i 
but  acquit  myself  of  it  with  sufficiency,  it  will  do 
me  honour.  The  commentator's  part  however  is 
a  new  one  to  me,  and  one  that  I  little  thought  to 
appear  in. 

Remember  your  promise,  that  I  shall  see  you  in 
the  spring. 

The  Hall  has  been  full  of  company  ever  since 
you  went,  and  at  present  my  Catharina  is  there 
singing  and  playing  like  an  angel.         W.  C, 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Nov.  14,  1791. 

I  HAVE  waited  and  wished  for  your  opinion  with 
the  feehngs  that  belong  to  the  value  I  have  for  it, 
and  am  very  happy  to  find  it  so  favourable.  In 
my  table  drawer  I  treasure  up  a  bundle  of  suffra- 
ges, sent  me  by  those  of  whose  approbation  I  was 


2  G 


364 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  379, 380. 


most  ambitious,  and  shall  presently  insert  yours 
amoniT  them. 

I  know  not  why  we  should  quarrel  with  com- 
pound epithets ;  it  is  certain  at  least  they  are  as 
agreeable  to^the  genius  of  our  language  as  to  that 
of  the  Greek,  which  is  sufficiently  proved  by  their 
being  admitted  into  our  common  and  colloquial 
dialect.  Black-eyed,  nut-brown,  crook-shanked, 
hump-backed,  are  all  compound  epithets,  and,  to- 
gether with  a  thousand  other  such,  are  used  con- 
tinually, even  by  those  who  profess  a  dislike  to 
such  combinations  in  poetry.  Why  then  do  they 
treat  with  so  much  familiarity  a  thing  that  they 
say  disgusts  themi  I  doubt  if  they  could  give  this 
question  a  reasonable  answer ;  unless  they  should 
answer  it  by  conlessing  themselves  unreasonable. 

I  have  made  a  considerable  progress  in  the  trans- 
lation of  Milton's  Latin  poems.  I  give  them,  as 
opportunity  offers,  all  the  variety  of  measure  that 
I  can.  Some  I  render  in  heroic  rhyme,  some  in 
stanzas,  some  in  seven,  and  some  in  eight  syllable 
measure,  and  some  in  blank  verse.  They  will, 
altogether,  I  hope,  make  an  agreeable  miscellany 
for  the  English  reader.  They  are  certainly  good 
in  themselves,  and  can  not  fail  to  please,  but  by 
the  fault  of  their  translator.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

Weston- Underwood,  Dec.  5,  179L 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

Your  last  brought  me  two  cordials ;  for  what 
can  better  deserve  that  name  than  the  cordial  ap- 
probation of  two  such  readers  as  your  brother,  the 
bishop,  and  your  good  friend  and  neighbour,  the 
clergyman  1  The  former  I  have  ever  esteemed 
and  honoured  with  the  justest  cause,  and  am  as 
ready  to  honour  and  esteem  the  latter  as  you  can 
wish  me  to  be,  and  as  his  virtues  and  talents  de- 
serve. Do  I  hate  a  parson'?  Heaven  forbid!  I 
love  you  all  when  you  are  good  for  any  thing ;  and 
as  to  the  rest,  I  would  mend  them  if  I  could, 
and  that  is  the  worst  of  my  intentions  towards 
them. 

I  heard  above  a  month  since,  that  this  first  edi- 
tion of  my  work  was  at  that  time  nearly  sold.  It 
will  not  therefore,  I  presume,  be  long  before  1  must 
go  to  press  again.  This  I  mention  merely  from  an 
earnest  desire  to  avail  myself  of  all  other  strictures, 
that  either  your  good  neighbour.  Lord  Bagot,  the 
bishop,  or  yourself, 

may  happen  to  have  made,  and  will  be  so  good  as 
to  favour  me  with.  Those  of  the  good  Evander 
contained  in  your  last  have  served  me  well,  and  I 
have  already,  in  the  three  different  places  referred 
to,  accommodated  the  text  to  them.    And  this  I 


have  done  in  one  instance,  even  a  little  against  th» 
bias  of  my  own  opinion. 

 tyo)  (Tfi  Kty  cLvros  'iKce/uai 

*E\Ba>v  (ruv  TrKmio-a-t. 

The  sense  I  had  given  of  these  words  is  the  sense 
in  which  an  old  scholiast  has  understood  them,  as 
appears  in  Clarke's  note  in  loco.  Clarke  indeed 
prefers  the  other,  but  it  does  not  appear  plain  to 
me  that  he  does  it  with  good  reason  against  the 
judgment  of  a  very  ancient  commentator,  and  a 
Grecian.  And  I  am  the  rather  inclined  to  this 
persuasion,  because  Achilles  himself  seems  to  have 
apprehended  that  Agamemnon  would  not  content 
himself  with  Briseis  only,  when  he  says, 

But  I  have  other  precious  things  on  board. 

Of  these  take  none  away  without  my  leave,  &c. 

It  is  certain  that  the  words  are  ambiguous,  and 
that  the  sense  of  them  depends  altogether  on  the 
punctuation.  But  I  am  always  under  the  correc- 
tion of  so  able  a  critic  as  your  neighbour,  and 
have  altered,  as  I  say,  my  version  accordingly. 

As  to  Milton,  the  die  is  cast.  I  am  engaged, 
have  bargained  with  Johnson,  and  can  not  recede. 
I  should  otherwise  have  been  glad  to  do  as  you 
advise,  to  make  the  translation  of  his  Latin  and 
Italian,  part  of  another  volume ;  for,  with  such  an 
addition,  I  have  nearly  as  much  verse  in  my 
budget  as  would  be  required  for  the  purpose.  This 
squabble,  in  the  mean  time,  between  FuseU  and 
Boydell,  does  not  interest  me  at  all;  let  it  ter- 
minate as  it  may,  I  have  only  to  perform  my  job, 
and  leave  the  event  to  be  decided  by  the  comba- 
tants. 

Suave  mari  ma^no  turbantibus  cpquora  ventis 
E  terra  ingentem  alteriusspectare  laborem. 

Adieu,  my  dear  friend,  I  am  most  sincerely 
yours,  W.  C. 

Why  should  you  suppose  that  I  did  not  admire 
the  poem  you  showed  mel  I  did  admire  it,  and 
told  you  so,  but  you  carried  it  off  in  your  pocket, 
and  so  doing,  left  me  to  forget  it,  and  without  the 
means  of  inquiry. 

I  am  thus  nimble  in  answering,  merely  with  a 
view  to  ensure  myself  the  receipt  of  other  re- 
marks in  time  for  a  new  impression. 


TO  THE  REV.  MR.  HURDIS. 

DEAR  SIR,  Weston,  Dec.  10,  1791. 

I  AM  much  obliged  to  you  for  wishing  that  1 
were  employed  in  some  original  work  rather  than 
in  translation.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  of 
your  mind ;  and  unless  I  could  find  another  Ho- 
mer, I  shall  promise  (I  believe)  and  vow,  when  I 


Let.  381,  382. 


LETTERS. 


365 


have  done  with  Milton,  never  to  translate  again. 
But  my  veneration  for  our  great  countryman  is 
equal  to  what  I  feel  for  the  Grecian ;  and  conse- 
quently I  am  happy,  and  feel  myself  honourably 
employed  whatever  I  do  for  Milton.  I  am  now 
translating  his  Epitaphium  Damonis,  a  pastoral 
in  my  judgment  equal  to  any  of  Virgil's  Bucolics, 
but  of  which  Dr.  Johnson  (so  it  pleased  him) 
speaks,  as  I  remember,  contemptuously.  But  he 
who  never  saw  any  beauty  in  a  rural  scene  was 
not  likely  to  have  much  taste  for  a  pastoral.  In 
pace  quiescat! 

I  was  charmed  with  your  friendly  offer  to  be 
my  advocate  with  the  public  ;  should  I  want  one, 
I  know  not  where  I  could  find  a  better.  The  re- 
viewer in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  grows  more 
and  more  civil.  Should  he  continue  to  sweeten  at 
this  rate,  as  he  proceeds,  I  know  not  what  will  be- 
come of  all  the  little  modesty  1  have  left.  I  have 
availed  myself  of  some  of  his  strictures,  for  I  wish 
to  learn  from  every  body.  W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,      The  Lodge,  Dec.  21,  1791. 

It  gives  me,  after  having  indulged  a  little  hope 
that  I  might  see  you  in  the  holidays,  to  be  obliged 
to, disappoint  myself.  The  occasion  too,  is  such  as 
will  ensure  me  your  sympathy. 

On  Saturday  last,  while  I  was  at  my  desk  near 
the  window,  and  Mrs.  Unwin  at  the  fire-side  op- 
posite to  it,  I  heard  her  suddenly  exclaim,  Oh ! 
Mr.  Cowper,  don't  let  me  fall !"  I  turned  and  saw 
her  actually  falling  together  with  her  chair,  and 
started  to  her  side  just  in  time  to  prevent  her.  She 
was  seized  with  a  violent  giddiness,  which  lasted, 
though  with  some  abatement,  the  whole  day,  and 
was  attended  too  with  some  other  very,  very  alarm- 
ing symptoms.  At  present  however  she  is  relieved 
from  the  vertigo,  and  seems  in  all  respects  better. 

She  has  been  my  faithful  and  affectionate  nurse 
for  many  years,  and  consequently  has  a  claim  on 
all  my  attentions.  She  has  them,  and  will  have 
them  as  long  as  she  wants  them;  which  will  pro- 
bably be,  at  the  best  a  considerable  time  to  come.  I 
feel  the  shock,  as  you  may  suppose,  in  every  nerve. 
God  grant  that  there  may  be  no  repetition  of  it. 
Another  such  a  stroke  upon  her  would,  I  think, 
overset  me  completely ;  but  at  present  T  hold  up 
bravely.  W.  C. 

TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

Weston-Underwood,  Feb.  14,  1792. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

It  is  the  only  advantage  I  believe  that  they  who 
love  each  other  derive  ftom  living  at  a  distance, 


that  the  news  of  such  ills  as  may  happen  to  either 
seldom  reaches  the  other,  till  the  cause  of  com- 
plaint is  over.  Had  I  been  next  neighbour  I 
should  have  suffered  with  you  during  the  whole 
indisposition  of  your  two  children  and  your  own. 
As  it  is,  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  rejoice  in 
your  own  recovery  and  theirs,  which  I  do  sincere- 
ly, and  wish  only  to  learn  from  yourself  that  it  is 
complete. 

I  thank  you  for  suggesting  the  omission  of  the 
line  due  to  the  helmet  of  Achilles.  How  the  omis- 
sion happened  I  know  not,  whether  by  my  fault 
or  the  printer's ;  it  is  certain  however  that  I  had 
translated  it,  and  I  have  now  given  it  its  proper 
place. 

I  purpose  to  keep  back  a  second  edition,  till  I 
have  had  an  opportunity  to  avail  myself  of  the  re- 
marks both  of  friends  and  strangers.  The  ordeal 
of  criticism  still  awaits  me  in  the  reviews,  and 
probably  they  will  all  in  their  turn  mark  many 
things  that  may  be  mended.  By  the  Gentleman's 
Magazine  I  have  already  profited  in  several  in- 
stances. My  reviewer  there,  though  favourable 
in  the  main,  is  a  pretty  close  observer,  and  though 
not  always  right,  is  often  so. 

In  the  affair  of  Milton  I  will  have  no  horrida 
hella,  if  I  can  help  it.  It  is  at  least  my  present 
purpose  to  avoid  them  if  possible.  For  which 
reason,  unless  I  should  soon  see  occasion  to  alter 
my  plan,  I  shall  confine  myself  merely  to  the  busi- 
ness of  an  annotator,  which  is  my  proper  province, 
and  shall  sift  out  of  Warton's  notes  every  tittle, 
that  relates  to  the  private  character,  political  or 
religious  principles  of  my  author.  These  are  pro- 
perly subjects  for  a  biographer's  handling,  but  by 
no  means,  as  it  seems  to  me,  for  a  commenta- 
tor's. 

In  answer  to  your  question  if  I  have  had  a  cor- 
respondence with  the  Chancellor — I  reply — yes. 
We  exchanged  three  or  four  letters  on  the  subject 
of  Homer,  or  rather  on  the  subject  of  my  Preface. 
He  was  doubtful  whether  or  not  my  preference 
of  blank  verse,  as  affording  opportunity  for  a  closer 
version,  was  well  founded.  On  this  subject  he 
wished  to  be  convinced;  defended  rhyme  with 
much  learning,  and  much  shrewd  reasoning,  but 
at  last  allowed  me  the  honour  of  the  victory,  ex- 
pressing himself  in  these  words: — /  am  clearly 
convinced  that  Homer  may  he  best  rendered  in 
blank  verse,  and  you  have  succeeded  in  the  passa- 
ges that  I  have  looked  into. 

Thus  it  is  when  a  wise  man  differs  in  opinion. 
Such  a  man  will  be  candid;  and  conviction,  not 
triumph,  will  be  his  object. 

Adieu! — The  hard  name  I  gave  you  I  take  ta 
myself,  and  am  your 

iKTrctyKoTATOs, 

w  z. 


366 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  383,  384 


TO  THE  LORD  THURLOW. 

MY  LORD, 

A  LETTER  reached  me  yesterday  from  Henry 
Cowper,  enclosing  another  from  your  Lordship  to 
himself,  of  which  a  passage  in  my  work  formed  the 
subject.  It  gave  me  the  greatest  pleasure;  your  stric- 
tures are  perfectly  just,  and  here  follows  the  speech 
of  Achilles  accommodated  to  them  ******* 

I  did  not  expect  to  find  your  Lordship  on  the 
side  of  rhyme,  remembering  well  with  how  much 
energy  and  interest  I  have  heard  you  repeat  pas- 
sages from  the  Paradise  Lost,  which  you  could 
not  have  recited  as  you  did,  unless  you  had  been 
perfectly  sensible  of  their  music.  It  comforts  me 
therefore  to  know  that  if  you  have  an  ear  for 
rhyme  you  have  an  ear  for  blank  verse  also. 

It  seems  to  me  that  I  may  justly  complain  of 
rhyme  as  an  inconvenience  in  translation,  even 
though  I  assert  in  the  sequel  that  to  me  it  has 
been  easier  to  rhyme  than  to  write  without,  be- 
cause I  always  suppose  a  rhyming  translator  to 
ramble,  and  always  obliged  to  do  so.  Yet  I  allow 
your  Lordship's  version  of  this  speech  of  Achilles 
to  be  very  close,  and  closer  much  than  mine.  But 
I  beheve  that  should  either  your  Lordship  or  I 
give  them  burnish  or  elevation,  your  lines  would 
be  found,  in  measure  as  they  acquired  stateliness, 
to  have  lost  the  merit  of  fidelity.  In  which  case 
nothing  more  would  be  done  than  Pope  has  done 
already. 

I  can  not  ask  your  Lordship  to  proceed  in  your 
strictures,  though  I  should  be  happy  to  receive 
more  of  them.  Perhaps  it  is  possible  that  when 
you  retire  into  the  country,  you  may  now  and  thpn 
amuse  yourself  with  my  Translation.  Should  your 
remarks  reach  me,  I  promise  faithfully  that  they 
shall  be  all  most  welcome,  not  only  as  yours,  but 
because  I  am  sure  my  work  will  be  the  better  for 
them. 

With  sincere  and  fervent  wishes  for  your  Lord- 
ship's health  and  happiness, 

I  remain,  my  Lord,  &c.  W,  C* 

*  TO  WILLIAM  COWPER,  ESa. 
F'rom  Lord  Thurlo-w. 

DEAR  COWPER, 

On 'coming  to  town  this  morning,  I  was  sur- 
prised, particularly  at  receiving  from  you  an  an- 
swer to  a  scrawl  I  sent  Harry,  which  I  have  forgot 
too  much  to  resume  now.  But  I  think  I  could 
not  mean  to  patronise  rhyme.  I  have  fancied, 
that  it  was  introduced  to  mark  the  measure  in 
modern  languages,  because  they  are  less  numer- 
ous and  metrical  than  the  ancient ;  and  the  name 
seems  to  import  as  much.  Perhaps  there  was 
m(jlody  in  ancient  song,  without  straining  it  to 
musical  notes ;  as  the  common  Greek  pronuncia- 
tion is  said  to  have  had  the  compass  of  five  parts 


TO  THE  LORD  THURLOW. 

MY  LORD, 

We  are  of  one  mind  as  to  the  agreeable  eflecl 
of  rhyme  or  euphony  in  the  lighter  kinds  of  poetry. 


of  an  octave.  But  surely  that  word  is  only  figura- 
tively applied  to  modern  poetry:  euphony  seems 
to  be  the  highest  term  it  will  bear.  I  have  fancied 
also,  that  euphony  is  an  impression  derived  a  good 
deal  from  habit,  rather  than  suggested  by  nature: 
therefore  in  some  degree  accidental,  and  conse- 
quently conventional.  Else  why  can't  we  bear  a 
drama  with  rhyme ;  or  the  French  one  without 
if?  Suppose  the  Rape  of  the  Lock,  Windsor 
Forest,  L'AUegro,  II  Penseroso,  and  many  other 
little  poems  which  please,  stripped  of  the  rhyme, 
which  might  easily  be  done,  would  they  please  as 
wein  it  would  be  unfair  to  treat  rondeaus,  ballads, 
and  odes  in  the  same  manner,  because  rhyme 
makes  in  some  sort  a  part  of  the  conceit.  It  was 
this  way  of  thinking,  which  made  me  suppose, 
that  habitual  prejudice  would  miss  the  rhyme: 
and  that  neither  Dryden  nor  Pope  would  have 
dared  to  give  their  great  authors  in  blank  verse. 

I  wondered  to  hear  you  say  you  thought  rhyme 
easier  in  original  compositions ;  but  you  explained 
it,  that  you  could  go  further  a-field,  if  you  were 
pushed  for  want  of  a  rhyme.  An  expression  pre- 
ferred for  the  salie  of  the  rhyme  looks  as  if  it  were 
worth  more  than  you  allow.  But  to  be  sure  in  trans- 
lation the  necessity  of  rhyme  imposes  very  heavy 
fetters  upon  those  who  mean  translation,  not  para- 
phrase. Our  common  heroic  metre  is  enough; 
the  pure  iambic,  bearing  only  a  sparing  introduc- 
tion of  spondees,  trochees,  &c.  to  vary  the  mea- 
sure. 

Mere  translation  I  take  to  be  impossible,  if  no 
metre  were  required.  But  the  difference  of  iambic 
and  heroic  measure  destroys  that  at  once.  It  is 
also  impossible  to  obtain  the  same  sense  from  a 
dead  language,  and  an  ancient  author,  which 
those  of  his  own  time  and  country  conceived; 
words  and  phrases  contract,  from  time  and  use, 
such  strong  shades  of  difference  from  their  original 
import.  In  a  living  language,  vnth  the  famiUari- 
ty  of  a  whole  hfe,  it  is  not  easy  to  conceive  truly 
the  actual  sense  of  current  expressions;  niuch  less 
of  older  authors.  No  two  languages  furnish  equi- 
-pollent  words ;  their  phrases  differ,  their  syntax 
and  their  idioms  still  more  widely.  But  a  trans- 
lation strictly  so  called  requires  an  exact  conformi- 
ty in  all  those  particulars,  and  also  in  numbers: 
therefore  it  is  impossible.  I  really  think  at  present, 
notwithstanding  the  opinion  expressed  in  your 
Preface,  that  a  translator  asks  himself  a  good  ques- 
tion. How  would  my  author  have  expressed  the 
sentence,  I  am  turning,  in  English'?  for  every  idea 
conveyed  in  the  original  should  be  expressed  in 
English,  as  literally,  and  fully,  as  the  genius,  and 
use,  and  character  of  the  language  will  admit  of. 

In  the  passage  before  us  atta  was  the  fondhng 
expression  of  childhood  to  its  parent;  and  to  those 
who  first  translated  the  lines  conveyed  feelingly 
that  amiable  sentiment.  Ii^ah  expressed  the  re- 
verence which  naturally  accrues  to  age. 

AtoTftxpnc  implies  an  history.  Hospitality  was 
an  article  of  religion,  strangers  were  supposed  to 


Let.  385. 


LETTERS. 


367 


The  pieces  which  your  lordship  mentions  would 
certainly  be  spoiled  by  the  loss  of  it,  and  so  would 
all  such.  The  Alma  would  lose  all  its  neatness 
and  smartness,  and  Hudibras  all  its  humour.  But 
in  grave  poems  of  extreme  length  I  apprehend  that 
the  case  is  different.  Long  before  1  thought  of 
commencing  poet  myself,  I  have  complained  and 
heard  others  complain  of  the  wearisomeness  of  such 
poems.  Not  that  I  suppose  that  taedium  the  ef- 
fect of  rhyme  itself,  but  rather  of  the  perpetual  re- 
currence of  the  same  pause  and  cadence,  unavoida- 
ble in  the  English  couplet. 

I  hope  1  may  say  truly,  it  was  not  in  a  spirit 
of  presumption  that  I  undertook  to  do  what,  in 
your  Lordship's  opinion,  neither  Dryden  nor  Pope 
would  have  dared  to  do.  On  the  contrary,  I  see 
not  how  I  could  have  escaped  that  imputation, 
had  I  followed  Pope  in  his  own  way.  A  closer 
translation  was  called  for.  I  verily  believe  that 
rhyme  had  betrayed  Pope  into  his  deviations.  For 
me  therefore  to  have  used  his  mode  of  versifying 


be  sent  by  God,  and  honoured  accordingly.  Jove's 
altar  was  placed  in  ^mJ'cip(^(tov.  Phcenix  had  been 
describing  that  as  his  situation  in  the  court  of  Pe- 
leus:  and  his  AiorpKpic  refers  to  it. — But  you  must 
not  translate  that  literally — 

"  Old  daddy  Phoenix,  a  God-send  for  us  to  maintain." 

Precious  limbs  was  at  first  an  expression  of 
great  feeling ;  till  vagabonds,  draymen,  &c.  brought 
upon  it  the  character  of  coarseness  and  ridicule. 

It  would  run  to  great  length,  if  I  were  to  go 
through  this  one  speech  thus — this  is  enough  for 
an  example  of  my  idea,  and  to  prove  the  necessity 
of  further  deviation;  which  still  is  departing  from 
the  author,  and  justifiable  only  by  strong  necessity, 
such  as  should  not  be  admitted,  till  the  sense  of  the 
original  had  been  laboured  to  the  utmost,  and  been 
found  irreducible. 

I  will  end  this  by  giving  you  the  strictest  trans- 
lation 1  can  invent,  leaving  you  the  double  task 
of  bringing  it  closer,  and  of  polishing  it  into  the 
tyle  of  poetry. 

Ah !  Phcenix,  aged  Father,  guest  of  Jove ! 
I  relish  no  such  honours :  for  my  hope 
Is  to  be  honour'd  by  .Jove's  fated  will, 
Which  keeps  me  close  beside  these  sable  ships, 
Long  as  the  breath  shall  in  my  bosom  stay. 
Or  as  my  precious  knees  retain  their  spring. 
Further  I  say ;  and  cast  it  in  your  mind ! 
Melt  not  my  spirit  down  by  weeping  thus. 
And  wailing,  only  for  that  great  man's  sake, 
Atrides :  neither  ought  you  love  that  man, 
Lest  1  should  hate  the  friend  I  love  so  well. 
With  me  united  'tis  your  nobler  part 
To  gall  his  spirit,  who  has  galled  mine. 
With  me  reign  equal,  half  my  honours  share. 
These  will  report ;  stay  you  here,  and  repose 
On  a  soft  bed ;  and  with  the  beaming  morn 
Consult  we;  whether  to  go  home,  or  stay. 

I  have  thought,  that  hero  has  contracted  a  dif- 
ferent sense  than  it  had  in  Homer's  time,  and  is 
better  rendered  great  man:  but  I  am  aware  that 
the  encliticks  and  other  httle  words,  falsely  called 
expletives,  are  not  introduced  even  so  much  as  the 

fenius  of  our  language  would  admit.  The  euphony 
leave  entirely  to  you.    Adieu ! 

2o 


would  have  been  to  expose  myself  to  the  same 
miscarriage,  at  the  same  time  that  I  had  not  his 
talents  to  atone  for  it. 

1  agree  with  your  Lordship  that  a  translation 
perfectly  close  is  impossible,  because  time  has  sunk 
the  original  strict  import  of  a  thousand  phrases, 
and  we  have  no  means  of  recovering  it.  But  if  we 
can  not  be  unimpeachably  faithful,  that  is  no  rea- 
son why  we  should  not  be  as  faithful  as  we  can; 
and  if  blank  verse  affords  the  fairest  chance,  then 
it  claims  the  preference. 

Your  lordship,  I  will  venture  to  say,  can  com- 
mand me  nothing  in  which  I  will  not  obey  with 
the  greatest  alacrity. 

But  when,  having  made  as  close  a  translation  as 
even  you  can  invent,  you  enjoin  me  to  make  it  still 
closer,  and  in  rhyme  too,  I  can  only  reply  as  Hor- 
ace to  Augustus, 

 cupidum,  pater  optime,  vires 

Deficiunt  

I  have  not  treacherously  departed  from  my  pat- 
tern that  I  might  seem  to  give  some  proof  of  the 
justness  of  my  own  opinion,  but  have  fairly  and 
honestly  adhered  as  closely  to  it  as  I  could.  Yfit 
your  lordship  will  not  have  to  compliment  me  on 
my  success,  either  in  respect  of  the  poetical  merit 
of  my  lines,  or  of  their  fidelity.  They  have,  just 
enough  of  each  to  make  them  deficient  in  the 
other. 

Oh  Phcenix,  father,  friend,  guest  sent  from  Jove ! 
Me  no  such  honours  as  they  yield  can  move, 
For  I  expect  my  honours  from  above. 
Here  Jove  has  fix'd  me ;  and  while  breath  and  sense 
Have  place  within  me,  I  will  never  hence. 
Hear  too,  and  mark  we  well — Haunt  not  mine  ears 
With  sighs,  nor  seek  to  melt  me  with  thy  tears 
For  yonder  chief,  lest  urging  such  a  plea 
Through  love  of  him,  thou  hateful  prove  to  me. 
Thy  friendship  for  thy  friend  shall  brighter  shine 
Wounding  his  spirit  who  has  wounded  mine. 
Divide  with  me  the  honours  of  my  throne — 
These  shall  return,  and  make  their  tidings  known ; 
But  go  not  thou— thy  couch  shall  here  be  dress'd 
With  softest  fleeces  for  thy  easy  rest, 
And  with  the  earliest  blush  of  op'ning  day 
We  will  consult  to  seek  our  home,  or  stay. 

Since  I  wrote  these  I  have  looked  at  Pope's.  1 
am  certainly  somewhat  closer  to  the  original  than 
he,  but  further  I  say  not. — I  shall  wait  with  im- 
patience for  your  lordship's  conclusions  from  these 
premises,  and  remain  in  the  mean  time  with  great 
truth,  My  Lord,  &c.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  LORD  THURLOW. 

MY  LORD, 

I  HAUNT  you  with  letters,  but  will  trouble  yon 
now  with  a  short  line  only  to  tell  your  lordship 
2 


368 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  386,  387. 


how  happy  I  am  that  any  part  of  my  work  has 
pleased  you. — 1  have  a  comfortable  consciousness 
that  the  whole  has  been  executed  with  equal  in- 
dustry and  attention;  and  am,  my  Lord,  with 
many  thanks  to  you  for  snatching  such  a  hasty 
moment  to  write  to  me,* 

Your  Lordship's  obliged  and  affectionate 
humble  servant, 

WM.  COWPER. 


TO  THE  REV.  MR.  HURDIS. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  Weston,  Feb.  21,  1792. 

My  obligations  to  you  on  the  score  of  your  kind 
and  friendly  remarks  demanded  from  me  a  much 
more  expeditious  acknowledgment  of  the  numerous 
pacquets  that  cont9,ined  them;  but  I  have  been 
hindered  by  many'  causes,  each  of  which  you 
would  admit  as  a  sufficient  apology,  but  none  of 
which  I  will  mention,  lest  I  should  give  too  much 
of  my  paper  to  the  subject.  My  acknowledgments 
are  likewise  due  to  your  fair  sister,  who  has  tran- 
scribed so  many  sheets  in  so  neat  a  hand,  and 
with  so  much  accuracy. 

At  present  I  have  no  leisure  for  Homer,  but 
shall  certainly  find  leisure  to  examine  him  with  a 
reference  to  your  strictures,  before  I  send  him  a 
second  time  to  the  printer.  This  I  am  at  present 
unwilling  to  do,  choosing  rather  to  wait,  if  that 
may  be,  till  I  shall  have  undergone  the  discipline 
of  all  the  reviewers;  none  of  whom  yet  have  taken 
me  in  hand,  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  excepted. 
By  several  of  his  remarks  I  have  benefited,  and 
shall  no  doubt  be  benefited  by  the  remarks  of  all. 

Milton  at  present  engrosses  me  altogether.  His 
Latin  pieces  I  have  translated,  and  have  begun 
with  the  ItaUan.    These  are  few,  and  will  not 


*  TO  WILLIAM  COWPER,  ESa. 
From  Lord  Thurlow. 

DEAR  COWPER, 

I  HAVE  received  your  letter  on  my  journey 
through  London,  and  as  the  chaise  waits  I  shall 
be  short. 

I  did  not  mean  it  as  a  sign  of  any  presumption 
that  you  have  attempted  what  neither  Dryden  nor 
Pope  would  have  dared ;  but  merely  as  a  proof  of 
their  addiction  to  rhyme;  for  I  am  clearly  con- 
vinced that  Homer  may  be  better  translated  than 
into  rhyme,  and  that  you  have  succeeded  in  the 
places  1  have  looked  into.  But  I  have  fancied  that 
it  might  have  been  still  more  literal,  preserving 
the  ease  of  genuine  English  and  melody,  and  some 
degree  of  that  elevation  which  Homer  derives  from 
simplicity.  But  I  could  not  do  it,  or  even  near 
enough  to  form  a  judgment,  or  more  than  a  fancy 
about  it.  Nor  do  I  fancy  it  could  be  done  "  stans 
pede  in  uno."  But  when  the  mind  has  been  fully 
impregnated  with  the  original  passage,  often  re- 
volving it  and  waiting  for  a  happy  moment  may 
Btill  be  necessary  to  the  best  trained  mind.  Adieu. 


detain  me  long.  I  shall  then  proceed  immediately 
to  deliberate  upon,  and  to  settle  the  plan  of  my 
commentary,  which  I  have  hitherto  had  but  little 
time  to  consider,  I  look  forward  to  it,  for  this 
reason,  with  some  anxiety.  I  trust  at  least  that 
this  anxiety  will  cease  when  I  have  once  satisfied 
myself  about  the  best  manner  of  conducting  it. 
But  after  all  I  seem  to  fear  more  the  labour  to 
which  it  calls  me,  than  any  great  difficulty  with 
which  it  is  Ukely  to  be  attended.  To  the  labours 
of  versifying  I  have  no  objection,  but  to  the  labours 
of  criticism  I  am  new,  and  apprehend  that  I  shall 
find  them  wearisome.  Should  that  be  the  case,  I 
shall  be  dull,  and  must  be  contented  to  share  the 
censure  of  being  so,  with  almost  all  the  commen- 
tators that  have  ever  existed. 

I  have  expected,  but  not  wondered  that  I  have 
not  received  Sir  Thomas  More  and  the  other  MSS. 
you  promised  me,  because  my  silence  has  been 
such,  considering  how  loudly  I  was  called  upon  to 
write,  that  you  must  have  concluded  me  either 
dead  or  dying,  and  did  not  choose  perhaps  to  trust 
them  to  executors.  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  MR.  HURDIS. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  Weston,  March  2, 1792. 

I  HAVE  this  moment  finished  a  comparison  of 
your  remarks  vnth  my  text,  and  feel  so  sensibly 
my  obligations  to  your  great  accuracy  and  kind- 
ness, that  I  can  not  deny  myself  the  pleasure  of 
expressing  them  immediately.  I  only  wish  that 
instead  of  revising  the  two  first  books  of  the  Iliad, 
you  could  have  found  leisure  to  revise  the  whole 
two  poems,  sensible  how  much  my  work  would 
have  benefited. 

I  have  not  always  adopted  your  lines,  though 
often  perhaps  at  least  as  good  as  my  own ;  because 
there  will  and  must  be  dissimilarity  of  manner  be- 
tween two  so  accustomed  to  the  pen  as  we  are. 
But  I  have  let  few  passages  go  unamended,  which 
you  seemed  to  think  exceptionable;  and  this  not 
at  all  from  complaisance;  for  in  such  a  cause  I 
would  not  sacrifice  an  iota  on  that  principle,  but 
on  clear  conviction. 

I  have  as  yet  heard  nothing  from  Johnson  about 
the  two  MSS.  you  announce,  but  feel  ashamed 
that  I  should  want  your  letter  to  remind  me  of  your 
obUging  offer  to  inscribe  Sir  Thomas  More  to  me, 
should  you  resolve  to  pubUsh  him  Of  my  consent 
to  such  a  measure  you  need  not  doubt.  I  am  co- 
vetous of  respect  and  honour  from  all  such  as  you. 

Tame  hare,  at  present,  I  have  none.  But  to 
make  amends,  I  have  a  beautiful  little  spaniel, 
called  Beau,  to  whom  I  will  give  the  kiss  your 
sister  Sally  intended  for  the  former.  Unless  she 
should  command  me  to  bestow  it  elsewhere;  it 
shall  attend  on  her  directiooa. 


Let.  388, 389, 390. 


LETTERS. 


36!? 


I  am  going  to  take  a  last  dinner  with  a  most 
agreeable  family,  who  have  been  my  only  neigh- 
bours ever  since  I  have  lived  at  Weston.  On 
Monday  they  go  to  London,  and  in  the  summer 
to  an  estate  in  Oxfordshire,  which  is  to  be  their 
home  in  future.  The  occasion  is  not  at  all  a  plea- 
sant one  to  me,  nor  does  it  leave  me  spirits  to  add 
more  than  that  I  am,  dear  sir, 

Most  truly  yours,  W.  C. 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

MY  DEAREST  JOHNNY,    Weston,  March  11, 1792. 

You  talk  of  primroses  that  you  pulled  on  Can- 
dlemas day;  but  what  think  you  of  me  who  heard 
a  nightingale  on  New  Year's  day '?  Perhaps  1 
am  the  only  man  in  England  who  can  boast  of 
such  good  fortune;  good  indeed,  for  if  it  was  at 
all  an  omen,  it  could  not  be  an  unfavourable  one. 
The  winter,  however,  is  now  making  himself 
amends,  and  seems  the  more  peevish  for  having 
been  encroached(,,on  at  so  undue  a  season.  No- 
thing less  than  a*  large  slice  out  of  the  spring  will 
satisfy  him. 

Lady  Hesketh  left  us  yesterday.  She  intended 
indeed  to  have  left  us  four  days  sooner;  but  in  the 
evening  before  the  day  fixed  for  her  departure, 
snow  enough  fell  to  occasion  just  so  much  delay 
of  it. 

We  have  faint  hopes  that  in  the  month  of  May 
we  shall  see  her  again.  I  know  that  you  have 
had  a  letter  from  her,  and  you  will  no  doubt  have 
the  grace  not  to  make  her  wait  long  for  an  answer. 

We  expect  Mr.  Rose  on  Tuesday ;  but  he  stays 
with  us  only  till  the  Saturday  following.  With 
him  I  shall  have  some  conferences  on  the  subject 
of  Homer,  respecting  a  new  edition  I  mean,  and 
some  perhaps  on  the  subject  of  Milton;  on  him  I 
have  not  yet  begun  to  comment,  or  even  fix  the 
time  when  I  shall. 

Forget  not  your  promised  visit !         W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  MR.  HURDIS. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  Weston,  March  23, 1792. 

I  HAVE  read  your  play  carefully,  and  with  great 
pleasure;  it  seems  now  to  be  a  performance  that 
can  not  fail  to  do  you  much  credit.  Yet,  unless 
my  memory  deceives  me,  the  scene  between  Cecilia 
and  Heron  in  the  garden  has  lost  something  that 
pleased  me  much  when  I  saw  it  first;  and  I  am 
not  sure  that  you  have  not  likewise  obliterated  an 
account  of  Sir  Thomas's  execution,  that  I  found 
very  pathetic.  It  would  be  strange  if  in  these 
two  particulars  I  should  seem  to  miss  what  never 
existed;  you  will  presently  know  whether  I  am  as 
good  at  remembering  what  I  never  saw,  as  I  am 


at  forgetting  what  I  have  seen.  But  if  I  am  right 
I  can  not  help  recommending  the  omitted  passagesr 
to  your  reconsideration.  If  the  play  were  designed 
for  representation,  I  should  be  apt  to  think  Ceci- 
lia's first  speech  rather  too  long,  and  should  prefear 
to  have  it  broken  into  dialogue,  by  an  interpositiosi 
now  and  then  from  one  of  her  sisters.  But  since 
it  is  designed,  as  I  understand,  for  the  closet  only,, 
that  objection  seems  of  no  importance;  at  no  rate 
however  would  I  expunge  it;  because  it  is  both, 
prettily  imagined,  and  elegantly  written. 

I  have  read  your  cursory  remarks,  and  am  much 
pleased  both  with  the  style  and  the  argument. 
Whether  the  latter  be  new  or  not,  I  am  not  com- 
petent to  judge ;  if  it  be,  you  are  entitled  to  much 
praise  for  the  invention  of  it.  Where  other  data 
are  wanting  to  ascertain  the  time  when  an  author 
of  many  pieces  wrote  each  in  particular,  there  can 
be  no  better  criterion  by  which  to  determine  the 
point,  than  the  more  or  less  proficiency  manifested 
in  the  composition.  Of  this  proficiency,  where  it 
appears,  and  of  those  plays  in  which  it  appears 
not,  you  seem  to  me  to  have  judged  well  and  truly; 
and  consequently  I  approve  of  your  arrangement. 

I  attended,  as  you  desired  me,  in  reading  the 
character  of  CeciUa,  to  the  hint  you  gave  me  con- 
cerning your  sister  Sally,  and  give  you  joy  of  such 
a  sister.  This  however  not  exclusively  of  the  rest, 
for  though  they  may  not  be  all  CeciUas,  I  have  a 
strong  persuasion  that  they  are  all  very  amiable. 

W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

MY  DEAREST  coz.    The  Lodge,  March  25, 1792. 

Mr.  Rose's  longer  stay  than  he  at  first  intended 
was  the  occasion  of  the  longer  delay  of  my  answer 
to  your  date,  as  you  may  both  have  perceived  by 
the  date  thereof,  and  learned  from  his  information. 
It  was  a  daily  trouble  to  me  to  see  it  lying  in  the 
window  seat,  while  I  knew  you  were  in  expecta- 
tion of  its  arrival.  By  this  time  I  presume  you 
have  seen  him,  and  have  seen  likewise  Mr.  Hay- 
ley's  friendly  letter  and  compUraentary  sonnet,  as 
well  as  the  letter  of  the  honest  Gluaker;  all  of 
which,  at  least  the  two  former,  I  shall  be  glad  to 
receive  again  at  a  fair  opportunity.  Mr.  Hayley's 
letter  slept  six  weeks  in  Johnson's  custody.  It  was 
necessary  I  should  answer  it  without  delay,  and 
accordingly  I  answered  it  the  very  evening  on 
which  I  received  it,  giving  him  to  understand, 
among  other  things,  how  much  vexation  the  book- 
seller's folly  had  cost  me,  who  had  detained  it  so 
I  long;  especially  on  account  of  the  distress  that  I 
!  knew  it  must  have  occasioned  to  him  also.  From 
1  his  reply,  which  the  return  of  the  post  brought  me, 
I  learn  that  in  the  long  interval  of  my  noncorres- 
1  pondence  he  had  suffered  anxiety  and  mortification 


370 


COWPER'i 


'S  WORKS. 


Let.  391,  392, 393. 


enough;  so  much  that  I  dare  say  he  made  twenty 
vows  never  to  hazard  again  cither  letter  or  compli- 
ment to  an  unknown  author.  What  indeed  could 
he  imagine  less,  than  that  I  meant  hy  such  an  ob- 
stinate silence  to  tell  him  that  I  valued  neither 
him  nor  his  praises,  nor  his  proffered  friendship; 
in  short  that  I  considered  him  as  a  rival,  and 
therefore,  like  a  true  author,  hated  and  despised 
him  7  He  is  now  however  convinced  that  I  love 
him,  as  indeed  I  do,  and  1  account  him  the  chief 
acquisition  thatdaiy  own  verse  has  ever  procured 
me.  Brute  should  I  be  if  I  did  not,  for  he  promises 
me  every  assistance  in  his  power. 

I  have  likewise  a  very  pleasing  letter  from  Mr. 
Park,  which  I  wish  you  were  here  to  read;  and  a 
very  pleasing  poem  that  came  enclosed  in  it  for 
my  revisal,  written  when  he  was  only  twenty 
years  of  age,  yet  wonderfully  well  written,  though 
wantL^g  some  correctioii. 

To  Mr.  Hurdis  I  return  Sir  Thomas  More  to- 
morrow; having  revised  it  a  second  time.  He  is 
now  a  very  respectable  figure,  and  will  do  my 
friend,  who  gives  him  to  the  public  this  spring, 
considerable  credit,  W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  March  30,  1792. 

My  mornings,  ever  since  you  went,  have  been 
given  to  my  correspondents;  this  morning  I  have 
already  WTitten  a  long  letter  to  Mr.  Park,  giving 
my  opinion  of  his  poem,  which  is  a  favourable  one. 
I  forget  whether  I  showed  it  to  you  when  yoiT 
were  here,  and  even  whether  I  had  then  received 
it.  He  has  genius  and  delicate  taste;  and  if  he 
were  not  an  engraver  might  be  one  of  our  first 
hands  in  poetry.  W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

Weston,  April  5,  1792. 

You  talk,  my  dear  friend,  as  John  Bunyan  says, 
like  one  that  has  the  egg-shell  still  upon  his  head, 
You  talk  of  the  mighty  favours  that  you  have  re- 
ceived from  me,  and  forget  entirely  those  for  which 
I  am  indebted  to  you;  but  though  you  forget  them, 
I  shall  not,  nor  ever  think  that  I  have  requited 
you,  so  long  as  any  opportunity  presents  itself  of 
rendering  you  the  smallest  service ;  small  indeed 
is  all  that  I  can  ever  hope  to  render. 

You  now  perceive,  and  sensibly,  that  not  with- 
out reason  I  complained  as  I  used  to  do  of  those 
tiresome  rogues  the  printers.  BleSs  yourself  that 
you  have  not  two  thick  quartos  to  bring  forth  as 
I  had.  My  vexation  was  always  much  increased 
by  this  reflection ;  they  are  every  day,  and  all  day 
long,  employed  in  printing  for  somebody,  and  why 


not  for  me*?  This  was  adding  mortification  to 
disappointment,  so  that  I  often  lost  all  patience. 

The  suflrage  of  Dr.  Robertson  makes  more 
than  amends  for  the  scurvy  jest  passed  upon  me 
by  the  wag  unknown.  I  regard  him  not;  nor, 
except  for  about  two  moments  after  I  first  heard 
of  his  doings,  have  I  ever  regarded  him.  I  have 
somewhere  a  secret  enemy;  I  know  not  for  what 
cause  he  should  be  so,  but  he  I  imagine  supposes 
that  he  has  a  cause;  it  is  well  however  to  have 
but  one;  and  I  will  take  all  the  care  I  can  not  to 
increase  the  number. 

I  have  begun  my  notes,  and  am  playing  the 
commentator  manfully.  The  worst  of  it  is  that 
I  am  anticipated  in  almost  all  my  opportunities  to 
shine  by  those  who  have  gone  before  me. 

W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,         Weston,  April  6,  1792. 

God  grant  that  this  friendship  of  ours  may  be 
a  comfort  to  us  all  the  rest  of  our  days,  in  a  world 
where  true  friendships  are  rarities,  and  especially 
where  suddenly  formed  they  are  apt  soon  to  ter- 
minate !  But  as  I  said  before,  I  feel  a  disposition 
of  heart  toward  you  that  I  never  felt  for  one  whom 
I  had  never  seen;  and  that  shall  prove  itself  I 
trust  in  the  event  a  propitious  omei;i, 
****** 

Horace  says  somewhere,  though  I  may  quote 
it  amiss  perhaps,  for  I  have  a  terrible  memory, 

Utrumque  nostrum  incredibili  modo 
Consentit  astrum.  

*  *  *  *  Our  stars  consent,  at  least  have  had  an  in- 
fluence somewhat  similar  in  another,  and  more 
important  article  -*  *  * 

It  gives  me  the  sincerest  pleasure  that  I  may 
hope  to  see  you  at  Weston ;  for  as  to  any  migra- 
tions of  mine,  they  must,  I  fear,  notwithstanding 
the  joy  I  should  feel  in  being  a  guest  of  yours,  be 
still  considered  in  the  light  of  impossibilities. 
Come  then,  my  friend,  and  be  as  welcome,  as  the 
country  people  say  here,  as  the'Tflowers  in  May ! 
I  am  happy,  as  I  say,  in  the  expectation,  but  the 
fear,  or  rather  the  consciousness  that  I  shall  not 
answer  on  a  nearer  view,  makes  it  a  trembling 
kind  of  happiness,  and  a  doubtful. 

After  the  privacy  which  I  have  mentioned 
^bove,  I  went  to  Huntingdon;  soon  afl;er  my  ar- 
rival there,  I  took  up  my  quarters  at  the  house  of 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Unwin:  I  lived  with  him  while  he 
lived,  and  ever  since  his  death  have  lived  with  his 
widow.  Her,  therefore,  you  will  find  mistress  of 
the  house;  and  I  judge  of  you  amiss,  or  you  will 
find  her  just  such  as  you  would  wish.  To  Ae 
she  has  been  often  a  nurse,  and  invariably  the 


Let.  394,  395. 


LETTERS. 


371 


kindest  friend,  through  a  thousand  adversities 
that  I  have  had  to  grapple  vpith  in  the  course  of 
almost  thirty  years.  I  thought  it  better  to  intro- 
duce her  to  you  thus,  than  to  present  her  to  you 
at  your  coming  quite  a  stranger. 

Bring  with  you  any  books  that  you  think  may 
be  useful  to  my  commentatorship,  for  with  you 
for  an  interpreter  I  shall  be  afraid  of  none  of 
them.  And  in  truth,  if  you  think  that  you  shall 
want  them,  you  must  bring  books  for  your  own 
use  also,  for  they  are  an  article  with  which  I  am 
heinously  unprovided ;  being  much  in  the  con- 
dition of  the  man  whose  library  Pope  describes  as 

No  mighty  store ! 
His  own  works  neatly  bound,  and  little  more ! 

You  shall  know  how  this  has  come  to  pass  here- 
after. 

Tell  me,  my  friend,  are  your  letters  in  your  own 
handwriting;  if  so,  I  am  in  pain  for  your  eyes,  lest 
by  such  frequent  demands  upon  them  I  should 
hurt  them.  I  had  rather  write  you  three  letters,  for 
one,  much  as  I  prize  your  letters,  than  that  should 
happen.  *^nd  now,  for  the  present,  adieu — I  am 
going  to  accompany  Milton  into  the  lake  of  fire 
and  brimstone,  having  just'  begun  my  annotations. 

W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  MR.  HURDIS. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  Weston,  April  8,  1792. 

Your  entertaining  and  pleasant  letter,  resem- 
bling in  that  respect  all  that  I  receive  from  you, 
deserved  a  more  expeditious  answer;  and  should 
have  had  what  it  so  well  deserved,  had  it  not 
reached  me  at  a  time  when  deeply  in  debt  to 
all  my  correspondents,  I  had  letters  to  write  with- 
out number.  Like  autumnal  leaves  that  strew 
the  brooks  in  Vallambrosa,  the  unanswered  far- 
rago lay  before  me.  If  I  quote  at  all,  you  must 
expect  me  henceforth  to  quote  none  but  Milton, 
since  for  a  long  time  to  come  I  shall  be  occupied 
with  him  only. 

1  was  much  pleased  with  the  extract  you  gave 
me  from  your  sister  Eliza's  letter;  she  writes  very 
elegantly,  and  (if  I  might  say  it  without  seeming 
to  flatter  you)  I  should  say  much  in  the  manner 
of  her  brother.  It  is  well  for  your  sister  Sally, 
that  gloomy  Dis  is  already  a  married  man;  else 
perhaps  finding  her,  as  he  found  Proserpine,  stu- 
dying botany  in  the  fields,  he  might  transport  her 
to  his  own  flowerless  abode,  where  all  her  hopes 
of  improvement  in  that  science  would  be  at  an  end 
for  ever. 

What  letter  of  the  tenth  of  December  is  that 
which  you  say  you  have  not  answered'?  Consider 
it  is  April  now,  and  I  never  remember  any  thing 
that  I  write  half  so  long.    But  perhaps  it  relates 


to  Calchas,  for  I  do  remember  that  you  have  not 
yet  furnished  me  with  the  secret  history  of  him 
and  his  family,  which  I  demanded  from  you. 

Adieu.    Yours,  most  sincerely,  W.  C. 

I  rejoice  that  you  are  so  well  with  the  learned 
Bishop  of  Sarum,  and  well  remember  how  he  fer- 
reted the  vermin  Lauder  out  of  all  his  hidings, 
when  I  was  a  boy  at  Westminster. 

I  have  not  yet  studied  with  your  last  remarks 
before  me,  but  hope  soon  to  find  an  opportunity. 


TO  LADY  THROCKMORTON. 

Weston,  April  16,  1792. 

MY  DEAR  LADY  FROG, 

I  THANK  you  for  your  letter,  as  sweet  as  it  was 
short,  and  as  sweet  as  good  news  could  make  it. 
You  encourage  a  hope  that  has  made  me  happy 
ever  since  I  have  entertained  it.  And  if  my  wish- 
es can  hasten  the  event,  it  will  not  be  long  sus- 
pended. As  to  your  jealousy,  I  mind  it  not,  or 
only  to  be  pleased  with  it ;  I  shall  say  no  more  on 
the  subject  at  present  than  this,  that  of  all  ladies 
hving,  a  certain  lady,  whom  I  need  not  name, 
would  be  the  lady  of  my  choice  for  a  certain  gen- 
tleman, were  the  whole  sex  submitted  to  my  elec- 
tion. 

What  a  delightful  anecdote  is  that  which  you 
tell  me  of  a  young  lady  detected  in  the  very 
act  of  stealing  our  Catharina's  praises ;  is  it  pos- 
ble  that  she  can  survive  the  shame,  the  mortifica- 
tion of  such  a  discovery !  Can  she  ever  see  the 
same  company  again,  or  any  company  that  she  can 
suppose  by  the  remotest  probability,  may  have 
heard  the  tidings  1  If  she  can,  she  must  have  an 
assurance  equal  to  her  vanity.  A  lady  in  Lon- 
don stole  my  song  on  the  broken  Rose,  or  rather 
would  have  stolen,  and  have  passed  it  for  her  own. 
But  she  too  was  unfortunate  in  her  attempt ;  for 
there  happened  to  be  a  female  cousin  of  mine  in 
company,  who  knew  that  I  had  written  it.  It  is 
very  flattering  to  a  poet's  pride,  that  the  ladies 
should  thus  hazard  every  thing  for  the  sake  of  ap- 
propriating his  verses.  I  may  say  with  Milton, 
that  I  am  fallen  on  evil  tongues,  and  evil  days^ 
being  hot  only  plundered  of  that  which  belongs  to 
me,  but  being  charged  with  that  which  does  not. 
Thus  it  seems  (and  I  have  learned  it  from  more 
quarters  than  one)  that  a  report  is,  and  has  been 
some  time  current  in  this  and  the  neighbouring 
counties,  that  though  I  have  given  myself  the  air 
of  declaiming  against  the  Slave  Trade  in  the 
Task,  I  am  in  reality  a  friend  to  it ;  and  last  night 
I  received  a  letter  from  Joe  Rye,  to  inform  me 
that  I  have  been  much  traduced  and  calumniated 
on  this  account.  Not  knowing  how  I  could  better 
or  more  effectually  refute  the  scandal,  I  have  this 


372 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  396, 397. 


morning  sent  a  copy  to  tlu;  Northampton  paper, 
prefaced  by  a  short  letter  to  the  printer,  specifying 
the  occasion.  The  verses  are  in  honour  of  Mr. 
Wilberforcc,  and  sufficiently  expressive  of  my 
present  sentiments  on  the  subject.  You  are  a 
wicked  fair  one  for  disap[)ointing  us  of  our  ex- 
pected visit,  and  therefore  out  of  mere  spite  I  will 
not  insert  them.  I  have  been  very  ill  these  ten 
days,  and  for  the  same  spite's  sake  will  not  tell 
you  what  ailed  me.  But  lest  you  should  die  of  a 
fright,  I  will  have  the  mercy  to  tell  you  that  I  am 
recovering. 

Mrs.  G  and  her  little  ones  are  gone, 

but  your  brother  is  still  here.  He  told  me  that  he 
had  some  expectation  of  Sir  John  at  Weston ;  if 
he  come,  I  shall  most  heartily  rejoice  once  more 
to  see  him  at  a  table  so  many  years  his  own. 

W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  J.  JEKYLL  RYE. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  Weston,  April  16,  1793. 

I  AM  truly  sorry  that  you  should  have  suffered 
any  apprehensions,  such  as  your  letter  indicates, 
to  molest  you  for  a  moment.  I  believe  you  to  be 
as  honest  a  man  as  hves,  and  consequently  do  not 
believe  it  possible  that  you  could  in  your  letter  to 
Mr.  Pitts,  or  any  otherwise  wilfully  misrepresent 
me.  In  fact  you  did  not ;  my  opinions  on  the  sub- 
ject in  question  were,  when  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you,  such  as  in  that  letter  you  stated  them 
to  be,  and  such  they  still  continue. 

If  any  man  concludes,  because  I  allow  myself 
the  use  of  sugar  and  rum,  that  therefore  I  am  a 
friend  to  the  Slave  Trade,  he  concludes  rashly, 
and  does  me  great  wrong ;  for  the  man  lives  not 
who  abhors  it  more  than  I  do.  My  reasons  for 
my  own  practice  are  satisfactory  to  myself,  and 
they  whose  practice  is  contrary,  are,  I  suppose, 
satisfied  with  theirs.  So  far  is  good.  Let  every 
man  act  according  to  his  own  judgment  and  con- 
science ;  but  if  we  condemn  another  for  not  seeing 
with  our  eyes,  we  are  unreasonable ;  and  if  we 
reproach  him  on  that  account,  we  are  uncharita- 
ble, which  is  a  still  greater  evil. 

I  had  heard,  before  I  received  the  favour  of 
yours,  that  such  a  report  of  me,  as  you  mention, 
had  spread  about  the  country.  But  my  informant 
told  me  that  it  was  founded  thus :  The  people  of 
Olney  petitioned  Parliament  for  the  abolition — my 
name  was  sought  among  the  subscribers,  but  was 
not  found — a  question  was  asked,  how  that  hap- 
pened 1  Answer  was  made,  that  I  had  once  in- 
deed been  an  enemy  to  the  Slave  Trade,  but  had 
changed  my  mind ;  for  that  lately  having  read  a 
history  or  an  account  of  Africa,  I  had  seen  it  there 
asserted,  that  till  the  commencement  of  that  traffic 


the  negroes,  multiplying  at  a  prodigious  rate,  were 
necessitated  to  devour  each  other;  for  which  rear 
son  I  had  judged  it  better,  that  the  trade  should 
continue,  than  that  they  should  be  again  reduced 
to  so  horrid  a  custom. 

Now  all  this  is  a  fable.  I  have  read  no  such 
history  ;  I  never  in  my  life  read  any  such  asser- 
tion ;  nor,  had  such  an  assertion  presented  itself  to 
me,  should  I  have  drawn  any  such  conclusion  from 
it :  on  the  contrary,  bad  as  it  were,  I  think  it  would 
be  better  the  negroes  should  have  eaten  one 
another,  than  that  we  should  carry  them  to  mar- 
ket. The  single  reason  why  I  did  not  sign  the 
petition  was,  because  I  was  never  asked  to  do  it ; 
and  the  reason  why  I  was  never  asked  was,  be- 
cause I  am  not  a  parishioner  of  Olney. 

Thus  stands  the  matter.  You  will  do  me  the 
justice,  I  dare,  say,  to  speak  of  me  as  a  man  who 
abhors  the  commerce,  which  is  now  I  hope  in  a 
fair  way  to  be  abolished,  as  often  as  you  shall  find 
occasion.  And  I  beg  you  henceforth  to  do  your- 
self the  justice  to  believe  it  impossible,  that  I  should 
for  a  moment  suspect  you  of  duplicity  or  misre- 
presentation. I  have  been  grossly  slandered,  but 
neither  by  you,  nor  in  consequence  of  any  thing 
that  you  have  either  said  or  written.  I  remain 
therefore,  still  as  heretofore,  with  great  respect, 
Much  and  truly  yours,  W.  C 

Mrs.  Unwin's  comphments  attend  you. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

MY  DEAREST  COZ,  Weston,  May  5,  1792. 

I  REJOICE,  as  thou  reasonably  supposest  me  to 
do,  in  the  matrimonial  news  communicated  in  your 
last.  Not  that  it  was  altogether  news  to  me,  for 
twice  I  had  received  broad  hints  of  it  from  Lady 
Frog  by  letter,  and  several  times  viva,  voce  while 
she  was  here.  But  she  enjoined  me  secrecy  as 
well  as  you,  and  you  know  that  all  secrets  are 
safe  with  me;  safer  far  than  the  winds  in  the  bags 
of  iEoIus.  I  know  not  in  fact  the  lady  whom  it 
would  give  me  more  pleasure  to  call  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay,  than  the  lady  in  question;  partly  because  I 
know  her,  but  especially  because  I  know  her  to 
be  all  that  I  can  wish  in  a  neighbour. 

I  have  often  observed  that  there  is  a  regular  al- 
ternation of  good  and  evil  in  the  lot  of  men,  so 
that  a  favourable  incident  may  be  considered  as 
the  harbinger  of  an  unfavourable  one,  and  vice 
versa.  Dr.  Madan's  experience  witnesses  to  the 
truth  of  this  observation.  One  day  he  gets  a 
broken  head,  and  next  a  mitre  to  heal  it.  I  re- 
joice that  he  has  met  with  so  effectual  a  cure 
though  my  joy  is  not  unmingled  with  concern :  for 
till  now  I  had  some  hope  of  seeing  him,  but  since 


Let.  398,  399. 


LETTERS. 


373 


I  live  in  the  North,  and  his  episcopal  call  is  in  the  sooner  after  June  the  better;  till  then  we  shall 


the  AV est,  that  is  a  gratification  I  suppose  which 
I  must  no  longer  look  for. 

My  sonnet,  which  I  sent  you,  was  printed  in 


have  company. 

I  forgot  not  my  debts  to  your  dear  sister,  and 
your  aunts  Balls.  Greet  them  both  with  a  brother's 


the  Northampton  paper  last  week,  and  this  week  kiss,  and  place  it  to  my  account.  I  will  write  to 
it  produced  me  a  complimentary  one  in  the  same  them  when  Milton  and  a  thousand  other  engage- 
paper,  which  served  to  convince  me  at  least  by  |  ments  will  give  me  leave.  Mr.  Hayley  is  here  on 
the  matter  of  it,  that  my  own  was  not  published  a  visit.  We  have  formed  a  friendship  that  I  trust 
without  occasion,  and  that  it  had  answered  its  [  will  last  for  life,  and  render  us  an  edifying  exam- 
purpose,  pie  to  all  future  poets. 

My  correspondence  with  Hayley  proceeds  brisk- 1  Adieu !  Lose  no  time  in  coming  after  the  time 
ly,  and  is  very  affectionate  on  both  sides.  I  expect  mentioned.  W.  C. 

him  here  in  about  a  fortnight,  and  wish  heartily, 
with  Mrs.  Unwin,  that  you  would  give  him  a 
meeting.  I  have  promised  him  indeed  that  he 
shall  find  us  alone,  but  you  are  one  of  the  family. 

I  wish  much  to  print  the  following  lines  in  one 
of  th^  daily  papers.  Lord  S's  vindication  of  the 
poor  culprit  in  the  affair  of  Cheit-Sing  has  con- 
firmed me  in  the  belief  that  he  has  been  injurious- 
ly treated,  and  I  think  it  an  act  merely  of  justice 
to  take  a  little  notice  of  him. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 


4*  TO 

WARREN  HASTINGS,  ESa. 

BY 

AN  OLD  SCHOOLFELLOW  OF  HIS  AT  WESTMINSTER. 

HASTINGS !  I  knew  thee  young,  and  of  a  mind, 
While  young,  humane,  conversable,  and  Icind 
Nor  can  I  well  believe  thee,  gentle  then, 
Now  grown  a  villain,  and  the  worst  of  men. 
But  rather  some  suspect,  who  have  oppressed 
And  worried  thee,  as  not  themselves  the  best. 

If  thou  wilt  take  the  pains  to  send  them  to  thy 
news-monger,  I  hope  thou  wilt  do  well.    Adieu ! 

W.  C. 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

Weston,  May  20,  1792. 

MY  DEAREST  OF  ALL  JOHNNIES, 

I  AM  not  sorry  that  your  ordination  is  post- 
poned. A  year's  learning  and  wisdom,  added  to 
your  present  stock,  will  not  be  more  than  enough 
to  satisfy  the  demands  of  your  function.  Neither 
am  I  sorry  that  you  find  it  difficult  to  fix  your 
thoughts  to  the  serious  point  at  all  times.  It  proves 
at  least  that  you  attempt,  and  wish  to  do  it,  and 
these  are  good  symptoms.  Woe  to  those  who  en- 
ter on  the  ministry  of  the  Gospel  without  having 
previously  asked  at  least  from  God  a  mind  and 
spirit  suited  to  their  occupation,  and  whose  expe- 
rience never  differs  from  itself,  because  they  are 
always  alike  vain,  light,  and  inconsiderate.  It  is 
therefore  matter  of  great  joy  to  me  to  hear  you 
complain  of  levity,  and  such  it  is  to  Mrs.  Un- 
win. She  is,  I  thank  God,  tolerably  well,  and 
loves  you.    As  to  the  time  of  your  journey  hither,  I 


Weston,  May  24,  1792. 
I  WISH  with  all  my  heart,  my  dearest  Coz, 
that  I  had  not  ill  news  for  the  subject  of  the 
present  letter.  My  friend,  my  Mary,  has  again 
been  attacked  by  the  same  disorder  that  threat- 
ened me  last  year  with  the  loss  of  her,  and  of 
which  you  were  yourself  a  witness.  Gregson 
would  not  allow  that  first  stroke  to  be  paralytic, 
but  this  he  acknowledges  to  be  so ;  and  with  re- 
spect to  the  former,  I  never  had  myself  any  doubt 
that  it  was ;  but  this  has  been  much  the  severest. 
Her  speech  has  been  almost  unintelligible  from 
the  moment  that  she  was  struck;  it  is  with  diffi- 
culty that  she  opens  her  eyes,  and  she  can  not 
keep  them  open;  the  muscles  necessary  to  the 
purpose  being  contracted ;  and  as  to  self-moving 
powers,  from  place  to  place,  and  the  use  of  her 
right  hand  and  arm,  she  has  entirely  lost  them. 

It  has  happened  well,  that  of  all  men  living  the 
man  most  qualified  to  assist  and  comfort  me  is 
here,  though  till  within  these  few  days  I  never 
saw  him,  and  a  few  weeks  since  had  no  expecta- 
tion that  I  ever  should.  You  have  already  guessed 
that  I  mean  Hayley.  Hayley  who  loves  me  as 
if  he  had  known  me  from  my  cradle.  When  he 
returns  to  town,  as  he  must,  alas!  too  soon,  he 
will  pay  his  respects  to  you. 

I  will  not  conclude  without  adding  that  our  poor 
patient  is  beginning,  I  hope,  to  recover  from  this 
stroke  also;  but  her  amendment  is  slow,  as  must 
be  expected  at  her  time  of  life  and  in  such  a  dis- 
order. I  am  as  well  myself  as  you  have  ever 
known  me  in  a  time  of  much  trouble,  and  even 
better. 

It  was  not  possible  to  prevail  on  Mrs.  Unwin 
to  let  me  send  for  Dr.  Kerr,  but  Hayley  has  writ- 
ten to  his  friend  Dr.  Austin  a  representation  of 
her  case,  and  we  expect  his  opinion  and  advice 
to-morrqjv.  In  the  mean  time,  we  have  borrowed 
an  electrical  machine  from  our  neighbour  Socket, 
the  effect  of  which  she  tried  yesterday,  and  the 
day  before,  and  we  think  it  has  been  of  material 
service. 


374 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  400,  401,  402,  403. 


She  was  seized  while  Hayley  and  I  were  walk- 
ing, and  Mr.  Grcath(>ed,  who  called  while  we 
were  absent,  was  with  her. 

I  forgot  in  my  last  to  thank  thee  for  the  pro- 
posed amendments  of  thy  friend.  Whoever  he  is, 
make  my  compliments  to  him,  and  thank  him. 
The  passages  to  which  he  objects  have  been  all 
altered;  and  when  he  shall  see  them  new  dressed, 
1  hope  he  will  hke  them  better.  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

The  Lodge,  May  26,  1792. 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN, 

•  Knowincx  that  you  will  be  anxious  to  learn  how 
we  go  on,  I  write  a  few  lines  to  inform  you  that 
Mrs.  Unwin  daily  recovers  a  little  strength,  and  a 
little  power  of  utterance;  but  she  seems  strongest, 
and  her  speech  is  most  distinct,  in  a  morning. 
Hayley  has  been  all  in  all  to  us  on  this  very  afflic- 
tive occasion.  Love  him,  I  charge  you,  dearly 
for  my  sake.  Where  could  I  have  found  a  man, 
except  himself,  who  could  have  made  himself  so 
necessary  to  me  in  so  short  a  time,  that  I  abso- 
lutely know  not  how  to  live  without  him '? 

AdiSu,  my  dear  sweet  Coz.  Mrs.  Unwin,  as 
plainly  as  her  poor  hps  can  speak,  sends  her  best 
love,  and  Hayley  threatens  in  a  few  days  to  lay 
close  siege  to  your  affections  in  person, 

W.  C. 

There  is  some  hope,  I  find,  that  the  Chancellor 
may  continue  in  office,  and  I  shall  be  glad  if  he 
does ;  because  we  have  no  single  man  worthy  to 
succeed  him. 

I  open  my  letter  again  to  thank  you,  my  dearest 
Coz,  for  yours  just  received.  Though  happy,  as 
you  well  know,  to  see  you  at  all  times,  we  have 
no  need,  and  1  trust  shall  have  none,  to  trouble 
you  with  a  journey  made  on  purpose ;  yet  once 
again  I  am  vviUing  and  desirous  to  believe,  we 
shall  be  a  happy  trio  at  Weston;  but  unless  ne- 
cessity dictates  a  journey  of  charity,  I  wish  all 
yours  hither  to  be  made  for  pleasure.  Farewell— 
Thou  shalt  know  how  we  go  on. 


time  of  preparation  for  an  office  of  so  much  im- 
portance as  that  of  a  minister  of  God's  word  should 
have  been  a  little  protracted.  It  is  easier  to  direct 
the  movements  of  a  great  army,  than  to  guide  a 
few  souls  to  Heaven  ;  the  way  is  narrow,  and  full 
of  snares,  and  the  guide  himself  has  the  most  dif- 
ficulties to  encounter.  But  I  trust  he  will  do  well. 
He  is  single  in  his  views,  honest  hearted,  and  de- 
sirous, by  prayer  and  study  of  the  Scripture,  to 
qualify  himself  for  the  service  of  his  great  Master, 
who  will  suffijr  no  such  man  to  fail  for  want  of  his 
aid  and  protection    Adieu.  W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

all's  well;  Weston,  June  4,  1792. 

Which  words  I  place  as  conspicuously  as  pos- 
sible, and  prefix  them  to  my  letter,  to  save  you  the 
pain,  my  friend  and  brother,  of  a  moment's  anxious 
speculation.  Poor  Mary  proceeds  in  her  amend- 
ment still,  and  improves,  I  think,  even  at  a  swifter 
rate  than  when  you  left  her.  The  stronger  she 
grows,  the  faster  she  gathers  strength,  which  is 
perhaps  the  natural  course  of  recovery.  She  walk- 
ed so  well  this  morning,  that  she  told  me  at  my 
first  visit  she  had  entirely  forgot  her  illness ;  and 
she  spoke  so  distinctly,  and  had  so  much  of  her 
usual  countenance,  that,  had  it  been  possible,  she 
would  have  made  me  forget  it  too. 

Returned  from  my  walk,  blown  to  tatters— found 
two  dear  things  in  the  study,  your  letter,  and  rny 
Mary !  She  is  bravely  well,  and  your  beloved  epis- 
tle does  us  both  good.  I  found  your  kind  pencil 
note  in  my  song-book,  as  soon  as  I  came  down  in 
the  morning  of  your  departure;  and  Mary  was 
vexed  to  the  heart,  that  the  simpletons  who  watch- 
ed her  supposed  her  asleep,  when  she  was  not; 
for  she  learned  soon*after  you  were  gone,  that  you 
would  have  peeped  at  her,  had  you  known  her  to 
have  been  awake.  I  perhaps-  might  have  had  a 
peep  too,  and  therefore  was  as  vexed  as  she;  but 
if  it  please  God,  we  shall  make  ourselves  large 
amends  for  all  lost  peeps  by  and  by  at  Eartham. 

W.  C, 


TO  MRS.  BODHAM. 

MY  DEAREST  ROSE,         Weston,  June  4,  1792. 

I  AM  not  such  an  ungrateful  and  insensible  ani- 
mal, as  to  have  neglected  you  thus  long  without 
a  reason. 

I  can  not  say  that  I  am  sorry  that  our  dear 
Johnny  finds  the  pulpit  door  shut  against  hirti  at 
present.  He  is  young,  and  can  afford  to  wait  an- 
(tther  year;  neither  is  it  to  be  regretted,  that  his 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

Weston,  June  5,  1792. 
Yesterday  was  a  noble  day  with  us— speech 
almost  perfect— eyes  open  almost  the  whole  day, 
without  any  effort  to 'keep  them  so;  and  the  step 
wonderfully  improved.  But  the  night  has  been 
almost  a  sleepless  one,  owing  partly  I  believe  to 
her  having  had  as  much  sleep  again  as  usual  the 
night  before;  for  even  when  she  is  in  tolerable 
I  health  she  hardly  ever  sleeps  well  two  nights  to- 
'gcther.   I  found  her  accordingly  a  little  out  of 


Let.  404,  405. 


LETTERS. 


375 


spirits  this  morning,  but  still  insisting  on  it  that 
she  is  better.  Indeed  she  always  tells  me  so,  and 
will  probably  die  with  those  very  words  upon  her 
lips.  They  will  be  true  then  at  least,  for  then  she 
will  be  best  of  all.  She  is  now  (the  clock  has  just 
struck  eleven)  endeavouring,  1  believe,  to  get  a 
little  sleep,  for  which  reason  I  do  not  yet  let  her 
know  that  I  have  received  your  letter. 

Can  I  ever  honour  you  enough  for  your  zeal  to 
serve  me'?  Truly  I  think  not:  I  am  however  so 
sensible  of  the  love  I  owe  you  on  this  account,  that 
I  every  day  regret  the  acuteness  of  your  feelings 
for  me,  convinced  that  they  expose  you  to  much 
trouble,  mortification,  and  disappointment.  I  have 
in  short  a  poor  opinion  of  my  destiny,  as  I  told 
you  when  you  were  here ;  and  though  I  believe 
that  if  any  man  living  can  do  me  good,  you  will,  I 
can  not  yet  persuade  myself  that  even  you  will  be 
successful  in  attempting  it.  But  it  is  no  matter, 
you  are  yourself  a  good  which  I  can  never  value 
enough,  and  whether  rich  or  poor  in  other  respects, 
I  shall  always  account  myself  better  provided  for 
than  I  deserve,  with  such  a  friend  at  my  back  as 
you.  Let  it  please  God  to  continue  to  me  my 
"William  and  Mary,  and  I  will  be  more  reasonable 
than  to  grumble. 

I  rose  this  morning  wrapped  round  with  a  cloud 
of  melancholy,  and  with  a  heart  full  of  fears;  but 
if  I  see  Mary's  amendment  a  little  advanced  when 
she  rises,  I  shall  be  better. 

I  have  just  been  with  her  again.  Except  that 
she  is  fatigued  for  want  of  sleep,  she  seems  as  well 
as  yesterday.  The  post  brings  me  a  letter  from 
Hurdis,  who  is  broken-hearted  for  a  dying  sister. 
Had  we  eyes  sharp  enough,  we  should  see  the  ar- 
rows of  Death  flying  in  all  directions,  and  account 
it  a  wonder  that  we  and  our  friends  escape  them 
a  single  day.  W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

Weston,  June  7,  1792. 
Of  what  materials  can  you  suppose  me  made, 
if  after  all  the  rapid  proofs  that  you  have  given  me 
of  your  friendship,  I  do  not  love  you  with  all  my 
heart,  and  regret  your  absence  continually!  But 
you  must  permit  me  nevertheless  to  be  melancholy 
now  and  then;  or  if  you  will  not,  I  must  be  so 
without  your  permission;  for  that  sable  thread  is 
so  intermixed  with  the  very  thread  of  my  existence, 
as  to  be  inseparable  from  it,  at  least  while  I  exist 
in  the  body.  Be  content  therefore ;  let  me  sigh 
and  groan,  but  always  be  sure  that  I  love  you! 
You  will  be  well  assured  that  I  should  not  have 
indulged  myself  in  the  rhapsody  about  myself,  and 
my  melancholy,  had  my  present  mood  been  of  that 
eomplexion,  or  had  not  our  poor  Mary  seemed  still 
35 

2H 


to  advance  in  her  recovery.  So  in  fact  she  does, 
and  has  performed  several  little  feats  to-day,  such 
as  either  she  could  not  perform  at  all,  or  very 
feebly,  while  you  were  with  us. 

I  shall  be  glad  if  you  have  seen  Johnny,  as  I 
call  him,  my  Norfolk  cousin;  he  is  a  sweet  lad,  but 
as  shy  as  a  bird.  It  costs  him  always  two  or  three 
days  to  open  his  mouth  before  a  stranger;  but 
when  he  does,  he  is  sure  to  please  by  the  innocent 
cheerfulness  of  his  conversation.  His  sister  too  is 
one  of  my  idols,  for  the  resemblance  she  bears  to 
my  mother. 

Mary  and  you  have  all  my  thoughts ;  and  how 
should  it  be  otherwise  1  She  looks  well,  is  better, 
and  loves  you  dearly.  Adieu,  my  brother.   W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

Weston,  June  10,  1792. 
I  DO  indeed  anxiously  wish  that  every  thing  you 
do  may  prosper ;  and  should  I  at  last  prosper  by 
your  means,  shall  taste  double  sweetness  in  pros- 
perity for  that  reason. 

I  rose  this  morning,  as  I  usually  do,  with  a 
mind  all  in  sables.  In  this  mood  I  presented  my- 
self to  Mary's  bedside,  whom  I  found,  though  after 
many  hours  lying  awake,  yet  cheerful,  and  not  to 
be  affected  with  my  desponding  humour.  It  is  a 
great  blessing  to  us  both  that,  poor  feeble  thing  as 
she  is,  she  has  a  most  invincible  courage,  and  a 
trust  in  God's  goodness  that  nothing  shakes.  She 
is  now  in  the  study,  and  is  certainly  in  some  de- 
gree better  than  she  was  yesterday,  but  how  to 
measure  that  little  I  know  not,  except  by  saying 
that  it  is  just  perceptible. 

I  am  glad  that  you  have  seen  my  Johnny  of 
Norfolk,  because  I  know  it  will  be  a  comfort  to 
you  to  have  seen  your  successor.  He  arrived,  to 
my  great  joy,  yesterday;  and  not  having  bound 
himself  to  any  particular  time  of  going,  will,  I  hope, 
stay  long  with  us.  You  are  now  once  more  snug 
in  your  retreat,  and  I  give  you  joy  of  your  return 
to  it,  after  the  bustle  in  which  you  have  lived  since 
you  left  Weston.  Weston  mourns  your  absence, 
and  will  mourn  it  till  she  sees  you  agam.  What 
is  to  become  of  Milton  I  know  not;  I  do  nothing 
but  scribble  to  you,  and  seem  to  have  no  relish 
for  any  other  employment.  I  have  however  in 
pursuit  of  your  idea  to  compUment  Darwin,  put  a 
few  stanzas*  together,  which  I  shall  subjoin;  you 
will  easily  give  them  all  that  you  find  they  want, 
and  match  the  song  with  another. 

I  am  now  going  to  walk  with  Johnny,  much 
cheered  since  I  began  writing  to  you,  and  by  Ma- 
ry's looks  and  good  spirits,  W,  C. 


•  Lines  addre^ed  to  Dr.  Darwin.   See  Poema. 


376 


COWPER' 


.'S  WORKS. 


Let.  406, 407, 408 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

MY  DEARKST  C07.,  Weston,  June  11, 1792. 

Thou  art  ever  in  my  thoughts,  whether  I  am 
writing  to  thee  or  not;  and  my  correspondence 
seems  to  grow  upon  me  at  such  a  rafe,  that  I  am 
not  able  to  address  thee  so  often  as  I  would.  In 
fact,  I  live  only  to  write  letters.  Hayley  is  as  you 
see  added  to  the  number,  and  to  him  I  write  almost 
as  duly  as  T  rise  in  the  morning ;  nor  is  he  only 
added,  but  his  friend  Carwardine  also — Carwar- 
dine  the  generous,  the  disinterested,  the  friendly. 
I  seem  in  short  to  have  stumbled  suddenly  on  a 
race  of  heroes,  men  who  resolve  to  have  no  interests 
of  their  own  till  mine  are  served. 

But  I  will  proceed  to  other  matters,  that  concern 
me  more  intimately,  and  more  immediately,  than 
all  that  can  be  done  for  me  either  by  the  great  or 
the  small,  or  by  both  united.  Since  I  wrote  last, 
Mrs.  Unwin  has  been  continually  improving  in 
strength,  but  at  so  gradual  a  rate  that  I  can  only 
mark  it  by  saying  that  she  moves  about  every 
day  with  less  support  than  the  former.  Her  re- 
covery is  most  of  all  retarded  by  want  of  sleep.  On 
the  whole  I  believe  she  goes  on  as  well  as  could  be 
expected,  though  not  quite  well  enough  to  satisfy 
me.  And  Dr.  Austin,  speaking  from  the  reports 
I  have  made  of  her,  says  he  has  no  doubt  of  her 
restoration. 

During  the  last  two  months,  I  seem  to  myself  to 
have  been  in  a  dream.  It  has  been  a  most  event- 
ful period,  and  fruitful  to  an  uncommon  degree, 
both  in  good  and  evil.  I  have  been  very  ill,  and 
suffered  excruciating  pain.  I  recovered,  and  be- 
came quite  well  again.  I  received  within  my  doors 
a  man,  but  lately  an  entire  stranger,  and  who  now 
loves  me  as  his  brother,  and  forgets  himself  to  serve 
me.  Mrs.  Unwin  has  been  seized  with  an  illness 
that  for  many  days  threatened  to  deprive  me  of  her, 
and  to  cast  a  gloom,  an  impenetrable  one,  on  all 
my  future  prospects.  She  is  now  granted  to  me 
again.  A  few  days  since  I  should  have  thought 
the  moon  might  have  descended  into  my  purse  as 
likely  as  any  emolument,  and  now  it  seems  not 
impossible.  All  this  has  come  to  pass  with  such 
rapidity  as  events  move  with  in  romance  indeed, 
but  not  often  in  real  life.  Events  of  all  sorts  creep 
or  fly  exactly  as  God  pleases. 

To  the  foregoing  I  have  to  add  in  conclusion 
the  arrival  of  my  Johnny,  just"  when  I  wanted  him 
most,  and  when  only  a  few  days  before  I  had  no 
expectation  of  him.  He  came  to  dinner  on  Satur- 
day, and  I  hope  I  shall  keep  him  long.  What 
comes  next  I  know  not;  but  shall  endeavour,  as 
you  exhort  me,  to  look  for  good,  and  I  know  I 
shall  have  your  prayers  that  I  may  not  be  disap- 
pointed, 

Haley  tells  me  you  begin  to  be  jealous  of  him, 
lest  I  should  love  him  more  than  I  love  you,  and 


bids  me  say,  "that  should  I  do  so,  you  in  revenge 
must  love  him  more  than  I  do." — Him  I  know 
you  will  love,  and  me,  because  you  have  such  a 
habit  of  doing  it  that  you  can  not  help  it. 

Adieu !  My  knuckles  ache  with  letter  writing. 
With  my  poor  patient's  affectionate  remem- 
brances, and  Johnny's, 

I  am  ever  thine,  W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HALEY,  ESa. 

Weston,  June  19,  1792. 
*  *  *  *  Thus  have  I  fdled  a  whole 
page  to  my  dear  William  of  Eartham,  and  have 
not  said  a  syllable  yet  about  my  Mary.  A  sure 
sign  that  she  goes  on  well.  Be  it  known  to  you 
that  we  have  these  four  days  discarded  our  sedan 
with  two  elbows.  Here  is  no  more  carrying,  or 
being  carried,  but  she  walks  up  stairs  boldly,  with 
one  hand  upon  the  balustrade,  and  the  other  under 
my  arm,  and  in  like  manner  she  comes  down  in  a 
morning.  Still  I  confess  she  is  feeble,  and  misses 
much  of  her  former  strength.  The  weather  too 
is  sadly  against  her:  it  deprives  her  of  many  a 
good  turn  in  the  orchard,  and  fifty  times  have  I 
wished  this  very  day,  that  Dr.  Darwin's  scheme 
of  giving  rudders  and  sails  to  the  Ice-islands,  that 
spoil  all  our  summers,  were  actually  put  in  prac- 
tice. So  should  we  have  gentle  airs  instead  of 
churlish  blasts;  and  those  everlasting  sources  of 
bad  weather  being  once  navigated  into  the  south- 
ern hemisphere,  my  Mary  would  recover  as  fast 
again.  We  are  both  of  your  mind  respecting  the 
journey  to  Eartham,  and  think  that  July,  if  by 
that  time  she  have  strength  for  the  journey,  will 
be  better  than  August.  We  shall  have  more 
long  days  before  us,  and  them  we  shall  want  as 
much  for  our  return  as  for  our  going  forth.  This 
however  must  be  left  to  the  Giver  of  all  good.  If 
our  visit  to  you  be  according  to  his  will,  he  will 
smooth  our  way  before  us,  and  appoint  the  time 
of  it;  and  thus  I  speak,  not  because  I  wish  to 
seem  a  saint  in  your  eyes,  but  because  my  poor 
Mary  actually  is  one,  and  would  not  set  her  foot 
over  the  threshold,  to  save  her  life,  unless  she  had, 
or  thought  she  had,  God's  free  permission.  With 
that  she  would  go  through  floods  arid  fire,  though 
without  it  she  would  be  afraid  of  every  thing  :- 
afraid  even  to  visit  you,  dearly  as  she  loves,  and 
much  as  she  longs  to  see  you.  W.  C. 

TO  WILLIAM  HALEY,  ESa. 

Weston,  June  27,  1792. 
Well  then — let  us  talk  about  this  journey  to 
Eartham.    You  wish  me  to  settle  the  time  of  it, 
and  J  wish  with  all  my  heart  to  be  able  to  do  so, 


Let.  409,  410, 411. 


LETTERS. 


377 


living  in  hopes  meanwhile  that  I  shall  be  able  to 
do  it  soon.  But  some  little  time  must  necessarily 
intervene.  Our  Mary  must  be  able  to  walk  alone, 
to  cut  her  own  food,  to  feed  herself,  and  to  wear 
her  own  shoes,  for  at  present  she  wears  mine 
AH  things  considered,  my  friend  and  brother,  you 
will  see  the  expediency  of  waiting  a  litle  before 
we  set  off  to  Eartham.  We  mean  indeed  before 
that  day  arrives  to  make  a  trial  of  the  strength  of 
her  head,  how  far  it  may  be  able  to  bear  the  mo- 
tion of  a  carriage,  a  motion  that  it  has  not  felt 
these  seven  years.  I  grieve  that  we  are  thus  cir- 
cumstanced, and  that  we  can  not  gratify  ourselves 
in  a  delightful  and  innocent  project  without  all 
these  precautions ;  but  when  we  have  leaf-gold  to 
handle,  we  must  do  it  tenderly. 

I  thank  you,  my  brother,  both  for  presenting 
my  authorship  to  your  friend  Guy,  and  for  the  ex- 
cellent verses  with  which  you  have  inscribed  your 
present.  There  are  none  neater  or  better  turned 
— with  what  shall  I  requite  you'?  I  have  nothing 
to  send  you  but  a  gimcrack,  which  I  have  pre- 
pared for  my  bride  and  bridegroom  neighbours, 
who  are  expected  to-morrow.  You  saw  in  my 
book  a  poem  entitled  Catharina,  which  concluded 
with  a  wish  that  we  had  her  for  a  neighbour ;  this 
therefore  is  called  Catharina;  the  second  part. 
On  her  marriage  to  George  Courtenay,  Esq.* 


TO  WILLIAM  HALEY,  ESa. 

Weston,  July  4,  1792. 

I  KNOW  not  how  you  proceed  in  your  life  of 
Milton,  but  I  suppose  not  very  rapidly,  for  while 
you  were  here,  and  since  you  left  us,  you  have  had 
no  other  theme  but  me.  As  for  myself,  except 
my  letters  to  you,  and  the  nuptial  song  I  inserted 
in  my  last,  I  have  literally  done  nothing  since  I 
saw  you.  Nothing  1  mean  in  the  writirig  way, 
though  a  great  deal  in  another;  that  is  to  say,  in 
attending  my  poor  Mary,  and  endeavouring  to 
nurse  her  up  for  a  journey  to  Eartham.  In  this 
I  have  hitherto  succeeded  tolerably  well,  and  had 
rather  carry  this  point  completely,  than  be  the 
most  famous  editor  of  Milton  that  the  world  has 
ever  seen,  or  shall  see. 

Your  humorous  descant  upon  my  art  of  wish- 
ing made  us  merry,  and  consequently  did  good  to 
us  both.  I  sent  my  wish  to  the  Hall  yesterday. 
They  are  excellent  neighbours,  and  so  friendly  to 
me,  that  I  wished  to  gratify  them.  When  1  went 
to  pay  my  first  visit,  George  flew  into  the  court  to 
meet  me,  and  when  I  entered  the  parlour,  Catha- 
rina sprang  into  my  arms.  W.  C. 


See  Poems. 


TO  WILLIAM  HALEY,  ESa. 

Weston,  July  15,  1792. 
The  progress  of  the  old  nurse  in  Terence  is  very 
much  like  the  progress  of  my  poor  patient  in  the 
road  of  recovery.  I  can  not  indeed  say  that  she 
moves,  but  advances  not,  for  advances  are  cer- 
tainly made,  but  the  progress  of  a  week  is  hardly 
perceptible.  I  know  not  therefore  at  present  what 
to  say  about  this  long  postponed  journey.  The 
utmost  that  it  is  safe  for  me  to  say  at  this  moment 
is  this — You  know  that  you  are  dear  to  us  both; 
true  it  is  that  you  are  so,  and  equally  true  that 
the  very  instant  we  feel  ourselves  at  liberty  we 
will  fly  to  Eartham.  I  have  been  but  once  within 
the  Hall  door  since  the  Court enays  came  home, 
much  as  I  have  been  pressed  to  dine  there,  and 
have  hardly  escaped  giving  a  little  offence  by  de- 
clining it;  but  though  I  should  offend  all  the  world 
by  my  obstinacy  in  this  instance,  I  would  not  leave 
my  poor  Mary  alone.  Johnny  serves  me  as  a  re- 
presentative, and  him  I  send  without  scruple.  As 
to  the  afiair  of  Milton,  1  know  not  what  will  be- 
come of  it.  I  wrote  to  Johnson  a  week  since,  to 
tell  him  that  the  interruption  of  Mrs.  Unwin's 
illness  still  continuing,  and  being  likely  to  con- 
tinue, I  knew  not  when  I  should  be  able  to  pro- 
ceed. The  translations  (I  said)  were  finished, 
except  the  revisal  of  a  part. 

God  bless  your  dear  little  boy  and  poet !  I  thank 
him  for  exercising  his  drawing  genius  upon  me, 
and  shall  be  still  happier  to  thank  him  in  person. 

Abbot  is  painting  me  so  true 

That  (trust  me)  you  would  stare, 
And  hardly  know,  at  the  first  view, 
If  I  were  here,  or  there. 

I  have  sat  twice;  and  the  few,  who  have  seen  the 
copy  of  me,  are  much  struck  with  the  resem- 
blance. He  is  a  sober,  quiet  man,  which,  consi- 
dering that  I  must  have  him  at  least  a  week 
longer  for  an  inmate,  is  a  great  comfort  to  me. 

My  Mary  sends  you  her  best  love.  She  can 
walk  now,  leaning  on  my  arm  only,  and  her 
speech  is  certainly  much  improved.  I  long  to  see 
you.  Why  can  not  you  and  dear  Tom  spend  the 
remainder  of  the  summer  with  US'?  We  might 
then  all  set  off  for  Eartham  merrily  together. 
But  I  retract  this,  conscious  that  I  am  unreasona- 
ble. It  is  a  wretched  world,  and  what  we  would, 
is  almost  always  what  we  can  not. 

Adieu !    Love  me,  and  be  sure  of  a  return. 

W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

Weston,  July  22,  1792. 
This  importarit  affair,  my  dear  brother,  is  at  last 
decided,  and  we  are  coming.    Wednesday  se'n- 


378 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  412, 413. 


night,  if  nothing  occur  to  make  a  later  day  neces- 
sary, is  the  day  fixed  for  our  journey.  Our  rate 
of  traveUng  must  depend  on  Mary's  ability  to  bear 
it.  Our  mode  of  traveling  will  occupy  three  days 
unavoidably,  for  we  shall  come  in  a  coach.  Ab- 
bot finishes  my  picture  to-morrow ;  on  Wednesday 
he  returns  to  town,  and  is  commissioned  to  order 
one  down  for  us,  with  four  steeds  to  draw  it ; 

 "  Hollow  pamper'd  jades  of  Asia, 

That  can  not  go  but  forty  miles  a  day." 
Send  us  our  route,  for  I  am  as  ignorant  of  it  al- 
most as  if  I  were  in  a  strange  country.  We  shall 
reach  St.  Alban's  I  suppose  the  first  day;  say 
where  we  must  finish  our  second  day's  journey, 
and  at  what  inn  we  may  best  repose  1  As  to  the 
end  of  the  third  day,  we  know  where  that  will  find 
us,  viz.  in  the  arms,  a,nd  under  the  roof  of  our  be- 
loved Hayley.  ' 

General  Cowper,  having  heard  a  rumour  of  this 
intended  migration,  desires  to  meet  me  on  the  road 
that  we  may  once  more  see  each  other.  He  lives 
at  Ham,  near  Kingston.  Shall  we  go  through 
Kingston,  or  near  it  1  For  I  would  give  him  as 
little'trbuble  as  possible,  though  he  offers  very  kind- 
ly to  come  as  far  as  Barnet  for  that  purpose.  Nor 
must  I  forget  Carwardine,  who  so  kindly  desired 
to  be  informed  what  way  we  should  go.  On  what 
point  of  the  road  will  it  be  easiest  for  him  to  find 
us  1  On  all  these  points  you  must  be  my  oracle. 
My  friend  and  brother,  we  shall  overwhelm  you 
with  our  numbers ;  this  is  all  the  trouble  that  I 
have  left.  My  Johnny  of  Norfolk,  happy  in  the 
thought  of  accompanying  us,  would  be  broken- 
hearted to  be  left  behind. 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  solicitudes  I  laugh  to 
think  what  they  are  made  of,  and  what  an  impor- 
tant thing  it  is  for  me  to  travel.  Other  men  steal 
away  from  their  homes  silently,  and  make  no  dis- 
turbance; but  when  I  move,  houses  are  turned 
upside  down,  maids  are  turned  out  of  their  beds, 
all  the  counties  through  which  I  pass  appear  to  be 
in  an  uproar — Surry  greets  me  by  the  mouth  of 
the  General,  and  Essex  by  that  of  Carwardine. 
How  strange  does  all  this  seem  to  a  man  who  has 
seen  no  bustle,  and  made  none,  for  twenty  years 
together.    Adieu.  W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

Weston,  July  29,  1792. 
Through  floods  and  flames  to  your  retreat, 

1  win  my  desp'rate  way, 
And  when  we  meet,  if  e'er  we  meet, 
Will  echo  your  huzza ! 
You  will  wonder  at  the  word  desperate  in  the 
second  line,  and  at  the  if  in  the  third ;  but  could 
you  have  any  Conception  of  the  fears  I  have  had 
to  battle  with,  of  the  dejection  of  spirits  that  I  have 
suffared  concerning  this  journey,  you  would  won- 


der much  more  that  I  still  courageously  persevere 
in  my  resolution  to  undertake  it.  Fortunately  for 
my  intentions,  it  happens  that  as  the  day  api>roach- 
es  my  terrors  abate ;  for  had  they  continued  to  be 
what  they  were  a  week  since,  I  must  after  all  have 
disappointed  you ;  and  was  actually  once  on  the 
verge  of  doing  it.  1  have  told  you  something  of 
my  nocturnal  experiences,  and  assure  you  now  that 
they  were  hardly  ever  more  terrific  than  on  this 
occasion.  Prayer  has,  however,  opened  my  pas- 
sage at  last,  and  obtained  for  me  a  degree  of  con- 
fidence that  I  trust  will  prove  a  comfortable  -viati- 
cum to  me  all  the  way.  On  Wedriesday,  there- 
fore, we  set  forth. 

The  terrors  that  I  have  spoken  of  would  appear 
ridiculous  to  most ;  but  to  you  they  will  not,  for 
you  are  a  reasonable  creature,  and  know  well  that 
to  whatever  cause  it  be  owing  (whether  to  consti- 
tution, or  by  God's  express  appointment)  I  am 
hunted  by  spiritual  hounds  in  the  night  season.  I 
can  not  help  it.  You  will  pity  me,  and  wish  it 
were  otherwise ;  and  though  you  may  think  that 
there  is  much  of  the  imaginary  in  it,  will  not  deem 

it  for  that  reason  an  evil  less  to  be  lamented  

So  much  for  fears  and  distresses.  Soon  I  hope 
they  shall  all  have  a  joyful  termination,  and  I,  my 
Mary,  my  Johnny,  and  my  dog,  be  skipping  with 
delight  at  Eartham ! 

Well !  this  picture  is  at  last  finished,  and  well 
finished,  I  can  assure  you.  Every  creature  that 
has  seen  it  has  been  astonished  at  the  resemblance. 
Sam's  boy  bowed  to  it,  and  Beau  walked  up  to  it, 
wagging  his  tail  as  he  went,  and  evidently  show- 
ing that  he  acknowledged  its  likeness  to  his  mas- 
ter. It  is  a  half  length,  as  it  is  technically,  but 
absurdly  called;  that  is  to  say,  it  gives  all  but  the 
foot  and  ankle.  To-morrow  it  goes  to  town,  and 
will  hang  some  months  at  Abbot's,  when  it  will  be 
sent  to  its  due  destination  in  Norfolk. 

I  hope,  or  rather  wish,  that  at  Eartham  I  may 
recover  that  habit  of  study,  which,  inveterate  as  it 
once  seemed,  I  now  seem  to  have  lost — lost  to  such 
a  degree  that  it  is  even  painful  to  me  to  think  of 
what  it  will  cost  me  to  acquire  it  again. 

Adieu!  my  dear,  dear  Hayley;  God  give  us  a 
happy  meeting.  Mary  sends  her  love— She  is  in 
pretty  good  plight  this  morning,  having  slept  well, 
and  for  her  part  has  no  fears  at  all  about  the  jour- 
ney. Ever  yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  MR.  GREATHEED. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  Eartham,  Aug.  6,  1792. 

Having  first  thanked  you  for  your  aflectionate 
and  acceptable  letter,  I  will  proceed,  as  well  as  I 
can,  to  answer,  your  equally  affectionate  request 
that  I  would  send  you  early  news  of  our  arrival  at 
Eartham.    Here  we  are  in  the  most  elegant  man- 


Let.  414,  415. 


LETTERS. 


37^ 


sion  that  I  have  ever  inhabited,  and  surroyinded  by 
the  most  deUghtful  pleasure  grounds  that  I  have 
ever  seen ;  but  which,  dissipated  as  my  powers  of 
thought  are  at  present,  I  will  not  undertake  to  de- 
scribe. It  shall  suffice  me  to  say  that  they  occu- 
py three  sides  of  a  hill,  which  in  Buckinghamshire 
might  well  pass  for  a  mountain,  and  from  the  sum- 
mit of  which  is  beheld  a  most  magnificent  landscape 
bounded  by  the  sea,  and  in  one  part  of  it  by  the 
Isle  of  Wight,  which  may  also  be  seen  plainly  from 
the  window  of  the  library  in  which  I  am  writing. 

It  pleased  God  to  carry  us  both  through  the  jour- 
ney with  far  less  difficulty  and  inconvenience  than 
I  expected.  I  began  it  indeed  with  a  thousand 
fears,  and  when  we  arrived  the  first  evening  at 
Barnet,  found  myself  oppressed  in  spirit  to  a  de- 
gree that  could  hardly  be  exceeded.  I  saw  Mrs. 
Unwin  weary,  as  she  might  well  be,  and  heard 
such  a  variety  of  noises,  both  within  the  house  and 
without,  that  I  concluded  she  would  get  no  rest. 
But  I  was  mercifully  disappointed.  She  rested, 
though  not  well,  yet  sufficiently;  and  when  we 
finished  our  next  day's  journey  at  Ripley,  we  were 
both  in  better  condition,  both  of  body  and  mind, 
than  on  the  day  preceding.  At  Ripley  we  found 
a  quiet  inn,  that  housed,  as  it  happened,  that  night, 
no  company  but  ourselves.  There  we  slept  well, 
and  rose  perfectly  refreshed.  And  except  some 
terrors  that  I  felt  at  passing  over  the  Sussex  hills 
by  moonlight,  met  with  little  to  complain  of  till  we 
arrived  about  ten  o'clock  at  Eartham.  Here  we 
are  as  happy  as  it  is  in  the  power  of  terrestrial 
good  to  make  us.  It  is  almost  a  Paradise  in  which 
we  dwell ;  and  our  reception  has  been  the  kindest 
that  it  was  possible  for  friendship  and  hospitality 
to  contrive.  Our  host  mentions  you  with  great 
respect,  and  bids  me  tell  you  that  he  esteems  you 
highly.  Mrs:  Unwin,  who  is,  I  think,  in  some 
points,  already  the  better  for  her  excursion,  unites 
with  mine  her  best  compliments  both  to  yourself 
and  Mrs.  Greatheed.  I  have  much  to  see  and  en- 
joy before  I  can  be  perfectly  apprised  of  all  the  de- 
lights of  Eartham,  and  will  therefore  now  subscribe 
myself, 

Yours,  my  dear  sir,  with  great  sincerity,  W.  C. 


TO  MRS.  COURTENAY. 

Eartham,  August  13,  1792. 

MY  DEAREST  CATHARINA, 

Though  I  have  traveled  far,  nothing  did  I  see 
in  my  travels  that  surprised  me  half  so  agreeably 
as  your  kind  letter ;  for  high  as  my  opinion  of  your 
good-nature  is,  I  had  no  hopes  of  hearing  from  you 
till  I  should  have  written  first.  A  pleasure  which 
1  intended  to  allow  myself  the  first  opportunity. 

After  three  days'  confinement  in  a  coach,  and 

2h 


suflfering  as  we  went  all  that  could  be  suffered 
from  excessive  heat  and  dust,  we  found  ourselves 
late  in  the  evening  at  the  door  of  our  friend  Hay- 
ley.  In  every  other  respect  the  journey  was  ex- 
tremely pleasant.  At  the  Mitre  in  Barnet,  where 
we  lodged  the  first  evening,  we  found  our  friend 
Mr.  Rose,  who  had  walked  thither  fro?n  his  house 
in  Chancery-lane  to  meet  us;  and  at  Kingston, 
where  we  dined  the  second  day,  I  found  my  old 
and  much  valued  friend  General  Cowper,  whom  I 
had  not  seen  in  thirty  years,  and  but  for  this  jour- 
ney should  never  have  seen  again.  Mrs.  Unwin, 
on  whose  account  I  had  a  thousand  fears  before  we 
set  out,  suffered  as  little '  from  fatigue  as  myself 
and  begins  I  hope  already  to  feel  some  beneficial 
efifects  from  the  air  of  Eartham,  and  the  exercise 
that  she  takes  in  one  of  the  most  dehghtful  plea- 
sure-grounds in  the  world.  They  occupy  three 
sides  of  a  hill,  lofty  enough  to  command  a  view  of 
the  sea,  which  skirts  the  horizon  to  a  length  of 
many  miles,  with  the  Isle  of  Wight  at  the  end  of  it. 
The  inland  scene  is  equally  beautiful,  consisting 
of  a  large  and  deep  valley  well  cultivated,  and  en- 
closed by  magnificent  hills,  all  crowned  with  wood. 
I  had,  for  my  part,  no  conception  that  a  poet  could 
be  the  owner  of  such  a  Paradise;  and  his  house  is 
as  elegant  as  his  scenes  are  charming. 

But  think  not,  my  dear  Catharina,  that  amidst 
all  these  beauties  I  shall  lose  the  remembrance  of 
the  peaceful,  but  less  splendid  Weston.  Your 
precincts  will  be  as  dear  to  me  as  ever,  when  1  re- 
turn; though  when  that  day  will  arrive  1  know 
not,  our  host  being  determined,  as  I  plainly  see,  to 
keep  us  as  long  as  possible.  Give  my  best  love  to 
your  husband.  Thank  him  most  kindly  for  his 
attention  to  the  old  bard  of  Greece,  and  pardon  me 
that  I  do  not  send  you  now  an  epitaph  for  Fop.  I 
am  not  sufficiently  recollected  to  compose  even  a 
bagatelle  at  present;  but  in  due  time  you  shall  re- 
ceive it. 

Hayley,  who  will  some  time  or  other  I  hope  see 
you  at  Weston,  is  already  prepared  to  love  you 
both,  and  being  passionately  fond  of  music,  longs 
much  to  hear  you.    Adieu !  W.  C. 


'      TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,       Eartham,  Aug.  14, 1792. 

RoMNEY  is  here;  it  would  add  much  to  my  hap- 
piness if  you  were  of  the  party;  I  have  prepared 
Hayley  to  think  highly,  that  is  justly  of  you,  anti 
the  time  1  hope  will  come,  when  you  will  supersede 
all  need  of  my  recommendation. 

Mrs.  Unwin  gathers  strength.  I  have  indeetl 
great  hopes  from  the  air  and  exercise  which  this 
fine  season  affords  her  opportunity  to  use.  that  ere 
we  return  she  will  be  herself  again.        W.  C 

2 


380 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  416,  417,  418. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

Eartham,  August  18,  1792. 
Wishes  in  this  world  are  generally  vain,  and  in 
the  next  we  shall  make  none.  Every  day  I  wish 
you  were  of  our  party,  knowing  how  happy  you 
would  be  in  a  place  where  we  have  nothing  to  do 
but  enjoy  beautiful  scenery,  and  converse  agreeably. 


add  in  the  way  of  news,  except  that  Romney  has 
drawn  me  in  crayons;  by  the  suffrage  of  all  here, 
extremely  like.  W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 


even  I,  who  was  well  when  I  came,  find  myself  still 
better.  Yours,  W.  C 


Eartham,  August  26,  1792. 
I  KNOW  not  how  it  is,  my  dearest  Coz,  but  in  a 
Mrs.  Unwm's  health  continues  to  improve;  and  new  scene,  and  surrounded  by  strange  objects,  I 

find  my  powers  of  thinking  dissipated  to  a  degree 
that  makes  it  difficult  to  me  even  to  write  a  let- 
ter, and  even  a  letter  to  you ;  but  such  a  letter  as  I 
can,  I  will,  and  have  the  fairest  chance  to  succeed 
this  morning,  Hayley,  Romney,  Hayley's  son,  and 
Beau,  being  all  gone  together  to  the  sea  for  bathing. 
The  sea,  you  must  know,  is  nine  miles  off,  so  that 
unless  stupidity  prevent,  I  shall  have  an  opportu- 
nity to  write  not  only  to  you,  but  to  poor  Hurdis 


TO  MRS.  COURTENAY. 


Eartham,  August  25,  1792. 
Without  waiting  for  an  answer  to  my  last,  I 
send  my  dear  Catharina  the  epitaph  she  desired, 

composed  as  well  as  I  could  compose  it  in  a  place  'also,  who  is  broken-hearted  for  the  loss  of  his  fa- 
where  every  object,  being  still  new  to  me,  distracts  |vourite  sister,  lately  dead:  and  whose  letter,  giving 
my  attention,  and  makes  me  as  awkward  at  verse  ^an  account  of  it,  which  I  received  yesterday,  drew 
as  if  I  had  never  dealt  in  it.    Here  it  is.*  tears  from  the  eyes  of  all  our  party.    My  only 

^  I  am  here,  as  I  told  you  in  my  last,  delightfully  comfort  respecting  even  yourself  is,  that  you  write 
situated,  and  in  the  enjoyment  of  all  that  the  most  in  good  spirits,  and  assure  me  that  you  are  in  a 
friendly  hospitality  can  impart;  yet  do  I  neither ' state  of  recovery;  otherwise  I  should  mourn  not 
forget  Weston,  nor  my  friends  at  Weston;  on  the  |only  for  Hurdis,  but  for  myself,  lest  a  certain  event 
contrary,  I  have  at  length,  though  much  and; should  reduce  me,  and  in  a  short  time  too,  to  a 
kindly  pressed  to  make  a  longer  stay,  determined  [situation  as  distressing  as  his;  for  though  nature 
on  the  day  of  our  departure— on  the  seventeenth  designed  you  only  for  my  cousin,  you  have  had  a 
of  September  we  shall  leave  Eartham ;  four  days  sister's  place  in  my  affections  ever  since  I  knew 
will  be  necessary  to  bring  us  home  again,  for  I  am 
under  a  promise  to  General  Cowper  to  dine  with 
him  on  the  way,  which  can  not  be  done  comforta- 
bly, either  to  him  or  to  ourselves,  unless  we  sleep 
that  night  at  Kingston. 

The  air  of  this  place  has  been,  I  believe,  benefi- 
cial to  us  both.  I  indeed  was  in  tolerable  health 
before  I  set  out,  but  have  acquired  since  I  came 
both  a  better  appetite,  and  a  knack  of  sleeping  al- 
most as  much  in  a  single  night  as  formerly  in  two. 
Whether  double  quantities  of  that  article  will  be 
favourable  to  me  as  a  poet,  time  must  show.  About 
myself  however  I  care  little,  being  made  of  mate- 
rials so  tough,  as  not  to  threaten  me  even  now,  at 
the  end  of  so  many  lustrums,  with  any  thing  like 
a  speedy  dissolution.  My  chief  concern  has  been 
about  Mrs.  Unwin,  and  my  chief  comfort  at  this 
moment  is,  that  she  likewise  has  received  I  hope 
considerable  benefit  by  the  journey. 

Tell  my  dear  George  that  I  begin  to  long  to  be- 
hold him  again ;  and  did  it  not  savour  of  ingrati- 
tude to  the  friend,  under  whose  roof  I  am  so  happy 
at  present,  should  be  impatient  to  find  myself  once 
more  under  yours. 

Adieu,  my  dear  Catharina.    I  have  nothing  to 


*  Epitaph  on  Fop,  a  dog  belonging  to  Lady  Throckmorton, 
ee  Poems. 


you.  The  reason  is,  I  suppose,  that  having  no 
sister,  the  daughter  of  my  own  mother,  I  thought 
it  proper  to  have  one,  the  daughter  of  yours.  Cer- 
tain it  is,  that  I  can  by  no  means  afford  to  lose " 
you ;  and  that  unless  you  will  be  upon  honour  with 
me,  to  give  me  always  a  true  account  of  yourself, 
at  least  when  we  are  not  together,  I  shall  always  be 
unhappy,  because  always  suspicious  that  you  de- 
ceive me. 

Now  for  ourselves.  I  am,  without  the  least  dis- 
simulation, in  good  health ;  my  spirits  are  about  as 
good  as  you  have  ever  seen  them;  and  if  increase 
of  appetite  and  a  double  portion  of  sleep  be  advan- 
tageous, such  are  the  advantages  that  I  have  re- 
ceived from  this  migration.  As  to  that  gloominess 
of  mind,  which  I  have  had  these  twenty  years,  it 
cleaves  to  me  even  here ;  and  could  I  be  translated 
to  Paradise,  unless  I  left  my  body  behind  me, 
would  cleave  to  me  even  there  also.  It  is  my  com- 
panion for  life,  and  nothing  will  ever  divorce  us. 
So  much  for  myself  Mrs.  Unwin  is  evidently  the 
better  for  her  jaunt,  though  by  no  means  as  she 
was  before  this  last  attack ;  still  wanting  help  when 
she  would  rise  from  her  seat,  and  a  support  in 
walking;  but  she  is  able  to  use  more  exercise  than 
she  could  at  home,  and  moves  with  rather  a  less 
tottering  step.  God  knows  what  he  designs  for 
me :  but  when  I  see  those,  who  are  dearer  to  me 


Let.  419,  420. 


LETTERS. 


381 


than  myself,  distempered  and  enfeebled,  and  my- 
self as  strong  as  in  the  days  of  my  youth,  I  tremble 
for  the  solitude  in  which  a  few  years  may  place 
me.  I  wish  her  and  you  to  die  before  me,  indeed, 
but  not  till  I  am  more  likely  to  follow  immediately. 
Enough  of  this! 

Romney  has  drawn  me  in  crayons,  and  in  the 
opinion  of  all  here,  with  his  best  hand,  and  with 
the  most  exact  resemblance  possible. 

The  seventeenth  of  September  is  the  day  on 
which  I  intend  to  leave  Eartham.  We  shall  then 
have  been  six  weeks  resident  here;  a  hoUday  time 
long  enough  for  a  man  who  has  much  to  do.  And 
now  farewell !  W.  C. 

P.  S.  Hayley,  whose  loye  for  me  seems  to  be 
truly  that  of  a  brother,  has  given  me  his  picture, 
drawn  by  Romney  about  fifteen  years  ago;  an 
admirable  likeness. 


TO  THE  REV.  MR.  HURDIS. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  Eartham,  August  26, 1790. 

Your  kind  but  very  affecting  letter  found  me 
not  at  Weston,  to  which  place  it  was  directed,  but 
in  a  bower  of  my  friend  Hayley's  garden  at  Ear- 
tham, where  I  was  sitting  with  Mrs.  Unwin.  We 
both  knew  the  moment  we  saw  it  from  whom  it 
came;  and  observing  a  red  seal,  both  comforted 
ourselves  that  all  was  well  at  Burwash:  but  we 
soon  felt  that  we  were  called  not  to  rejoice,  but  to 
mourn  with  you — we  do  indeed  sincerely  mourn 
with  you;  and  if  it  will  afford  you  any  consolation 
to  know  it,  you  may  be  assured  that  every  eye 
here  has  testified  what  our  hearts  have  suffered 
for  you.  Your  loss  is  great,  and  your  disposition 
I  perceive  such  as  exposes  you  to  feel  the  whole 
weight  of  it ;  I  will  not  add  to  your  sorrow  by  a 
vain  attempt  to  assuage  it;  your  own  good  sense 
and  the  piety  of  your  principles  will,  of  course, 
suggest  to  you  the  most  powerful  motives  of  acqui- 
escence in  the  will  of  God.  You  will  be  sure  to 
recollect  that  the  stroke,  severe  as  it  is,  is  not  the 
stroke  of  an  enemy,  but  of  a  father;  and  will  find 
I  trust  hereafter  that  like  a  father  he  has  done  you 
good  by  it.  Thousands  have  been  able  to  say,  and 
myself  as  loud  as  any  of  them,  it  has  been  good  for 
me  that  I  was  afilicted ;  but  time  is  necessary  to 
work  us  to  this  persuasion,  and  in  due  time  it  shall 
be  yours.  Mr.  Hayley,  who  tenderly  sympathises 
with  you,  has  enjoined  me  to  send  you  as  pressing 
an  invitation  as  I  can  frame,  to  join  me  at  this 
place.  I  have  every  motive  to  wish  your  consent. 
Both  your  benefit  and  my  own,  which  I  believe 
would  be  abundantly  ansvvered  by  your  coming, 
ought  to  make  me  eloquent  in  such  a  cause.  Here 
you  will  find  silence  and  retirement  in  perfection, 
when  you  would  seek  them ;  and  here  such  com- 


pany as  I  have  no  doubt  would  suit  you;  all  cheer- 
ful, but  riot  noisy;  and  all  aUke  disposed  to  love 
you :  you  and  I  seem  to  have  here  a  fair  opportu- 
nity of  meeting.  It  were  a  pity  we  should  be  in 
the  same  county,  and  not  come  together.  I  am 
here  till  the  seventeenth  of  September,  an  interval 
that  will  afford  you  time  to  make  the  necessary 
arrangements,  and  to  gratify  me  at  last  with  an 
interview  which  I  have  long  desired.  Let  me  hear 
from  you  soon,  that  I  may  have  double  pleasure, 
the  pleasure  of  expecting  as  well  as  that  of  seeing 
you. 

Mrs.  Unwin,  I  thank  God,  though  still  a  sufferer 
by  her  last  illness,  is  much  better,  and  has  received 
considerable  benefit  by  the  air  of  Eartham.  She 
adds  to  mine  her  affectionate  compliments,  and 
joins  me  and  Hayley  in  this  invitation. 

Mr.  Romney  is  here,  and  a  young  man,  a  cou- 
sin of  mine.  I  tell  you  who  we  are,  that  you  may 
not  be  afraid  of  us. 

Adieu !  May  the  Comforter  of  all  the  afflicted 
who  seek  him,  be  yours.  God  bless  you.    W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN,      Eartham,  Sept.  9, 1792. 

I  DETERMINE,  if  possible,  to  Send  you  one  more 
letter,  or  at  least,  if  possible,  once  more  to  send  you 
something  like  one,  before  we  leave  Eartham.  But 
I  am  in  truth  so  unaccountably  local  in  the  use 
of  my  pen,  that,  like  the  man  in  the  fable,  who 
could  leap  well  no  where  but  at  Rhodes,  I  am  in- 
capable of  writing  at  all,  except  at  Weston.  This 
is,  as  I  have  already  told  you,  a  delightful  place; 
more  beautiful  scenery  I  have  never  beheld,  nor 
expect  to  behold;  but  the  charms  of  it,  uncommon, 
as  they  are,  have  not  in  the  least  alienated  my 
affections  from  Weston.  The  genius  of  that  place 
suits  me  better,  it  has  an  air  of  snug  concealment, 
in  which  a  disposition  like  mine  feels  itself  pecu- 
liarly gratified ;  whereas  here  I  see  from  every  win- 
dow, woods  like  forests,  and  hills  like  mountains,  a 
wildness,  in  short,  that  rather  increases  my  natural 
melancholy,  and  which,  were  it  not  for  the  agree- 
ables  I  find  within,  would  soon  convince  me  that 
mere  change  of  place  can  avail  me  little.  Accord- 
ingly I  have  not  looked  out  for  a  house  in  Sussex, 
nor  shall. 

The  intended  day  of  our  departure  continues  to 
be  the  seventeenth.  I  hope  to  reconduct  Mrs.  Un- 
win to  the  Lodge  with  her  health  considerably 
mended:  but  it  is  in  the  article  of  speech  chiefly, 
and  in  her  powers  of  walking,  that  she  is  sensible 
of  much  improvement.  Her  sight  and  her  hand 
still  fail  her,  so  that  she  can  neither  read  nor  work; 
mortifying  circmnstances  both  tolier,  who  is  nevfer 
willingly  idle. 

On  the  eighteenth  I  purpose  to  dine  with  th© 


382 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  431,  422,  423„ 


General,  and  to  rest  that  night  at  Kingston ;  but 
the  pleasure  I  shall  have  in  the  interview  will 
hardly  he  greater  than  the  pain  I  shall  feel  at  the 
end  of  it,  for  we  shall  part  probably  to  meet  no 
more. 

Johnny,  I  know,  has  told  you  that  Mr.  Hurdis 
is  here.  Distressed  by  the  loss  of  his  sister,  he  has 
renounced  the  place  where  she  died  for  ever,  and 
is  about  to  enter  on  a  new  course  of  life  at  Oxford. 
You  would  admire  him  much  He  is  gentle  in  his 
manners,  and  delicate  in  his  person,  resembling 
our  poor  friend  Unwin,  both  in  face  and  figure, 
more  than  any  one  I  have  ever  seen.  But  h^  has 
not,  at  least  he  has  not  at  present,  his  vivacity. 

I  have  corresponded  since  I  came  here  with 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  and  had  yesterday  a  very  kind 
letter  from  her. 

Adieu,  my  dear:  may  God  bless  you.  Write 
to  me  as  soon  as  you  can  after  the  twentieth.  I 
shall  then  be  at  Weston,  and  indulging  myself  in 
the  hope  that  I  shall  ere  long  see  you  there  also. 

W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 
The  Sun,  at  Kingston,  Sept.  18, 1792. 

MY  DEAR  BROTHER, 

With  no  sinister  accident  to  retard  or  terrify 
us,  we  find  ourselves,  at  a  quarter  before  one,  ar- 
rived safe  at  Kingston.  I  left  you  with  a  heavy 
heart,  and  with  a  heavy  heart  took  leave  of  our 
dear  Tom,  at  the  bottom  of  the  chalk-hill.  But 
soon  after  this  last  separation  my  troubles  gushed 
from  my  eyes,  and  then  I  was  better. 

We  must  now  prepare  for  our  visit  to  the  Ge- 
neral. I  add  no  more  therefore  than  our  dearest 
remembrances  and  prayers  that  God  may  bless  you 
and  yours,  and  reward  you  an  hundred-fold  for 
all  your  kindness.  Tell  Tom  I  shall  always  hold 
him  dear  for  his  affectionate  attentions  to  Mrs. 
Unwin.  From  her  heart  the  memory  of  him  can 
never  be  erased.  Johnny  loves  you  all,  and  has 
his  share  in  all  these  acknowledgments.  Adieu. 

W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  HAYLEY,  Weston^  Sept.  21, 1792. 

Chaos  himself,  even  the  Chaos  of  Milton,  is  not 
sunrounded  with  more  confusion,  nor  has  a  mind 
more  completely  in  a  hubbub,  than  I  experience  at 
the  present  moment.  At  our  first  arrival,  after 
long  absence,  we  find  an  hundred  orders  to  ser- 
vants necessary,  a  thousand  things  to  be  restored 
to  their  proper  places,  and  an  endless  variety  of 
minutiae  to  be  adjusted ;  which,  though  individually 
of  little  -importance,  are  most  momentous  in  the 


aggregate.  In  these  circumstances  I  find  myself 
so  indisposed  to  writing,  that  save  to  yourself  I 
would  on  no  account  attempt  it;  but  to  you  I  will 
give  such  a  recital  as  I  can  of  all  that  has  passed 
since  I  sent  you  that  short  note  from  Kingston, 
knowing  that  if  it  be  a  perplexed  recital,  you  will 
consider  the  cause,  and  pardon  it.  I  will  begin 
with  a  remark  in  which  I  am  incUned  to  think  you 
will  agree  with  me,  that  there  is  sometimes  more 
true  heroism  passing  in  d  corner,  and  on  occasions 
that  make  no  noise  in  the  world,  than  has  often 
been  exercised  by  those  whom  that  world  esteems 
her  greatest  heroes,  and  on  occasions  the  most  il- 
lustrious; I  hope  so  at  least;  for  all  the  heroism  I 
have  to  boast,  and  all  the  opportunities  I  have  of 
displaying  any,  are  of  a  private  nature.  After  writ- 
ing the  note  I  immediately  began  to  prepare  for 
my  appointed  visit  to  Ham;  but  the  struggles  that 
I  had  with  my  own  spirit,  labouring  as  I  did  under 
the  most  dreadful  dejection,  are  never  to  be  told.  I 
would  have  given  the  world  to  have  been  excused. 
I  went,  however,  and  carried  my  point  against 
myselfwith  a  heart  riven  asunder — I  have  reasons 
for  all  this  anxiety  which  I  can  not  relate  now.  The 
visit  however  passed  off  well,  and  we  returned  in 
the  dark  to  Kingston.  I  with  a  Hghter  heart  than 
I  had  known  since  my  departure  from  Eartham, 
and  Mary  too,  for  she  had  suffered  hardly  less 
than  myself,  and  chiefly  on  my  account.  That 
night  we  rested  well  in  our  inn,  and  at  twenty 
minutes  after  eight  next  morning  set  off  for  Lon- 
don; exactly  at  ten  we  reached  Mr.  Rose's  door; 
we  drank  a  dish  of  chocolate  with  him,  and  pro- 
ceeded, Mr.  Rose  riding  with  us  as  far  as  St.  Al- 
ban's.  From  this  time  we  met  with  no  impedi- 
ment. In  the  dark,  and  in  a  storm,  at  eight  at 
night,  we  found  ourselves  at  our  own  back  door. 
Mrs.  Unwin  was  very  near  shpping  out  of  the 
chair  in  which  she  was  taken  from  the  chaise,  but 
at  last  was  landed  safe.  We  all  have  had  a  good 
night,  and  are  all  well  this  morning. 

God  bless  you,  my  dearest  brother.       W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  HAYLEY,  Weston,  Oct.  2,  1792. 

A  BAD  night,  succeeded  by  an  east  wind,  and  a 
sky  all  in  sables,  have  such  an  effect  upon  my 
spirits,  that  if  I  did  not  consult  my  own  comfort 
more  than  yours,  I  should  not  write  to-day,  for  I 
shall  not  entertain  you  much:  yet  your  letter, 
though  containing  no  very  pleasant  tidings,  has 
afforded  me  some  relief  It  tells  me,  indeed,  that 
you  have  been  dispirited  yourself,  and  that  poor 
little  Tom,  the  faithful  squire  of  my  Mary,  has 
been  seriously  indisposed;  all  this  grieves  me,  but- 
then  there  is  a  warmth  of  heart,  and  a  kindness 
in  it,  that  do  me  good,    I  will  endeavour  not  to 


Let.  424,  425,  426. 


LETTERS. 


383 


repay  you  in  notes  of  sorrow  and  despondence, 
though  all  my  sprightly  chords  seem  broken.  In 
truth,  one  day  excepted,  I  have  not  seen  the  day 
when  I  have  been  cheerful,  since  I  left  you.  My 
spirits,  I  think,  are  almost  constantly  lower  than 
they  were :  the  approach  of  winter  is  perhaps  the 
cause;  and  if  it  is,  I  have  nothing  better  to  ex- 
pect for  a  long  time  to  come. 

Yesterday  was  a  day  of  assignation  with  my- 
self, the  day  of  which  I  said  some  days  before  it 
came,  when  that  day  comes  I  will  begin  my  dis- 
sertations. Accordingly  when  it  came  1  prepared 
to  do  so;  filled  a  letter-case  with  fresh  paper,  fur- 
nished myself  with  a  pretty  good  pen,  and  reple- 
nished my  ink-bottle;  but  partly  from  one  cause, 
and  partly  from  another,  chiefly  however  from 
distress  and  dejection,  after  writing  and  obliterat- 
ing about  six  lines,  in  the  composition  of  which  I 
spent  near  an  hour,  I  was  obUged  to  rehnquish 
the  attempt.  An  attempt  so  unsuccessful  could 
have  no  other  effect  than  to  dishearten  me,  and  it 
has  had  that  effect  to  such  a  degree  that  I  knovp 
not  when  I  shall  find  courage  to  make  another. 
At  present  I  shall  certainly  abstain,  since  at  pre- 
sent 1  can  not  well  afford  to  expose  myself  to  the 
danger  of  a  fresh  mortification.  W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

Weston,  Oct.  13,  1792. 

I  BEGAN  a  letter  to  you  yesterday,  my  dearest 
brother,  and  proceeded  through  two  sides  of  the 
sheet;  but  so  much  of  my  nervous  fever  found  its 
way  into  it,  that  looking  it  over  this  morning  I  de- 
termined not  to  send  it. 

I  have  risen,  though  not  in  good  spirits,  yet  in 
better  than  I  generally  do  of  late,  and  therefore 
will  not  address  you  in  the  melancholy  tone  that 
belongs  to  my  worst  feelings. 

I  began  to  be  restless  about  your  portrait,  and 
to  say,  how  long  shall  I  have  to  wait  for  iti  I 
wished  it  here  for  many  reasons:  the  sight  of  it 
will  be  a  comfort  to  me,  for  I  not  only  love,  but 
am  proud  of  you,  as  of  a  conquest  made  in  my 
old  age.  Johnny  goes  to  town  on  Monday,  on 
purpose  to  call  on  Romney,  to  whom  he  shall 
give  all  proper  information  concerning  its  convey- 
ance hither.  The  name  of  a  man,  whom  I  es- 
teem as  I  do  Romney,  ought  not  to  be  unmusical 
in  my  ears ;  but  his  name  will  be  so,  till  I  shall 
have  paid  him  a  debt  justly  due  to  him,  by  doing 
such  poetical  honours  to  it  as  I  intend.  Heaven 
knows  when  that  intention  will  be  executed,  for 
the  Muse  is  still  as  obdurate  and  as  coy  as  ever. 

Your  kind  postscript  is  just  arrived,  and  gives 
me  great  pleasure.  When  I  can  not  see  you  my- 
self, it  seems  some  comfort  however  that  you 
have  been  seen  by  another  known  to  me;  and 


who  will  tell  me  in  a  few  days  that  he  has  seen 
you.  Your  wishes  to  disperse  my  melancholy 
would,  I  am  sure,  prevail,  did  that  event  depend 
on  the  warmth  and  sincerity  with  which  you 
frame  them;  but  it  has  baffled  both  wishes  and 
prayers,  and  those  the  most  fervent  that  could  be 
made,  so  many  years,  that  the  case  seems  hope- 
less.   But  no  more  of  this  at  present. 

Your  verses  to  Austen  are  as  sweet  as  the 
honey  that  they  accompany ;  kind,  friendly,  witty, 
and  elegant.  When  shall  I  be  able  to  do  the  like  1 
perhaps  when  my  Mary,  like  your  Tom,  shall 
cease  to  be  an  invalid,  I  may  recover  a  power  at 
least  to  do  something.  I  sincerely  rejoice  in  the 
dear  little  man's  restoration.  My  Mary  continues, 
I  hope,  to  mend  a  little.  W.  C. 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

MY  DEAREST  JOHNNY,      Weston,  Oct.  19,  1792. 

You  are  too  useful  when  you  are  here  not  to  be 
missed  on  a  hundred  occasions  daily:  and  too 
much  domesticated  with  us  not  to  be  regretted  al- 
ways. I  hope  therefore  that  your  month  or  six 
weeks  will  not  be  like  many  that  I  have  known, 
capable  of  being  drawn  out  into  any  length  what- 
ever, and  productive  of  nothing  but  disappoint- 
ment. 

I  have  done  nothing  since  you  went,  except  that 
I  have  composed  the  better  half  of  a  sonnet  to 
Romney;  yet  even  this  ought  to  bear  an  earlier 
date,  for  I  began  to  be  haunted  with  a  desire  to 
do  it  long  before  we  came  out  of  Sussex,  and 
have  daily  attempted  it  ever  since. 

It  would  be  well  for  the  reading  part  of  the 
world,  if  the  writing  part  were,  many  of  them,  as 
dull  as  I  am.  Yet  even  this  small  produce,  which 
my  steril  intellect  has  hardly  yielded  at  last,  may 
serve  to  convince  you  that  in  point  of  spirits  I  am 
not  worse. 

In  fact,  I  am  a  little  better.  The  powders  and 
the  laudanum  together  have,  for  the  present  at 
least,  abated  the  fever  that  consumes  them;  and 
in  measure  as  the  fever  abates,  I  acquire  a  less 
discouraging  view  of  things,  and  with  it  a  little 
power  to  exert  myself 

In  the  evenings  I  read  Baker's  Chronicle  to 
Mrs.  Unwin,  having  no  other  history,  and  hope 
in  time  to  be  as  well  versed  in  it  as  his  admirer 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.  W.  C. 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  JOHNNY,         ^Veston,  Oct.  22,  1792. 

Here  am  I  with  I  know  not  ifow  many  letters 
to  answer,  and  no  time  to  do  it  in.  I  exhort  you, 
therefore,  to  set  a  proper  value  on  this,  as  proving 


384 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  427,  428,  420 


your  priority  in  my  attentions,  though  in  other 
respects  Ukely  to  be  of  httle  value. 

You  do  well  to  sit  for  your  picture,  and  give 
very  sufficient  reasons  for  doing  it ;  you  will  also, 
I  doubt  not.  take  care  that  when  future  genera- 
tions shall  look  at  it,  some  spectator  or  other  shall 
say,  thi&  is  the  picture  of  a  good  man,  and  a  use- 
ful one. 

And  now  God  bless  you,  my  dear  Johnny.  I 
proceed  much  after  the  old  rate;  rising  cheerless 
and  distressed  in  the  morning,  and  brightening  a 
little  as  the  day  goes  on.    Adieu.  W.  C. 

TO  WILLIAM  HALEY,  ESa. 

Weston,  Oct.  28,  1792. 
Nothing  done,  my  dearest  brother,  nor  Ukely 
to  be  done  at  present;  yet  I  purpose  in  a  day  or 
two  to  make  another  attempt,  to  which  however  I 
shall  address  myself  with  fear  and  trembling,  like 
a  man  who,  having  spramed  his  wrist,  dreads  to 
use  it.  I  have  not,  indeed,  like  such  a  man,  in- 
jured myself  by  any  extraordinary  exertion,  but 
seem  as  much  enfeebled  as  if  I  had.  The  con- 
sciousness that  there  is  so  much  to  do,  and  nothing 
done,  is  a  burthen  that  I  am  not  able  to  bear. 
Milton  especially  is  my  grievance,  and  1  might 
almost  as  well  be  haunted  by  his  ghost,  as  goaded 
with  such  continual  reproaches  for  neglecting  him. 
I  will  therefore  begin;  I  will  do  my  best;  and  if, 
after  all,  that  best  prove  good  for  nothing,  I  will 
even  send  the  notes,  worthless  as  they  are,  that  I 
have  made  already,  a  measure  very  disagreeable 
to  myself,  and  to  which  nothing  but  necessity 
shall  compel  me.  I  shall  rejoice  to  see  those  new 
samples  of  your  biography,  which  you  give  me  to 
expect. 

AUons !  Courage !— Here  comes  something  how- 
ever; produced  after  a  gestation  as  long  as  that  of 
a  pregnant  woman.  It  is  the  debt  long  unpaid; 
the  compliment  due  to  Romney ;  and  if  it  has  your 
approbation,  I  will  send  it,  or  you  may  send  it  for 
me.  I  must  premise,  however,  that  I  intended 
nothing  less  than  a  sonnet  when  I  began.  1  know 
not  why,  but  I  said  to  myself,  it  shall  not  be  a 
sonnet;  accordingly  1  attempted  it  in  one  sort  of 
measure,  then  in  a  second,  then  in  a  third,  till  I 
had  made  the  trial  in  half  a  dozen  different  kinds 
of  shorter  verse,  and  behold  it  is  a  sonnet  at  last. 
The  fates  wotld  have  it  so.*  W.  C 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

MY  BEAR  FRIEND,  Weston,  Nov.  9,  1792. 

I  WISH  that  I  were  as  industrious,  and  as  much 


occupied  as  you,  though  in  a  different  way;  but  it  is 
not  so  with  me.  Mrs.  Unwin's  great  debility  (who 
is  not  yet  able  to  move  without  assistance)  is  of 
itself  a  hindrance  such  as  would  effectually  disa- 
ble me.    Till  she  can  work  and  read,  and  fill  up 
her  time  as  usual  (all  which  is  at  present  entirely 
out  of  her  power,)  I  may  now  and  then  find  time 
to  write  a  letter,  but  I  shall  write  nothing  more. 
I  can  not  sit  with  my  pen  in  my  hand,  and  my 
books  before  me,  while  she  is  in  effect  in  solitude, 
silent,  and  looking  at  the  fire.    To  this  hindrance 
that  other  has  been  added,  of  which  you  are  al- 
ready aware,  a  want  of  spirits,  such  as  I  have 
never  known,  when  I  was  not  absolutely  laid  by, 
since  I  commenced  an  author.    How  long  I  shall 
be  continued  in  these  uncomfortable  circumstances 
is  known  only  to  Him  who,  as  he  will,  disposes 
of  us  all.    I  may  be  yet  able  perhaps  to  prepare 
the  first  book  of  the  Paradise  Lost  for  the  press 
before  it  will  be  wanted;  and  Johnson  himself 
seems  to  think  there  will  be  no  haste  for  the  se- 
cond.   But  poetry  is  my  favourite  employment, 
and  all  my  poetical  operations  are  in  the  mean  time 
suspended,  for  while  a  work  to  which  I  have 
bound  myself  remains  unaccomplished  I  can  do 
nothing  else. 

Johnson's  plan  of  prefixing  my  phiz  to  the  new 
edition  of  my  Poems  is  by  no  means  a  pleasant 
one  to  me,  and  so  I  told  him  in  a  letter  I  sent  him 
from  Eartham,  in  which  I  assured  him  that  my 
objections  to  it  would  not  be  easily  surmounted. 
But  if  you  judge  that  it  may  really  have  an  efifect 
in  advancing  the  sale,  I  would  not  be  so  squeam- 
ish as  to  suffer  the  spirit  of  prudery  to  prevail  in 
me  to  his  disadvantage.  Somebody  told  an  author, 
I  forgot  whom,  that  there  was  more  vanity  in  re- 
fusing his  picture,  than  in  granting  it,  on  which 
he  instantly  complied.  T  do  not  perfectly  feel  all 
the  force  of  the  argument,  but  it  shall  content  me 
that  he  did. 

I  do  most  sincerely  rejoice  in  the  success  of  your 
publication,  and  have  no  doubt  that  my  prophecy 
concerning  your  success  in  greater  matters  will 
be  fulfilled.  We  are  naturally  pleased  when  our 
friends  approve  what  we  approve  ourselves;  how 
much  then  must  I  he  pleased,  when  you  speak  so 
kindly  of  Johnny!  I  know  him  to  be  all  that  you 
think  him,  and  love  him  entirely. 

Adieu !  We  expect  you  at  Christmas,  and  shall 
therefore  rejoice  when  Christmas  comes.  Let  no- 
thing interfere.  Ever  yours,  W.  C. 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

Weston,  Nov.  20,  1792. 

MY  DEAREST  JOHNNY, 


  X     XJj:Jl\IXSL,tZ>  1     JXJtlPirH  X  , 

*  Here  followed  the  Sonnet  to  George  Romney,  Esq.  See  !  I  GIVE  you  many  thanks  for  your  rhymes,  and 
^°®™^*  for  your  verses  without  inymej  for  your  poetical 


Let.  430, 431. 


LETTERS. 


385 


dialogue  between  wood  and  stone ;  between  Ho- 
mer's head,  and  the  head  of  Samuel;  kindly  in- 
tended, I  know  well,  for  my  amusement,  and  that 
amused  me  much. 

The  successor  of  the  clerk  defunct,  for  whom  I 
used  to  write  mortuary  verses,  arrived  here  this 
morning,  with  a  recommendatory  letter  for  Joe 
Rye,  and  an  humble  petition  of  his  own,  entreat- 
ing me  to  assist  him  as  I  had  assisted  his  prede- 
cessor. I  have  undertaken  the  service,  although 
with  no  little  reluctance,  being  involved  in  many 
arrears  on  other  subjects,  and  having  very  little 
dependence  at  present  on  my  ability  to  write  at  all. 
I  proceed  exacty  as  when  you  were  here — a  letter 
now  and  then  before  breakfast,  and  the  rest  of  my 
time  all  holiday;  if  hoUday  it  may  be  called,  that 
is  spent  chiefly  in  moping  and  musing,  and  '■'■fore- 
casting the  fashion  of  uncertain  evilsT 

The  fever  on  my  spirits  has  harassed  me  much, 
and  I  have  never  had  so  good  a  night,  nor  so  quiet 
a  rising,  since  you  went,  as  on  this  very  morning. 
A  relief  that  I  account  particularly  seasonable  and 
propitious,  because  1  had,  in  my  intentions,  de- 
voted this  morning  to  you,  and  could  not  have  ful- 
filled those  intentions,  had  I  been  as  spiritless  as 
I  generally  am. 

I  am  glad  that  Johnson  is  in  no  haste  for  Mil- 
ton, for  I  seem  myself  not  likely  to  address  myself 
presently  to  that  concern,  with  any  prospect  of 
success;  yet  something  now  and  then,  like  a  se- 
cret whisper,  assures  and  encourages  me  that  it 
will  yet  be  done.  -  W.  C. 


new  clerk ;  he  came  to  solicit  the  same  service  as 
I  had  rendered  his  predecessor,  and  I  reluctantly 
complied;  doubtful,  indeed,  whether  1  was  capa- 
ble. I  have  however  achieved  that  labour,  and  I 
hope  nothing  more.  I  am  just  sent  for  up  to  Mary^ 
dear  Mary  !  Adieu  !  she  is  as  well  as  when  I  left 
you,  I  would  I  could  say  better.  Remember  us  both 
alfectionately  to  your  sweet  boy,  and  trust  me  for 
being  Most  truly  yours,  W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY  ESa. 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  Weston,  Dec.  16,  1792. 

We  differ  so  little,  that  it  is  pity  we  should  not 
agree.  The  possibility  of  restoring  our  diseased 
government  is,  I  think,  the  only  point  on  which 
we  are  not  of  one  mind.  If  you  are  right,  and  it 
can  not  be  touched  in  the  medical  way,  without 
danger  of  absolute  ruin  to  the  constitution,  keep 
the  doctors  at  a  distance,  say  I — and  let  us  live  as 
long  as  we  can.  But  perhaps  physicians  might 
be  found  of  skill  sufficient  for  the  purpose,  were 
they  but  as  willing  as  able.  Who  are  they?  Not 
those  honest  blunderers  the  mob,  but  our  governors 
themselves.  As  it  is  in  the  power  of  any  indivi- 
dual to  be  honest  if  he  will,  any  body  of  men  are, 
as  it  seems  to  me,  equally  possessed  of  the  same 
option.  For  I  can  never  persuade  myself  to  think 
the  world  so  constituted  by  the  author  of  it,  and 
human  society,  which  is  his  ordinance,  so  shabby 
a  business,  that  the  buying  and  seUing  of  votes 
and  consciences  should  be  essential  to  its  existence. 
As  to  multiplied  representation,  I  know  not  that 
I  foresee  any  great  advantage  likely  to  arise  from 
that.  Provided  there  be  but  a  reasonable  number 
West(j^n,  Not.  25,  1792.  |  of  reasonable  heads  laid  together  for  the  good  of 
How  shall  I  thank  you  enough  for  the  interest  '  the  nation,  the  end  may  as  well  be  answered  by 
you  take  in  my  future  Miltonic  labours,  and  the  five  hundred,  as  it  would  be  by  a  thousand,  and 
assistance  you  promised  me  in  the  performance  perhaps  better.  But  then  they  should  be  honest 
of  them"?  I  will  some  time  or  other,  if  I  live,  and  as  well  as  wise;  and  in  order  that  they  may  be 
live  a  poet,  acknowledge  your  friendship  in  some  so,  they  should  put  it  out  of  their  own  power  to  be 
of  my  best  verse;  the  most  suitable  return  one  otherwise.  This  they  might  certainly  do,  if  they 
poet  can  make  to  another;  in  the  mean  time,  I  love  would ;  and  would  they  do  it,  I  am  not  convinced 
you,  and  am  sensible  of  all  your  kindness.  You  that  any  great  mischief  would  ensue.  You  say, 
wish  me  warm  in  my  work,  and  I  ardently  wish  "  somebody  must  have  influence,"  but  I  see  no 
the  same ;  but  when  I  shall  be  so,  God  only  knows,  necessity  for  it.  Let  integrity  of  intention  and  a 
My  melancholy,  which  seemed  a  little  alleviated  due  share  of  ability  be  supposed,  and  the  influence 
for  a  few  days,  has  gathered  about  me  again,  with  will  be  in  the  right  place,  it  will  all  centre  in  the 
as  black  a  cloud  as  ever;  the  consequence  is  abso-  zeal  and  good  of  the  nation.  That  will  influence 
lute  incapacity  to  begin.  |  their  debates  and  decisions,  and  nothing  else  ought 

I  was  for  some  years  dirge  writer  to  the  tdwn  to  do  it.  You  will  say  perhaps  that,  wise  men 
of  Northampton,  being  employed  by  the  clerk  of  and  honest  men  as  they  are  supposed,  they  are 
the  principal  parish  there,  to  furnish  him  with  an  yet  liable  to  be  split  into  almost  as  many  diflfer- 
annual  copy  of  verses  proper  to  be  printed  at  the  ences  of  opinion  as  there  are  individuals :  but  I 
foot  of  his  bill  of  mortality;  but  the  clerk  died,  rather  think  not.  It  is  observed  of  Prince  Eugene 
and  hearing  nothing  for  two  years  from  his  sue-  and  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  that  each  always 
cesser,  I  well  hoped  that  I  was  out  of  my  office,  approved  and  seconded  the  plans  and  views  of  the 
The  other  morning  however  Sam  announced  the  other:  and  the  reason  given  for  it  is,  that  they 


38G 


could  make  wo  unanimous,  would  make  twenty 
so,  and  would  at  Jeast  secure  a  majority  amon^ 
as  many  hundreds  A«f»fi.  r  •>  '^'^'^^"S 
churcJi  T  vv.!r  reformation  of  the 

fbo^rf  h  and  if  that  could  be  brought 

abovrt  by  emaciatm.  a  little  some  of  our  too  cor^u 
ient  dignitarzes,  I  should  be  well  contented.  ^ 
The  dissenters,  I  think,  catholics  and  others 

^rJi  he"  X 

and  n!  '  ^'P'^^^  '^'"^  ^«  persecution 

a  reh'I~-'"  any  account,  but  especially  on 
a  rehpous  one,  is  an  abomination.    But  after  al" 

^i^iTaZT'T  '  ^^^^  I 

land  peace  and  prosperity  to  Old  Eng 

Adieu.    W.  C. 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 
rp„_  ,  Weston,  Dec.  26,  1792. 

Si.  T  w  T  '°  although 

^otyom.  r^ste  I  am  not  worse  than  usual  but  mv 
g^portunities  of  writing  are  pa..,;;,.^,  ^s  perhaps 

tHat  l  have  are  shortened  by  company 
Give  my  love  to  dear  Tom,  and  thank  him  for 
-^-^I  ^houldbeCl 

employed  once  more  in  poXy^Tk  '  W  Jen  of^ 

coursethatthisMiltonictrapLdnevercauXe 
The  year  mnety-two  shall  stand  chronicled  in  mv 
remembrance  as  the  most  melancholy  that  I  have 
FaTtb  r^P*  --ks  that  I  spent  I 

Eartham;  and  such  it  has  been  principally  becale 

^ee  for  any  other  engagement.  That  ill-fated 
work,  impracticable  in  itself,  has  made  every  tW 
else  impracticable.  «veryining 


Let.  432, 433,  434 

the^2  ^""'P-y  »ho  left     „„ty  „„ 

The  mo,Mh,  pervaded  to  undertake  it. 

i  ne  most  that  I  hope  to  effect  is  a  complete  revi 
!t  "1  Homer.    Johnson  told  my 

who  has  just  left  me,  that  it  will  hesin  Z  >L  ' 

u.de:rdtrrarnrr.is  if-if J 

op„  of  .ieto^  He  ^ 

and  I  will  endeavour  not  to  lose  it !  Adieu  W  c 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESQ. 


« f  DEAE  BHOTHER,       TVeslou,  Jan.  30  1793 

Now  I  know  that  you  are  safe,  I  trea  you  a. 
you  see  wtth  a  philosophical  indifference,  not  'a^ 
knowledgmg  your  kind  and  immediate  answ  rto 
anx.o  y„  .^^^.^^  n,yow„conve„rnee 

y^' ^uld^r"  ^"^'^'"^  haprto^eirrt/ 

T  T..  r    Z  ^""'^  inconsistent  with  my  peace 

I  am  very  Pindaric,  and  obliged  to  be  f^T^''™^^  ^  ^^.^"ght  that  you  were  extremeM* 
rry^of  the  hour.    My  friends  are  come  Irlrj^^^^^^  ^     '  ' 

W.  C 


so  by  the  hurry  of  the  hour 
down  to  breakfast.  Adieu, 


TO  THE  REV.  MR.  HURDIS. 
MY  DEAR  SIR,  Weston,  Jan.  6  1793 

1  SEIZE  a  passing  moment  merely  to  sU  that  T 
feeUor  your  distresses,  and  sincerelyVyi^^^^^^^^ 
I  sha  1  be  happy  to  learn  from  your  next  that'vn 

-ter's  amendment  has  supersV  h  '  nee  S  ; 
you  feared  of  a  ionrnp^r     t  i'ecessity 


you  feared  of  a  j o^eTtrL^dr  ""1^  ^         ^"'">-  -        woC  dZZ^ 


-  jv^ui.icj  lu  i-ionaon.  Your  ran/iwi 
account  of  the  effect  that  your  afliictionsLe  Sh 
on  you,  J  ,        perfectly  under 

!nd  „'  r'"^  i"  "'•«  foe  myself 

and  perhaps  more  than  any  man.   1,  is  i„2h1 


tragedy  reachedm;~r,h,t^r 

O,  Vance  mentek  hominum  !"    How  iLipI 

itr^r'T*'™^'™""^^-^^*^'^^^^ 

nest  old  Time,  who  never  fails  to  undeceive  us. 

tions  for  ,  h  ™  expecta^ 
tions,  for  1  have  a  spirit,  if  not  so  sano-uine  as 
yours,  yet  that  would  have  waited  foryourclming 
with  anxious  impatience,  and  have  bL  dismally 
morfifed  by  the  disappointment.  Had  you  c™e 
and  CO  without  notice  too,  you  would'^not  hfve 
surprised  ns  mnrp  th^^  r^..  .li. 


ao-p  n  '  '""^  "'^"^^  was  man- 

aged)  we  were  surprised  at  the  arrival  of  your  pic- 
ture.   It  reached  us  in  the  evening,  after  the  shut 

actually  have  brought  you  without  giving  us  the 


Let.  435,  436, 437,  438. 


LETTERS. 


387 


least  previous  intimation.  Then  it  was,  that  Sa- 
muel, with  his  cheerful  countenance,  appeared  at 
the  study  door,  and  with  a  voice  as  cheerful  as  his 
looks,  exclaimed,  "  Mr.  Hayley  is  come,  Madam!" 
We  both  started,  and  in  the  same  moment  cried, 
•'Mr.  Hayley  come!  and  where  is  heT'  The 
next  moment  corrected  our  mistake,  and  finding 
Mary's  voice  grow  suddenly  tremulous,  I  turned 
and  saw  her  weeping. 

I  do  nothing,  notwithstanding  all  your  exhorta- 
tions :  my  idleness  is  a  proof  against  them  all,  or 
to  speak  more  truly,  my  difficulties  are  so.  Some- 
thing indeed  I  do.  I  play  at  pushpin  with  Homer 
every  morning  before  breakfast,  fingering  and  po- 
lishing, as  Paris  did  his  armour.  I  have  lately  had 
a  letter  from  Dublin  on  that  subject,  which  has 
pleased  me.  W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

MY  DEAREST  HAYLEY,    Weston,  Jan.  "39,  1793. 

I  TRULY  sympathize  with  you  under  your  weight 
of  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  our  good  Samaritan.  But 
be  not  broken-hearted,  my  friend!  Remember, 
the  loss  of  those  we  love  is  the  condition  on  which 
we  live  ourselves;  and  that  he  who  chooses  his 
friends  wisely  from  among  the  excellent  of  the 
earth,  has  a  sure  ground  to  hope  concerning  them 
when  they  die,  that  a  merciful  God  has  made  them 
far  happier  than  they  could  be  here,  and  that  we 
shall  join  them  soon  again.  This  is  solid  comfort, 
could  we  but  avail  ourselves  of  it ;  but  I  confess 
the  difficulty  of  doing  so.  Sorrow  is  like  the  deaf 
adder,  "  that  hears  not  the  voice  of  the  charmer, 
charm  he  never  so  wisely ;"  and  I  feel  so  much 
myself  for  the  death  of  Austin,  that  my  own  chief 
consolation  is,  that  I  had  never  seen  him.  Live 
yourself,  I  beseech  you,  for  I  have  seen  so  much  of 
you,  that  I  can  by  no  means  spare  you,  and  will 
live  as  long  as  it  shall  please  God  to  permit.  I 
know  you  set  some  value  on  me,  therefore  let  that 
promise  comfort  you,  and  give  us  not  reason  to  say, 
like  David's  servant,  "  We  know  that  it  would 
have  pleased  thee  more  if  all  we  had  died,  than 
this  one,  for  whom  thou  art  inconsolable."  You 
have  still  Romney  and  Carwardine,  and  Guy,  and 
me,  my  poor  Mary,  and  I  know  not  how  many 
beside ;  as  many,  1  suppose,  as  ever  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  spending  a  day  with  you.  He  who  has 
the  most  friends  must  necessarily  lose  the  most, 
and  he  whose  friends  are  numerous  as  yours  may 
the  better  spare  a  part  of  them.  It  is  a  changing 
transient  scene :  yet  a  little  while,  and  this  poor 
dream  of  life  will  be  over  with  all  of  us — The  liv- 
ing, and  they  who  live  unhappy,  they  are  indeed 
subjects  of  sorrow.  Adieu,  my  beloved  friend, 
Ever  yours,  W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

Weston,  Feb.  5,  1793. 
In  this  last  revisal  of  my  work  (the  Homer)  I 
have  made  a  number  of  small  improvements,  and 
am  now  more  convinced  than  ever,  having  exercis- 
ed a  cooler  judgment  upon  it  than  before  I  could, 
that  the  translation  will  make  its  way.  There 
must  be  time  for  the  conquest  of  vehement  and 
long  rooted  prejudice;  but  without  much  self-par- 
tiality, I  believe  that  the  conquest  will  be  made; 
and  am  certain  that  I  should  be  of  the  same  opi 
nion,  were  the  work  another  man's.  I  shall  soon 
have  finished  the  Odyssey,  and  when  I  have,  wdll 
send  the  corrected  copy  of  both  to  Johnson.  Adieu. 

W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Feb.  10,  1793. 
My  pens  are  all  split,  and  my  inkglass  is  dry ; 
Neither  wit,  common  sense,  nor  ideas  have  I. 

In  vain  has  it  been  that  I  have  made  several  at- 
tempts to  write  since  I  came  from  Sussex;  unless 
more  comfortable  days  arrive  than  I  have  the  con- 
fidence to  look  for,  there  is  an  end  of  all  writing 
with  me.  I  have  no  spirits :  when  the  Rose  came, 
I  was  obliged  to  prepare  for  his  coming  by  a  night- 
ly dose  of  laudanum — twelve  drops  suffice;  but 
without  them  I  am  devoured  by  melancholy. 

A-propos  of  the  Rose !  His  wife  in  her  politica. 
notions  is  the  exact  counterpart  of  yourself — loya. 
in  the  extreme.  Therefore,  if  you  find  her  thus 
inclined,  when  you  become  acquainted  with  her 
you  must  not  place  her  resemblance  of  yourself  to 
the  account  of  her  admiration  of  you,  for  she  is 
your  likeness  ready  made.  In  fact,  we  are  all  of 
one  mind,  about  government  matters,  and  not- 
withstanding your  opinion,  the  Rose  is  himself  a 
Whig,  and  I  am  a  Whig,  and  you,  my  dear,  are 
a  Tory,  and  all  the  Tories  now-a-days  call  all  the 
Whigs  Republicans.  How  the  deuce  you  came 
to  be  a  Tory  is  best  known  to  yourself;  you  have 
to  answer  for  this  novelty  to  the  shades  of  your 
ancestors,  who  were  always  Whigs  ever  since  we 
had  any.    Adieu,  W.  C. 

TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Feb.  17,  1793, 

I  HAVE  read  the  critique  of  ray  work  in  the  Ana 
lytical  Review,  and  am  happy  to  have  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  a  critic,  rigorous  enough  indeed,  but 
a  scholar  and  a  man  of  sense,  and  who  does  not 
deliberately  intend  me  mischief    I  am  bette 


2 


I 


388 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


pleased  indeed  that  he  censures  some  things,  than 
I  should  have  been  with  unmixed  commendation 
ioT  his  censure  will  (to  use  the  new  diplomatic 
term)  accredit  his  praises.  In  his  particular  re- 
marks he  is  for  the  most  part  right,  and  I  shall 
be  the  better  for  them;  but  in  his  general  ones  1 


Let.  439, 440. 


tortaining  notices  and  remarks  in  the  natural  way 
The  hurry  in  which  I  write  would  not  suffer  ma 
^  -nd  you  many  in  return,  had  I  many  to  send 
but  only  two  or  three  present  themselves  ' 
Frogs  will  feed  on  worms.  I  saw  a  frog  gather- 


think  he  asserts  too  largely  a^^mort^n^l  ^ff/t 

could  prove.    With  respect  to  inversions  in  parti-  succeed^  """^  '^^^ 

cu  av,  I  know  that  they  do  not  abound.  Once  they      Mrs  Unwin  nnH  T         •  . 
did,  and  1  had  Milton's  example  for  it  not  dis^  the  foot  brZ  ^''"'"'"^  ^  ^'""'^^  ^"^^^''"^ 

approved  by  Addison.    But  on  '   remon  J  ter  whtt^^^^^^^  T'"^'' 

strance  against  them  I  exounaed  the  mnZ^^l  appearance  of  a  flower.  Ob- 

in  my  neS  edition  shll!  S  fe^t  ^UhTknTw  S  f  "^^^  ^^^^^^^ 

that  they  give  dignity,  and  am  sorry  to  part  witi LI  n.  t"  '',1.™""""^ '  ^^^^^  ''"^'^^ 

hem,  but,  to  parody  an  old  proverb,  he  who  lives  equaTdi  Lee    2^  tails  diverging  at 

in  the  year  ninety-three,  must  do  as  in  the  year  head  tie  thl  fh     ""^     "'^'^  ^^'^^ 
ninety-three  is  done  by  others.  Thesame  remark  blown  A  i      appearance  of  a  flower  half 

Ihave  to  make  on  his  censure  of  inhTmolt  a  a  s^IT^ 

lines.   Iknowthen,  to  be  much  fewer  tharheas^o!  'l"^"^^  P'- 

serts,  and  not  more  in  number  than  I  accounted     tCed  to  "'a'fn  '^fh  " 
indispensably  necessary  to  a  due  variation  of  ca-  take  "  in  h^absence     TMs  T'^f 
dence.    I  have,  however,  now  in  conformity  with  veral  timi     The  ohL.  lu  l  Ti  """"  ^'"^ 
modem  taste,  (overmuch  delicate  in  my  mirid)  all  wasTl   The  object  that  had  attached  them 
given  to  a  far  greater  number  of  them  a^floTll  dtrrin/^^^  ''^^  ^^^"^^^ 

smooth  as  oil.    A  few  I  retain,  and  will,  in  com-     After  °a  verv  r«5r,v  1  t 
phment  to  my  own  judgment.    He  thinks  me  ton  fl        I    7  ^  ?  ^         '         °"        of  the 
faithful  to  coLpoun^d  epithets  in'lLl;^'^^^^^^^^^^^^  but  it 

lines,  and  I  know  his  reason.    He  fears  lest  the  Itll  T  f  ^'/^  ,  ^  C«"«^dering  more 

English  reader  should  blame  Homerwhom  t  nely^  ^"^^ -"'^  «Ponta- 

idolizes,  though  hardly  more  than  I,  fo'r  such  con!  S^'^^^^^^^^^^^^^  at  the  ends  of  it  either 

stant  repetition.  But  them  I  shall  n^t  alter.  They  iVlntrt^eV      ^  f  ^'^^^^^^^  ^'^''''^ 
a  iust  representation  of      'IT  ^  the  air  of  a  warm  room 


are  necessary  to  a  just  representation  of  the  oritri. 
nal.  In  the  affair  of  Outis,  I  shall  throw  hfm 
flat  on  his  back  by  an  unanswerable  argument, 
which  I  shall  give  in  a  note,  and  with  which  I  am' 
furnished  by  Mrs.  Unwin.  So  much  for  hyper- 
CTiticism,  which  has  run  away  with  all  my  paper 

This  critic  by  the  way  is  I  know  him  by 

infallible  indications,  q 


TO  THE  REV.  MR.  HURDIS. 
MY  DEAR  SIR,  Weston,  Feb.  23,  1793. 

My  eyes,  which  have  long  been  inflamed,  will 
hardly  serve  me  for  Homer,  and  oblige  me  to  make 
all  my  letters  short.    You  have  ooliged  me  much 
by  sending  me  so  speedily  the  remainder  of  your 
notes.    I  have  begun  with  them  again,  and  find 
them,  as  before,  very  much  to  the  purpose.  More 
to  the  purpose  they  could  not  have  been,  had  you 
been  poetry  professor  already.    I  rejoice  sincerely 
in  the  prospect  you  have  of  that  oflice,  which, 
whatever  may  be  your  own  thoughts  of  the  mat- 
ter, T  am  sure  you  will  fill  with  great  sufliciency. 
Would  that  my  interest  and  power  to  serve  you 


dried  and  killed  it  presently. 


W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 


V      /      ,  ^eb.  24,  1793. 

_  Your  letter  (so  full  of  kindness,  and  so  exactly 
m  unison  with  my  own  feelings  for  you)  should 
have  had,  as  it  deserved  to  have,  an  earlier  an- 
swer, had  I  not  been  perpetually  tormented  with 
inflamed  eyes,  which  are  a  sad  hindrance  to  me  in 
every  thing.    But  to  make  amends,  if  I  do  not 
send  you  an  early  answer,  I  send  you  at  least  a 
speedy  one,  being  obliged  to  write  as  fast  as  my 
pen  can  trot,  that  I  may  shorten  the  time  of  poring 
upon  paper  as  much  as  possible.    Homer  too  has 
been  another  hindrance,  for  always  when  I  can 
see,  which  is  only  about  two  hours  every  morning 
and  not  at  all  by  candlelight,  I  devote  myself  to 
him,  being  in  haste  to  send  him  a  second  time  to 
the  press,  that  nothing  may  stand  in  the  way  of 
Milton.    By  the  way,  where  are  my  dear  Tom's 
remarks,  which  I  long  to  have,  and  must  have 
soon,  or  they  will  come  too  late? 

Oh!  you  rogue!  what  would  you  give  to  have 


were  greater!   b„e  str  g  to^;  b„wl         Z  such     T  'T'  ^'"^ 
one  o„.y,  which  shall  npL  idle  for  wa     oV"     i„t '  iTJ^l  fh  °"'  "  " 
exertions.   I  thank  you  likewise  for  your  very  e7   ndwih-Th  *='  T^^"'"^  "'  ""^  "'^^ 

.try en  land  with  much  company,  looluiig  tmvards  the 


iiET.  441,  442. 


LETTERS. 


389 


lower  end  of  the  room  from  the  upper  end  of  it,  I 
descried  a  figure  which  I  immediately  knew  to  be 
Milton's.  He  was  very  gravely,  but  very  neatly 
attired  in  the  fashion  of  his  day,  and  had  a  coun- 
tenance which  filled  me  with  those  feelings  that 
an  affectionate  child  has  for  a  beloved  father,  such, 
for  instance,  as  Tom  has  for  you.  My  first  thought 
was  wonder,  where  he  could  have  been  concealed 
so  many  years;  my  second,  a  transport  of  joy  to 
find  him  still  ahve;  my  third,  another  transport  t(S 
find  myself  in  his  company ;  and  my  fourth,  a  re- 
solution to  accost  him.  I  did  so,  and  he  received 
me  with  a  complacence,  in  which  I  saw  equal 
sweetness  and  dignity.  I  spoke  of  his  Paradise 
Lost,  as  every  man  must,  who  is  worthy  to  speak 
of  it  at  all,  and  told  him  a  long  story  of  the  man-  ' 
ner  in  which  it  affected  me,  when  I  first  discovered 
It,  being  at  that  time  a  schoolboy.  He  answered 
me  by  a  smile,  and  a  gentle  inclination  of  his  head. 
He  then  grasped  my  hand  affectionately,  and  with 
a  smile  that  charmed  me,  said,  "Well;  you  for' 
your  part  will  do  well  also;"  at  last  recollecting' 
his  great  age  (for  I  understood  him  to  be  two  hun- 
ted years  old)  I  feared  that  I  might  fatigue  him  by 
much  talking,  I  took  my  leave,  and  he  took  his, 
with  an  air  of  the  most  perfect  good-breeding. 
His  person,  his  features,  his  manner,  were  all  so 
perfectly  characteristic,  that  I  am  persuaded  an 
apparition  of  him  could  not  represent  him  more 
completely.  This  may  be  said  to  have  been  one 
of  the  dreams  of  Pindus,  may  it  not? 

How  truly  I  rejoice  that  you  have  recovered 
Guy ;  that  man  won  my  heart  the  moment  I  saw 
him;  give  my  love  to  him,  and  tell  him  I  am  truly 
glad  he  is  alive  again. 

There  is  much  sweetness  in  those  lines  from 
the  sonneteer  of  Avon,  and  not  a  little  in  dear 
Tom's,  an  earnest,  I  trust,  of  good  things  to  come. 

With  Mary's  kind  love,  I  must  now  conclude 
myself, 

My  dear  brother,  ever  yours,  LIPPUS. 


race,  and  I  have  a  horror  both  of  them  and  their 
principles.  Tacitus  is  certainly  Uving  now,  and 
the  quotations  you  sent  me  can  be  nothing  but  ex- 
tracts from  some  letter  of  his  to  yourself 

Yours  sincerely,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Weston,  March  4,  1793. 

Since  I  received  your  last  I  have  been  much 
indisposed,  very  blind,  and  very  busy.  But  I  have 
not  suffered  all  these  evils  at  one  and  the  same 
time.  While  the  winter  lasted  I  was  miserable 
with  a  fever  on  my  spirits;  when  the  spring  began 
to  approach  I  was  seized  with  an  inflammation  in 
my  eyes;  and  ever  since  I  have  been  able  to  use 
them,  have  been  employed  in  giving  more  last 
touches  to  Homer,  who  is  on  the  point  of  going  to 
the  press  again. 

Though  you  are  Tory,  I  believ^,  and  I  am 
Whig,  our  sentiments  concerning  the  madcaps  of 
France  are  much  the  same.    They  are  a  terrible 


TO  MR.  THOMAS  HAYLEY. 

Weston,  March  14, 1793. 

MY  DEAR  LITTLE  CRITIC, 

I  THANK  you  heartily  for  your  observations,  on 
which  I  set  an  higher  value,  because  they  have 
instructed  me  as  much,  and  have  entertained  me 
more  than  all  the  other  strictures  of  our  public 
judges  in  these  matters.  Perhaps  I  am  not  much 
more  pleased  with  shameless  wolf,  &c.  than  you. 
But  what  is  to  be  done,  my  little  man'?  Coarse  as 
the  expressions  are,  they  are  no  more  than  equiva- 
lent to  those  of  Homer.  The  invective  of  the  an- 
cients was  never  tempered  with  good  manners,  as 
your  papa  can  tell  you :  and  my  business,  you 
know,  is,  not  to  be  more  polite  than  my  author,  but 
to  represent  him  as  closely  as  I  can. 

Dishonoured  foul  I  have  wiped  away  for  the 
reason  you  give,  which  is  a  very  just  one,  and  the 
present  reading  is  this. 

Who  had  dar'd  dishonour  thus 
The  life  itself,  &c. 

Your  objection  to  kindler  of  the  fires  of  Heaven 
I  had  the  good  fortune  to  anticipate,  and  expunged 
the  dirty  ambiguity  some  time  since,  wondering 
not  a  little  that  I  had  ever  admitted  it. 

The  fault  you  find  with  the  two  first  verses  of 
Nestor's  speech  discovers  such  a  degree  of  just 
discernment,  that  but  for  your  papa's  assurance  to 
the  contrary,  I  must  have  suspected  him  as  the 
author  of  that  remark:  much  as  I  should  have  re- 
spected it,  if  it  had  been  so,  I  value  it,  I  assure 
you,  my  little  friend,  still  mOre  as  yours.  In  the 
new  edition  the  passage  will  be  found  thus  al- 
tered : 

Alas !  great  sorrow  falls  on  Greece  to-day, 
Priam,  and  Priam's  sons,  with  all  in  Troy — 
Oh !  how  will  they  exult,  and  in  their  hearts 
Triumph,  once  hearing  of  this  broitl  between 
The  prime  of  Greece,  in  council,  and  in  arms. 

Where  the  word  reel  suggests  to  you  the  idea 
of  a  drunken  ^mountain,  it  performs  the  service  to 
which  I  destined  it.  It  is  a  bold  metaphor;  but 
justified  by  one  of  the  sublimest  passages  in  scrip- 
ture, compared  with  the  sublimity  of  which  even 
that  of  Homer  suffers  humiUation. 

It  is  God  himself,  who,  speaking,  I  think,  by  the 
prophet  Isaiah,  says, 

"  The  earth  shall  reel  to  and  fro  like  a  drunk- 
ard." With  equal  boldness,  in  the  same  scripture, 
the  poetry  of  which  was  never  equalled,  mountains 
are  said  to  skip,  to  break  out  into  singing,  and  the 


390 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  443,  444,  445. 


fields  to  clap  their  hands.  I  intend,  therefore,  that 
my  Olympus  shall  be  still  tipsy. 

The  accuracy  of  your  last  remark,  in  which 
you  convicted  me  of  a  bull,  delights  me.  A  fig  for 
all  critics  but  you !  The  blockheads  could  not  find 
it.    It  shall  stand  thus. 

First  spake  Polydamas — 

Homer  was  more  upon  his  guard  than  to  commit 
such  a  blunder,  for  he  says, 

Ai^d  now,  my  dear  little  censor,  once  more  ac- 
cept my  thanks.  I  only  regret  that  your  strictures 
are  so  few,  being  just  and  sensible  as  they  are. 

Tell  your  papa  that  he  shall  hear  from  me  soon; 
accept  mine,  and  my  dear  invalid's  affectionate  re- 
membrances, r         Ever  yours.  W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  HAYLEY,        Weston,  March  19, 1793. 

I  AM  SO  busy  every  morning  before  breakfast 
(my  only  opportunity),  strutting  and  stalking  in 
Homeric  stilts,  that  you  ought  to  account  it  an  in- 
stance of  marvellous  grace  and  favour,  that  I  con- 
descend to  write  even  to  you.  Sometimes  1  am 
sericasly  almost  crazed  with  the  multiplicity  of  the 
matters  before  me,  and  the  little  or  no  time  that  I 
have  for  them;  and  sometimes  I  repose  myself 
after  the  fatigue  of  that  distraction  on  the  pillow 
of  despair;  a  pillow  which  has  often  served  me  in 
time  of  need,  and  is  become,  by  frequent  use,  if  not 
very  comfortable,  at  least  convenient !  So  reposed, 
I  laugh  at  the  world,  and  say,  "Yes,  you  may 
gape  and  expect  both  Homer  and  Milton  from  me, 
but  I'll  be  hanged  if  ever  you  get  them." 

In  Homer  you  must  know  I  am  advanced  as  far 
as  the  fifteenth  book  of  the  Iliad,  leaving  nothing 
behind  me  that  can  reasonably  offend  the  most 
fastidious:  and  I  design  him  for  public  appearance 
in  his  new  dress  as  soon  as  possible,  for  a  reason 
which  any  poet  may  guess,  if  he  will  but  thrust 
his  hand  into  his  pocket. 

You  forbid  me  to  tantaUze  you  with  an  invita- 
tion to  Weston,  and  yet  invite  me  to  Eartham ! — 
No !  no !  there  is  no  such  happiness  in  store  for 
me  at  present.  Had  I  rambled  at  all,  I  was  under 
promise  to  all  my  dear  mother's  kindred  to  go  to 
3N"orfolk,  and  they  are  dying  to  see  me;  but  I  have 
told  them,  that  die  they  must,  for  I  can  not  go;  and 
ergo,  as  you  will  perceive,  can  go  nowhere  else. 

Thanks  for  Mazarine's  epitaph !  it  is  full  of  wit- 
ty parodox.  and  is  written  with  a  force  and  severity 
which  sufficiently  bespeak  the  author.  I  account 
it  an  inestimable  curiosity,  and  shall  be  happy 
when  time  shall  serve,  with  your  aid,  to  make  a 
jEjood  translation  of  it.    But  that  will  be  a  stubborn 


business.  Adieu!  The  clock  strikes  eight,  and 
now  for  Homer.  W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,       Weston,  March  27, 1793. 

I  MUST  send  you  a  line  of  congratulation  on  the 
event  of  your  transaction  with  Johnson,  smce  you 
I  know  partake  with  me  in  the  pleasure  I  receive 
from  it.  Few  of  my  concerns  have  been  so  hap- 
pily concluded.  I  am  now  satisfied  with  my  book- 
seller, as  I  have  substantial  cause  to  be,  and  ac- 
count myself  in  good  hands;  a  circumstance  as 
pleasant  to  me  as  any  other  part  of  my  business; 
for  I  love  dearly  to  be  able  to  confide  with  all  my 
heart  in  those  with  whom  I  am  connected,  of  what 
kind  soever  the  connexion  may  be. 

The  question  of  printing  or  not  prmting  the  al- 
terations, seems  difficult  to  decide.  If  they  are  not 
printed,  I  shall  perhaps  disoblige  some  purchasers 
of  the  first  edition;  and  if  they  are,  many  others 
of  them,  perhaps  a  great  majority,  will  never  care 
about  them.  As  far  as  I  have  gone  I  have  made 
a  fair  copy,  and  when  I  have  finished  the  whole, 
will  send  them  to  Johnson,  together  with  the  in- 
terleaved volumes.  He  will  see  in  a  few  minutes 
what  it  will  be  best  to  do,  and  by  his  judgment  I 
shall  be  determined.  The  opinion  to  which  I  most 
incline  is,  that  they  ought  to  be  printed  separately, 
for  they  are  many  of  them  rather  long,  here  and 
there  a  whole  speech,  or  a  whole  simile,  and  the 
verbal  and  lineal  variations  are  so  numerous,  that 
altogether,  I  apprehend,  they  will  give  a  new  air 
to  the  work,  and  I  hope  a  much  improved  one. 

I  forgot  to  say  in  the  proper  place  that  some 
notes,  although  but  very  few,  I  have  added  already, 
and  may  perhaps  see  here  and  there  opportunity 
for  a  few  more.  But  notes  being  little  wanted,  es- 
pecially by  people  at  all  conversant  with  classical 
literature,  as  most  readers  of  Homer  are,  I  am  per- 
suaded that,  were  they  numerous,  they  would  be 
deemed  an  incumbrance.  I  shall  write  to  Johnson 
soon,  perhaps  to-morrow,  and  then  shall  say  the 
same  thing  to  him. 

In  point  of  health  we  continue  much  the  same. 
Our  united  love,  and  many  thanks  for  your  pros- 
perous negotiations,  attend  yourself  and  whole 
family,  and  especially  my  little  namesake.  Adieu. 

W.  C 

TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,  ESa. 

The  Lodge,  April  II,  1793. 

MY  DEAREST  JOHNNY, 

The  long  muster-roll  of  my  great  and  small  an- 
cestors I  signed,  and  dated,  and  sent  up  to  Mr. 
Blue-mantle,  on  Monday,  according  to  your  desire. 


LEf.  446,447,448. 


LETTERS. 


391 


Such  a  pompous  affair,  drawn  out  for  my  sake, 
reminds  me  of  the  old  fable  of  the  mountain  in  par- 
turition, and  a  mouse  the  produce.  Rest  undis- 
turbed, say  I,  their  lordly,  ducal,  and  royal  dust! 
Had  they  left  me  something  handsome,  I  should 
have  respected  them  more.  But  perhaps  they  did 
not  know  that  such  a  one  as  I  should  have  the 
honour  to  be  numbered  among  their  descendants. 
Well!  I  have  a  little  bookseller  that  makes  me 
some  amends  for  their  deficiency.  He  has  made 
me  a  present ;  an  act  of  liberality  which  T  take 
every  opportunity  to  blazon,  as  it  well  deserves. 
But  you  1  suppose  have  learned  it  already  from 
Mr.  Rose. 

Fear  not,  my  man.  You  will  acquit  yourself 
very  well  I  dare  say,  both  in  standing  for  your  de- 
gree, and  when  you  have  gained  it.  A  little  tre- 
mor, and  a  little  shamefacedness  in  a  stripUng,  like 
you,  are  recommendations  rather  than  otherwise; 
and  so  they  ought  to  be,  being  symptoms  of  an  in- 
genuous mind  rather  unfrequent  in  this  age  of 
brass. 

What  you  say  of  your  determined  purpose,  with 
God's  help,  to  take  up  the  cross,  and  despise  the 
shame,  gives  us  both  real  pleasure.  In  our  pedi- 
gree is  found  one  at  least  who  did  it  before  you. 
Do  you  the  hke:  and  you  will  meet  him  in  Hea- 
ven, as  sure  as  the  Scripture  is  the  word  of  God. 

The  quarrel  that  the  world  has  with  evangelic 
men  and  doctrines,  they  would  have  with  a  host 
of  angels  in  the  human  form.  For  it  is  the  quar- 
rel of  owls  vdth  sunshine ;  of  ignorance  with  divine 
illumination. 

Adieu,  my  dear  Johnny !  We  shall  expect  you 
with  earnest  desire  of  your  coming,  and  receive 
you  with  much  deUght.  W.  C. 


haviour  to  me  has  been  so  hberal,  that  I  can  refuse 
him  nothing.  Poking  into  the  old  Greek  com- 
mentators blinds  me.  But  it  is  no  matter.  I  am 
the  more  like  Homer. 

Ever  yours,  my  dearest  Hayley,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Weston,  May  4, 1793, 

While  your  sorrow  for  our  common  loss  was 
fresh  in  your  mind,  I  Would  not  write,  lest  a  letter 
on  so  distressing  a  subject  should  be  too  painful 
both  to  you  and  me ;  and  now  that  I  seem  to  have 
reached  a  proper  time  for  doing  it,  the  multiplicity 
of  my  literary  business  will  hardly  afford  me  leisure. 
Both  you  and  I  have  this  comfort  when  deprived 
of  those  we  love — at  our  time  of  life  we  have  every 
reason  to  believe  that  the  deprivation  can  not  be 
long.  Our  sun  is  setting  too ;  and  when  the  hour 
of  rest  arrives  we  shall  rejoin  your  brother,  and 
many  whom  we  have  tenderly  loved,  our  forerun- 
ners into  a  better  country. 

I  will  say  no  more  on  a  Iheme  which  it  will  be 
better  perhaps  to  treat  with  brevity ;  and  because 
the  introduction  of  any  other  might  seem  a  transi- 
tion too  violent,  I  will  only  add  that  Mrs.  Unwin 
and  I  are  about  as  well  as  we  at  any  ^me  have 
been  within  the  last  year.    Truly  yours.  W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

TFesfon,  ipHZ  23, 1793. 

MY  DEAR/  FRIEND  AND  BROTHER, 

Better  late  than  never,  and  better  a  little  than 
none  at  all !  Had  I  been  at  liberty  to  consult  my 
inclinations,  I  would  have  answered  your  truly 
kind  and  affectionate  letter  immediately.  But  I 
am  the  busiest  man  alive;  and  when  this  epistle  is 
despatched,  you  will  be  the  only  one  of  my  corres- 
pondents to  whom  1  shall  not  be  indebted.  While 
I  write  this,  my  poor  Mary  sits  mute ;  which  1  can 
not  well  bear,  and  which,  together  with  want  of 
time  to  write  much,  will  have  a  curtailing  effect  on 
my  epistle. 

My  only  studying  time  is  still  given  to  Homer, 
not  to  correction  and  amendment  of  him  (for  that 
is  all  over)  but  to  writing  notes.  Johnson  has  ex- 
pressed a  wish  for  some,  that  the  unlearned  may 
be  a  little  illuminated  concerning  classical  story 
and  the  mythology  of  the  ancients ;  and  his  be- 
26 


MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  May  5,  1793. 

My  delay  to  answer  your  last  kind  letter,  to 
which  likewise  you  desired  a  speedy  reply,  must 
have  seemed  rather  difficult  to  explain  on  any  other 
supposition  than  that  of  illness ;  but  illness  has  not 
been  the  cause,  although  to  say  the  truth  I  can 
not  boast  of  having  been  lately  very  well.  Yet 
has  not  this  been  the  cause  of  my  silence,  but  your 
own  advice,  very  proper  and  earnestly  given  to 
me,  to  proceed  in  the  revisal  of  Homer.  To  this 
it  is  owing  that  instead  of  giving  an  hour  or  two 
before  breakfast  to  my  correspondence,  I  allot  that 
time  entirely  to  my  studies.  I  have  nearly  given 
the  last  touches  to  the  poetry,  and  am  now  busied 
far  more  laboriously  in  writing  notes  at  the  request 
of  my  honest  bookseller,  transmitted  to  me  in  the 
first  instance  by  you,  and  afterwards  repeated  by 
himself  I  am  therefore  deep  in  the  old  Scholia, 
and  have  advanced  to  the  latter  part  of  Iliad  nine, 
explaining,  as  I  go,  such  passages  as  may  be  diffi- 
cult to  unlearned  readers,  and  such  only;  for  notes 
of  that  kind  are  the  notes  that  Johnson  desired,  i 
find  it  a  more  laborious  task  than  the  translation 
was,  and  shall  be  heartily  glad  when  it  is  over,  in 
the  mean  time  all  the  letters  I  receive  remain  un- 
answered, or  if  they  receive  an  answer,  it  is  al- 
3  I  2 


392 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  449, 450. 


ways  a  ^hort  one.    Such  this  must  be.  Johnny 
is  here,  having  flown  over  London. 

Homer  I  beUeve  will  make  a  much  more  re- 
spectable appearance  than  before.  Johnson  now 
thinks  it  will  be  right  to  make  a  separate  impres- 
sion of  the  amendments. 

W.  C. 

I  breakfast  every  morning  on  seven  or  eight 
pages  of  the  Greek  commentators.  For  so  much  I 
am  obliged  to  read,  in  order  to  select  perhaps  three 
or  four  short  notes  for  the  readers  of  my  transla- 
tion. 

Homer  is  indeed  a  tie  upon  me  that  must  not 
on  any  account  be  broken,  till  all  his  demands  are 
satisfied ;  though  I  have  fancied  while  the  revisal 
of  the  Odyssey  was  at  a  distance,  that  it  would  ask 
less  labour  in  the  fiftishing,  it  is  not  unlikely  that, 
when  I  take  it  actually  in  hand,  I  may  find  my- 
self mistaken.    Of  this  at  least  I  am  sure,  that  f^xx 

uneven  verse  abounds  much  more  in  it  than  it 'other  time  for  study."  This  uneasiness  of  which 
once  did  in  the  Iliad,  yet  to  the  latter  the  critics !  I  complain  is  a  proof  that  lam  somewhat  stricken 
objected  on  that  account,  though  to  the  former  .in  years;  and  there  is  no  other  cause  by  which  I 
never;  perhaps  because  they  had  not  read  it.  j  can  account  for  it,  since  I  go  early  to  bed,  always 
Hereafter  they  shall  not  quarrel  with  me  on  that  i  between  ten  and  eleven,  and  seldom  fail  to  sleep 
score.  The  Iliad  is  now  all  smooth  turnpike,  and  well  Certain  it  is,  ten  years  ago  I  could  have 
I  will  take  equal  care  that  there  shall  be  no  jolts  done  as  much,  and  sixteen  years  ago  did  actually 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  BROTHER,       Weston,  May  21,  1793. 

You  must  either  think  me  extremely  idle,  or 
extremely  busy,  that  I  have  made  your  last  very 
kind  letter  wait  so  very  long  for  an  answer.  The 
truth  however  is,  that  I  am  neither;  but  have  had 
time  enough  to  have  scribbled  to  you,  had  I  been 
able  to  scribble  at  all.  To  explain  this  riddle  I 
must  give  you  a  short  account  of  my  proceedings 
I  rise  at  six  every  morning,  and  fag  till  near 
eleven,  when  I  breakfast.  The  consequence  is, 
that  I  am  so  exhausted  as  not  to  be  able  to  write 
when  the  opportunity  offers.  You  will  say— 
"  breakfast  before  you  work,  and  then  your  work 
will  not  fatigue  you."  I  answer— "  perhaps  I 
might,  and  your  counsel  would  probably  prove 
beneficial;  but  I  can  not  spare  a  moment  for  eat- 
ing in  the  early  part  of  the  morning,  having  no 


in  the  Qdyssey. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

MY  DEAREST  coz,     The  Lodge,  May  7,  1793. 

You  have  thought  me  long  silent,  and  so  have 
many  others.  In  fact  I  have  not  for  many  months 
written  punctually  to  any  but  yourself,  and  Hay- 
ley.  My  time,  the  little  I  have,  is  so  engrossed 
by  Homer,  that  I  have  at  this  moment  a  bundle 
of  unanswered  letters  by  me,  and  letters  likely  to 
be  so.  Thou  knowest,  I  dare  say,  what  it  is  to 
have  a  head  weary  with  thinking.  Mine  is  so 
fatigued  by  breakfast  time,  three  days  out  of  four, 
I  am  utterly  incapable  of  sitting  down  to  my  desk 
again  for  any  purpose  whatever. 

I  am  glad  I  have  convinced  thee  at  least,  that 
thou  art  a  Tory.  Your  friend's  definition  of 
Whig  and  Tory  may  be  just  for  aught  I  know, 
as  far  as  the  latter  are  concerned ;  but  respecting 
the  former,  1  think  him  mistaken.  There  is  no 
true  Whig  who  wishes  all  power  in  the  hands  of 
his  own  party.  The  division  of  it  which  the 
lawyers  call  tripartite,  is  exactly  what  he  desires; 
and  he  would  have  neither  kings,  lords,  nor  com- 
mons unequally  trusted,  or  in  the  smallest  degree 
predominant.  Such  a  Whig  am  I,  and  such 
Whigs  are  the  true  friends  of  the  constitution. 
Adieu!  my  dear,  I  am  dead  with  weariness. 

W.  C. 


much  more,  without  suftering  fatigue,  or  any  in- 
convenience from  my  labours.  How  insensibly 
old  age  steals  on,  and  how  often  is  it  actually  ar- 
rived before  we  suspect  it !  Accident  alone ;  some 
occurrence  that  suggests  a  comparison  of  our 
former  with  our  present  selves,  affords  the  disco- 
very. Well!  it  is  always  good  to  be  undeceived 
especially  on  an  article  of  such  importance. 

There  has  been  a  book  lately  pubhshed,  enti- 
tled, Man  as  he  is.  I  have  heard  a  high  charac- 
ter  of  it,  as  admirably  written,  and  am  informed 
that  for  that  reason,  and  because  it  inculcates 
Whig  principles,  it  is  by  many  imputed  to  you. 
I  contradicted  this  report,  assuring  my  informant 
that  had  it  been  yours,  1  must  have  known  it,  for 
that  you  have  bound  yourself  to  make  me  your 
father  confessor  on  all  such  wicked  occasions,  and 
not  to  conceal  from  me  even  a  murder,  should  you 
happen  to  commit  one. 

I  will  not  trouble  you,  at  present,  to  send  me 
any  more  books  with  a  view  to  my  notes  on 
Homer.  I  am  not  without  hopes  that  Sir  John 
Throckmorton,  who  is  expected  here  from  Venice 
in  a  short  time,  may  bring  me  Villoison's  edition 
of  the  Odyssey.  He  certainly  will,  if  he  found  it 
published,  and  that  alone  will  be  instar  omnium. 

Adieu,  my  dearest  brother !  Give  my  love  to 
Tom,  and  thank  him  for  his  book,  of  which  I  be- 
lieve I  need  not  have  deprived  him,  intending  that 
my  readers  shall  detect  the  occult  instruction  con- 
tained in  Homer's  stories  for  themselves. 

W.  C. 


Let.  451,  452,  453. 


LETTERS. 


393 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN,      Weston,  June  1,  1793. 

You  will  not,  (you  say)  come  to  us  now ;  and 
you  tell  us  not  when  you  will.  These  assigna- 
tions sine  die  are  such  shadowy  things,  that  I 
can  neither  grasp  nor  get  any  comfort  from  them. 
Know  you  not,  that  hope  is  the  next  best  thing' 
to  enjoyment  ]  Give  us  then  a  hope,  and  a  de- 
terminate time  for  that  hope  to  fix  on,  and  we  will 
endeavour  to  be  satisfied. 

Johnny  is  gone  to  Cambridge,  called  thither  to 
take  his  degree,  and  is  much  missed  by  me.  He 
is  such  an  active  little  fellow  in  my  service,  that 
he  can  not  be  otherwise.  In  three  weeks  how- 
ever I  -shall  hope  to  have  him  again  for  a  fortnight. 
I  have  had  a  letter  from  him  containing  an  inci- 
dent which  has  given  birth  to  the  following.* 

These  are  spick  and  span.  Johnny  himself  has 
not  yet  seen  them.  By  the  way,  he  has  filled 
your  book  completely;  and  I  will  give  thee  a 
guinea  if  thou  wilt  search  thy  old  book  for  a  cou- 
ple of  songs,  and  two  or  three  other  pieces  of 
which  I  know  thou  madest  copies  at  the  vicarage, 
and  which  I  have  lost.  The  songs  I  know  are 
pretty  good,  and  I  would  fain  recover  them. 

W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa.t 

Weston,  June  29,  1793. 

What  remains  for  me  to  say  on  this  subject, 
my  dear  brother  bard,  I  will  say  in  prose.  There 
are  other  impediments  which  I  could  not  comprise 
within  the  bounds  of  a  sonnet. 

My  poor  Mary's  infirm  condition  makes  it  im- 
possible for  me,  at  present,  to  engage  in  a  work 
such  as  you  propose.  My  thoughts  are  not  suffi- 
ciently free,  nor  have  I,  nor  can  I,  by  any  means, 
find  opportunity;  added  to  which,  comes  a  diffi- 
culty, which,  though  you  are  not  at  all  aware  of 
it,  presents  itself  to  me  under  a  most  forbidding 
appearance:  Can  you  guess  if?  No,  not  you: 
neither  perhaps  will  you  be  able  to  imagine  that 
such  a  difficulty  can  possibly  subsist.  If  your  hair 
begins  to  bristle,  stroke  it  down  again,  for  there 
is  no  need  why  it  should  erect  itself.  It  concerns 
me,  not  you.  I  know  myself  too  well  not  to 
know  that  I  am  nobody  in  verse,  unless  in  a  cor- 
ner, and  alone,  and  unconnected  in  my  operations. 
This  is  not  owing  to  want  of  love  for  you,  my 
brother,  or  the  most  consummate  confidence  in 


*  Verses  to  a  Young  Friend,  «&c.   See  Poems. 

t  This  Letter  commenced  with  the  Lines  to  William 
Hayley,  Esq.  beginning,  "  Dear  architect  of  fine  chateaux  in 
air."  See  Poems.  , 


you;  for  I  have  both  in  a  degree  that  has  not 
been  exceeded  in  the  experience  of  any  friend  you 
have,  or  ever  had.  But  I  am  so  made  up; — I 
will  not  enter  into  a  metaphysical  analysis  of  my 
strange  composition,  in  order  to  detect  the  true 
cause  of  this  evil ;  but  on  a  general  view  of  the 
matter,  I  suspect  that  it  proceeds  from  that  shy- 
ness, which  has  been  my  effectual  and  almost  fatal 
hindrance  on  many  other  important  occasions-  and 
which  I  should  feel,  I  well  know,  on  this,,  to  a 
degree  that  would  perfectly  cripple  me.  No!  I 
shall  neither  do,  nor  attempt  any  thing  of  conse- 
quence more,  unless  my  poor  Mary  get  better; 
nor  even  then,  unless  it  should  please  God  to 
give  me  another  nature,  in  concert  with  any  man. 
— I  could  not  even  with  my  own  father  or  bro^ 
ther,  were  they  now  alive.  Small  game  must 
serve  me  at  present,  and  till  I  have  done  with 
Homer  and  Milton,  a  sonnet  or  some  such  matter 
must  content  me.  The  utmost  that  I  aspire  to, 
and  Heaven  knows  with  how  feeble  a  hope,  is  to 
write  at  some  better  opportunity,  and  when  my 
hands  are  free.  The  Four  Ages.  Thus  I  have 
opened  my  heart  unto  thee.  W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

MY  DEAREST  HAYLEY,     Weston,  July  7,  1793. 

If  the  excessive  heat  of  this  day,  which  forbids 
me  to  do  any  thing  else,  will  permit  me  to  scribble 
to  you,  I  shall  rejoice.  To  do  this  is  a  pleasure 
to  me  at  all  times,  but  to  do  it  now,  a  double  one; 
because  I  am  in  haste  to  tell  you  how  much  I  am 
delighted  with  your  projected  quadruple  alliance, 
and  to  assure  you  that  if  it  please  God  to  afford 
me  health,  spirits,  ability  and  leisure,  I  will  not 
fail  to  devote  them  all  to  the  production  of  my 
quota.  The  Four  Ages. 

You  are  very  kind  to  humour  me  as  you  do, 
and  had  need  be  a  little  touched  yourself  with  all 
my  oddities,  that  you  may  know  how  to  administer 
to  mine.  All  whom  I  love  do  so,  and  I  believe  it 
to  be  impossible  to  love  heartily  those  who  do  not. 
People  must  not  do  me  good  in  their  wdiy,  but  irl 
my  own,  and  then  they  do  me  good  indeed.  My 
pride,  my  ambition,  and  my  friendship,  for  you, 
and  the  interest  I  take  in  my  own  dear  self,  will 
all  be  consulted  and  gratified  by  an  arm-in-arm 
appearance  with  you  in  public:  and  I  shall  work 
with  more  zeal  and  assiduity  at  Homer,  axid, 
when  Homer  is  finished,  at  Milton,  with  the  pros- 
pect of  such  a  coalition  before  me.  But  what 
shall  I  do  with  a  multitude  of  small  pieces,  from 
which  I  intended  to  select  the  best,  and  adding 
them  to  The  Four  Ages,  to  have  made  a  volume*? 
Will  there  be  room  for  them  upon  your  plan"?  I 
have  retouched  them,  and  will  retouch  thera 
again.    Some  of  them  will  suggest  pretty  devices 


394 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  454,  455, 


to  a  designer,  and  in  short  I  have  a  desire  not  to 
lose  them. 

I  am  at  this  moment,  with  all  the  imprudence 
natural  to  poets,  expending  nobody  knows  what 
in  embellishing  my  premises,  or  rather  the  pre- 
mises of  my  neighbour  Courtenay,  which  is  more 
poetical  still.  I  have  built  one  summer-house  al- 
ready, with  the  boards  of  my  old  study,  and  am 
building  another  spick  and  span  as  they  say.  I 
have  also  a  stone-cutter  now  at  work,  setting  a 
bust  of  my  dear  old  Grecian  on  a  pedestal ;  and 
besides  all  this,  1  meditate  still  more  that  is  to  be 
done  in  the  autumn.  Your  project  therefore  is 
most  opportune,  as  any  project  must  needs  be  that 
has  so  direct  a  tendency  to  put  money  into  the 
pocket  of  one  so  likely  to  want  it. 

Ah  brother  poet^!  send  me  of  your  shade, 
And  bid  the  Zephyrs  hasten  to  my  aid ! 
Or,  lilie  a  worm  unearth'd  at  noon,  I  go, 
Despatch'd  by  sunshine,  to  the  shades  below. 

My  poor  Mary  is  as  well  as  the  heat  will  allow 
her  to  be,  and  whether  it  be  cold  or  sultry,  is  al- 
ways affectionately  mindful  of  you  and  yours. 

W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  MR.  GREATHEED. 

July  23,  1793. 
I  WAS  not  without  some  expectation  of  a  line 
from  you,  my  dear  sir,  though  you  did  not  pro- 
mise me  one  at  your  departure;  and  am  happy 
not  to  have  been  disappointed;  still  happier  to 
learn  that  you  and  Mrs.  Greatheed  are  well,  and 
so  delightfully  situated.  Your  kind  offer  to  us  of 
sharing  with  you  the  house  which  you  at  present 
inhabit,  added  to  the  short  but  lively  description 
of  the  scenery  that  surrounds  it,  wants  nothing  to 
win  our  acceptance,  should  it  please  God  to  give 
Mrs.  Unwin  a  httle  more  strength,  and  should  I 
ever  be  master  of  my  time  so  as  to  be  able  to  gra- 
tify myself  with  what  would  please  me  most. 
But  many  have  claims  upon  us,  and  some  who 
can  not  absolutely  be  said  to  have  any,  would  yet 
complain,  and  think  themselves  slighted,  should 
we  prefer  rocks  and  caves  to  them.  In  short  we 
are  called  so  many  ways,  that  these  numerous  de- 
mands are  likely  to  operate  as  a  remora,  and  to 
keep  us  fixt  at  home.  Here  we  can  occasionally 
have  the  pleasure  of  yours  and  Mrs.  Greatheed's 
company,  and  to  have  it  here  must  I  believe  coi  i- 1 


same  promise  I  have  hastily  made  to  visit  Sir 
John  and  Lady  Throckmorton,  at  Bucklands. 
How  to  reconcile  such  clashing  promises,  and  give 
satisfaction  to  all,  would  puzzle  me,  had  I  nothing 
else  to  do;  and  therefore,  as  I  say,  the  result  wili 
probably  be,  that  we  shall  find  ourselves  obliged 
to  go  no  where,  since  we  can  not  every  where. 
***** 

Wishing  you  both  safe  at  home  again,  and  to 
see  you,  as  soon  as  may  be,  here, 

I  remain,  affectionately  yours,    W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

Weston,  July  24,  1793. 
I  HAVE  been  vexed  with  myself,  my  dearest 
brother,  and  with  every  thing  about  me,  not  ex- 
cepting even  Homer  himself,  that  I  have  been 
obliged  so  long  to  delay  an  answer  to  your  last 
kind  letter.  If  I  listen  any  longer  to  calls  another 
way,  I  shall  hardly  be  able  to  tell  you  how  happy 
we  are  in  the  hope  of  seeing  you  in  the  autumn 
before  the  autumn  will  have  arrived.  Thrice  wel- 
come will  you  and  your  dear  boy  be  to  us,  and 
the  longer  you  will  afford  us  your  company,  the 
more  welcome.  I  have  set  up  the  head  of  Home; 
on  a  famous  fine  pedestal,  and  a  very  majestic  ap- 
pearance he  makes.  I  am  now  puzzled  about  a 
motto,  and  wish  you  to  decide  for  me  between  two 
one  of  which  I  have  composed  myself,  a  Greek 
one  as  follows: 

Biima  TIC  TOLVTuv;  hKvtov  uvi^og  :ivciju*  o\a>Ktv, 
Ouvojuct  <r  aro;  etvup  acpSnov  unv  t^u. 

The  other  is  my  own  translation  of  a  passage 
in  the  Odyssey,  the  original  of  which  I  have  seen 
used  as  a  motto  to  an  engraved  head  of  Homer 
many  a  time. 

The  present  edition  of  the  lines  stands  thus : 

Him  partially  the  muse, 
And  dearly  loved,  yet  gave  him  good  and  ill: 
She  quench'd  his  sight,  but  gave  him  strains  divine. 

Tell  me  by  the  way  (if  you  ever  had  any  specu- 
lations on  the  subject)  what  is  it  you  suppose  Ho- 
mer to  have  meant  in  particular,  when  he  ascribed 
his  blindness  to  the  muse;  for  that  he  speaks  of 
himself  under  the  name  Demodocus  in  the  eighth 
book,  I  believe  is  by  all  admitted.  How  could  the 
old  bard  study  himself  blind,  when  books  are  ei- 
ther few,  or  none  at  all?    And  did  he  write  his 


tent  us.  Hayley  in  his  last  letter  gives  me  reason  poems  1  If  neither  were  the  cause,  as  seems  rea- 
to  expect  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  and  his  dear  gonable  to  imagine,  how  could  he  incur  his  bHnd- 
boy  Tom,  in  the  autumn.  He  will  use  all  his  ness  by  such  means  as  could  be  justly  imputable 
eloquence  to  draw  us  to  Eartham  again.  My  to  the  muse'?  Would  mere  thinking  blind  himi 
cousin  Johnny  of  Norfolk  holds  me  under  a  pro-  I  want  to  know: 

inise  to  make  my  first  trip  thither,  and  the  very  I        ..Call  up  some  spirit  from  the  vaaty  deep!" 


Let.  456,  457,  458. 


LETTERS. 


395 


I  said  td  my  Sam*—"  Sam,  build  me  a  shed  in 
the  garden,  with  any  thing  that  you  can  find,  and 
make  it  rude  and  rough,  like  one  of  those  at  Earth- 
am."—"  Yes,  sir,"  says  Sam,  and  straightway  lay- 
ing his  own  noddle,  and  the  carpenter's  noddle 
together,  has  built  me  a  thing  fit  for  Stow  Gar- 
dens. Is  not  this  vexatious'? — I  threaten  to  in- 
scribe it  thus; 

Beware  of  building !   I  intended 

Rough  logs  and  thatch,  and  thus  it  ended. 

But  my  Mary  says  I  shall  break  Sam's  heart, 
and  the  carpenter's  too,  and  will  not  consent  to  it. 
Poor  Mary  sleeps  but  ill.  How  have  you  lived 
who  can  not  bear  a  sunbeam'? 

Adieu !  my  dearest  Hayley.  W.  C. 


TO  MRS.  CHARLOTTE  SMITH. 

MY  DEAR  MADAM,         Weston,  July  25,  1793. 

Many  reasons  concurred  to  make  me  impatient 
for  the  arrival  of  your  most  acceptable  present, 
and  among  them  was  the  fear  lest  you  should  per- 
haps suspect  me  of  tardiness  in  acknowledging  so 
great  a  favour;  a  fear  that,  as  often  as  it  pre- 
vailed, distressed  me  exceedingly.  At  length  I 
have  received  it,  and  my  little  bookseller  assures 
me  that  he  sent  it  the  very  day  he  got  it;  by  some 
mistake  however  the  wagon  brought  it  instead  of 
the  coach,  which  occasioned  a  delay  that  I  could 
ill  aflford. 

It  came  this  morning  about  an  hour  ago;  con- 
sequently I  have  not  had  time  to  peruse  the  poem, 
though  you  may  be  sure  I  have  found  enough  for 
the  perusal  of  the  Dedication  I  have  in  fact  given 
it  three  readings,  and  in  each  have  found  increas- 
ing pleasure. 

I  am  a  whimsical  creature;  when  I  write  for 
the  public  I  write  of  course  with  a  desire  to  please, 
in  other  words  to  acquire  fame,  and  I  labour  ac- 
cordingly; but  when  I  find  that  I  have  succeeded, 
feel  myself  alarmed,  and  ready  to  shrink  from  the 
acquisition. 

This  I  have  felt  more  than  once,  and  when  I 
saw  my  name  at  the  head  of  your  Dedication,  I 
feit  it  again;  but  the  consummate  delicacy  of  your 
praise  soon  convinced  me  that  I  might  spare  my 
blushes,  and  that  the  demand  was  less  upon  my 
modesty  than  my  gratitude.  Of  that  be  assured, 
dear  madam,  and  of  the  truest  esteem  and  respect 
of  your  most  obliged  and  affectionate  humble  ser- 
vant, W.C. 

P.  S.  I  should  have  been  much  grieved  to  have 
let  slip  this  opportunity  of  thanking  you  for  your 


•  A  very  affectionate,  worthy  domestic,  who  attended  his 
master  into  Sussex. 


charming  sonnets,  and  my  two  most  agreeable  old 
friends,  Monimia  and  Orlando. 

TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Weston,  Aug.  11,  1793. 

MY  DEAREST  COUSIN, 

I  AM  glad  that  my  poor  and  hasty  attempts  to 
express  some  little  civility  to  Miss  Fanshaw,  and 
the  amiable  Count,  have  your  and  her  approba- 
tion. The  Hnes  addressed  to  her  were  not  what 
I  would  have  them;  but  lack  of  time,  a  lack  which 
always  presses  me,  would  not  suffer  me  to  improve 
them.  Many  thanks  for  her  letter,  which,  were 
my  merits  less  the  subject  of  it,  I  should  without 
scruple  say  is  an  excellent  one.  She  writes  with 
the  force  and  accuracy  of  a  person  skilled  in  more 
languages  than  are  spoken  in  the  present  day,  as 
I  doubt  not  that  she  is.  I  perfectly  approve  the 
theme  she  recommends  to  me,  but  am  at  present 
so  totally  absorbed  in  Homer,  that  all  I  do  beside 
is  ill  done,  being  hurried  over ;  and  I  would  not 
execute  ill  a  subject  of  her  recommending. 

I  shall  watch  the  walnuts  with  more  attention 
than  those  who  eat  them,  which  I  do  in  some  hope, 
though  you  do  not  expressly  say  so,  that  when 
their  threshing  time  arrives,  we  shall  see  you  here. 
I  am  now  going  to  paper  my  new  study,  and  in  a 
short  time  it  will  be  fit  to  inhabit. 

Lady  Spencer  has  sent  me  a  present  from  Rome, 
by  the  hands  of  Sir  John  Throckmorton,  engrav- 
ings of  Odyssey  subjects,  after  figures  by  Flax- 
man,  a  statuary  at  present  resident  there,  of  high 
repute,  and  much  a  friend  of  Hayley's. 

Thou  hvest,  my  dear,  I  acknowledge,  in  a  very 
fine  country,  but  they  have  spoiled  it  by  building 
London  in  it.    Adieu.  W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

Weston,  Aug  15,  1793, 
Instead  of  a  pound  or  two,  spending  a  mint 
Must  serve  me  at  least,  I  believe,  with  a  hint, 
That  building,  and  building,  a  man  may  be  driven 
At  last  out  of  doors,  and  have  no  house  to  live  in. 

Besides,  my  dearest  brother,  they  have  not  only 
built  for  me  what  I  did  not  want,  but  have  ruined 
a  notable  tetrastic  by  doing  so.  I  had  written  one 
which  I  designed  for  a  hermitage,  and  it  wilt  by 
no  means  suit  the  fine  and  pompous  affair  which 
they  have  made  instead  of  one.  So  that  as  a  poet 
I  am  every  way  afHicted;  made  poorer  than  I  need 
have  been,  and  robbed  of  my  verses;  what  case 
can  be  more  deplorable  1 

You  must  not  suppose  me  ignorant  of  what 
iFlaxman  has  done,  or  that  I  have  not  seen  it,  ox 


396 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  459, 460. 


that  I  am  not  actually  in  possession  of  it,  at  least 
of  the  engravings  which  you  mention.  In  fact,  I 
have  had  them  more  than  a  fortnight.  Lady 
Dowager  Spencer,  to  whom  I  inscribed  my  Odys- 
sey, and  who  was  at  Rome  when  Sir  Jolm 
Throckmorton  was  there,  charged  him  with  them 
as  a  present  to  me,  and  arriving  here  lately  lie 
executed  his  commission.  Romney  I  doubt  not  is 
right  in  his  judgment  of  them;  he  is  an  artist  him- 
self, and  can  not  easily  be  mistaken;  and  I  take 
his  opinion  as  an  oracle,  the  rather  because  it 
coincides  exactly  with  my  own.  The  figures  are 
highly  classical,,  antique,  and  elegant:  especially 
that  of  Penelope,  who  whether  she  wakes  or  sleeps 
must  necessarily  charm  all  beholders. 

Your  scheme  of  embelUshing  my  Odyssey  with 
these  plates  is  a  kind  one,  and  the  fruit  of  your 
benevolence  to  me;  b,ut  Johnson,  I  fear,  will  hardly 
stake  so  much  money  as  the  cost  would  amount 
to  on  a  work,  the  fate  of  which  is  at  present  un- 
certain. Nor  could  we  adorn  the  Odyssey  in  this 
splendid  manner,  unless  we  had  similar  ornaments 
to  bestow  on  the  Iliad.  Such  I  presume  are  not 
ready,  and  much  time  must  elapse,  even  if  Flax- 
man  should  accede  to  the  plan,  before  he  could 
possibly  prepare  them.  Happy  indeed  should  I 
be  to  see  a  work  of  mine  so  nobly  accompanied, 
but  should  that  good  fortune  ever  attend  mfe,  it 
can  not  take  place  till  the  third  or  fourth  edition 
shall  afford  the  occasion.  This  I  regret,  and  I  re- 
gret too  that  you  shall  have  seen  them  before  I  can 
have  an  opportunity  to  show  them  to  you.  Here 
is  sixpence  for  you  if  you  will  abstain  from  the 
sight  of  them  while  you  are  in  London. 

The  sculptor  1  Nameless,  though  once  dear  to  fame ; 
But  this  man  bears  an  everlascuig  name.* 

So  I  purpose  it  shall  stand;  and  on  the  pedes- 
tal, when  you  come,  in  that  form  you  will  find  it. 
The  added  line  from  the  Odyssey  is  charming,  but 
the  assumption  of  sonship  to  tlomer  seems  too 
daring;  suppose  it  stood  thus, 

'fli  i'i  7ra.it  (i)  Tra.rpi,  Kcit  uttuts  >Ji(rojuat  Avrts. 
I  am  not  sure  that  this  would  be  clear  of  the  same 
objection,  and  it  departs"  from  the  text  still  more. 

With  my  poor  Mary's  best  love  and  our  united 
wishes  to  see  you  here,  I  remain. 

My  dearest  brother,  ever  yours,    W.  C. 


TO  MRS.  COURTENAY. 

Weston,  Aug.  20, 1793. 
My  dearest  Catharina  is  too  reasonable,  I  know, 
\o  expect  news  from  me,  who  live  on  the  outside 
of  the  world,  and  know  nothing  that  passes  within 
it.    The  best  news  is,  that  though  you  are  gone, 


•  A  translation  of  Cowper's  Greek  verses  on  his  bust  of 
Homer. 


you  are  not  gone  for  ever,  as  once  I  supposed  you 
were,  and  said  that  we  should  probably  meet  no 
more.  Some  news,  however,  we  have ;  but  then 
I  conclude  that  you  have  already  received  it  from 
the  Doctor,  and  that  thought  almost  deprives  me 
of  all  courage  to  relate  it.  On  the  evening  of  the 
feast.  Bob  Archer's  house,  affording  I  suppose  the 
best  room  for  the  purpose,  all  the  lads  and  lasses, 
who  felt  tliems(!lves  disposed  to  dance,  assembled 
there.  Long  time  they  danced,  at  least  long  time 
they  did  something  a  little  like  it;  when  at  last 
the  company  having  retired,  the  fiddler  asked  Bob 
for  a  lodging.  Bob  replied— "  that  his  beds  were 
all  full  of  his  own  family,  but  if  he  chose  it  he 
would  show  him  a  haycock,  where  he  might  sleep 
as  sound  as  in  any  bed  whatever." — So  forth  they 
went  together,  and  when  they  reached  the  place, 
the  fiddler  knocked  down  Bob,  and  demanded  his 
money.  But  happily  for  Bob,  though  he  might  be 
knocked  down,  and  actually  was  so,  yet  he  could 
not  possibly  be  robbed,  having  nothing.  The  fid- 
dler therefore  having  amused  himself  with  kicking 
him  and  beating  him  as  he  lay,  as  long  as  he  saw 
good,  left  him,  and  has  never  been  heard  of  since, 
nor  inquired  after  indeed,  being  no  doubt  the  last 
man  in  the  world  whom  Bob  wishes  to  see  again. 

By  a  letter  from  Hayley  to-day  I  learn  that 
Flaxman,  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  those 
Odyssey  figures  which  Lady  Frog  brought  over, 
has  almost  finished  a  set  for  the  Iliad  also.  I 
should  be  glad  to  embelHsh  my  Homer  with  them, 
but  neither  my  bookseller  nor  I  shall  probably  ' 
choose  to  risk  so  expensive  an  ornament  on  a 
work,  whose  reception  with  the  public  is  at  pre- 
sent doubtful. 

Adieu,  my  dearest  Catharina.  Give  my  best 
love  to  your  husband.  Come  home  as  soon  as 
3'ou  can,  and  accept  our  united  very  best  wishes. 

W.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

MY  DEAREST  FRIEND,      Wcston,  Aug.  22,  1793. 

I  REJOICE  that  you  have  had  so  pleasant  an 
excursion,  and  have  beheld  so  many  beautiful 
scenes.  Except  the  delightful  Upway  I  have 
seen  them  all.  I  have  lived  much  at  Southamp- 
ton, have  slept  and  caught  a  sore  throat  at  Lynd- 
hurst,  and  have  swum  in  the  bay  of  Weymouth. 
It  will  give  us  great  pleasure  to  see  you  here, 
should  your  business  give  you  an  opportunity  to 
finish  your  excursions  of  this  season  with  one  to 
Weston. 

As  for  my  going  on,  it  is  much  as  usual.  I  rise 
at  six;  an  industrious  and  wholesome  practice, 
from  which  I  have  never  swerved  since  March. 
I  breakfast  generally  about  eleven — have  given  all 
the  intermediate  time  to  my  old  delightful  bard.  Vil- 


Let.  461,462. 


LETTERS. 


397 


loison  no  longer  keeps  me  company.  I  therefore 
now  jog  along  with  Clarke  and  Barnes  at  my  el- 
bow, and  from  the  excellent  annotations  of  the 
former  select  such  as  I  think  likely  to  be  useful,  or 
that  recommend  themselves  by  the  amusement 
they  may  afford,  of  which  sorts  there  are  not  a 
few.  Barnes  also  affords  me  some  of  both  kinds, 
but  not  so  many,  his  notes  being  chiefly  para- 
phrastical  or  grammatical.  My  only  fear  is  lest 
between  them  both  I  should  make  my  work  too 
•voluminous.  W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

Weston  Lodge,  Aug.  27, 1793. 

I  THANK  you,  my  dear  brother,  for  consulting 
the  Gibbonian  oracle  on  the  question  concerning 
Homer's  muse,  and  his  bUndness.  I  proposed  it 
likewise  to  my  little  neighbour  Buchanan,  who 
gave  me  precisely  the  same  answer.  I  felt  an  in- 
satiable thirst  to  learn  something  new  concerning 
him,  and  despairing  of  information  from  others, 
was  willing  to  hope  that  I  had  stumbled  on  mat- 
ter unnoticed  by  the  commentators,  and  might  per- 
haps acquire  a  little  intelligence  from  himself  But 
the  great  and  the  little  oracle  together  have  extin- 
guished that  hope,  and  I  despair  now  of  making 
any  curious  discoveries  about  him. 

Since  Flaxman  (which  I  did  not  know  till  your 
letter  told  me  so)  has  been  at  work  for  the  Iliad, 
as  well  as  the  Odyssey,  it  seems  a  great  pity,  that 
the  engravings  should  not  be  bound  up  with  some 
Homer  or  other;  and,  as  I  said  before,  I  should 
have  been  too  proud  to  have  bound  them  up  in 
mine.  But  there  is  an  objection,  at  least  such  it 
seems  to  me,  that  threatens  to  disquaHfy  them  for 
such  a  Use,  namely,  the  shape  and  size  of  them, 
which  are  rach,  that  no  book  of  the  usual  form 
could  possibly  receive  them,  save  in  a  folded  state, 
which  I  apprehend  would  be  to  murder  them. 

The  monument  of  Lord  Mansfield,  for  which 
you  say  he  is  engaged,  will  (I  dare  say)  prove  a 
noble  effort  of  genius.  Statuaries,  as  I  have  heard 
an  eminent  one  say,  do  not  much  trouble  them- 
selves abotit  a  likeness:  else  I  would  give  much  to 
be  able  to  communicate  to  Flaxman  the  perfect 
idea  that  I  have  of  the  subject,  such  as  he  was 
iorty  years  ago.  He  was  at  that  time  wonderfully 
handsome,  and  would  expound  the  most  myste- 
rious intricacies  of  the  law,  or  recapitulate  both 
matter  and  evidence  of  a  cause,  as  long  as  from 
hence  to  Eartham,  with  an  intelligent  smile  on  his 
features,  that  bespoke  plainly  the  perfect  ease  with 
which  he  did  it.  The  most  abstruse  studies  (I  be- 
lieve) never  cost  him  any  labour. 

You  say  nothing  lately  of  your  intended  journey 
our  way:  yet  the  year  is  waning,  and  the  shorter 


days  give  you  a  hint  to  lose  no  time  unnecessarily. 
Lately  we  had  the  whole  family  at  the  Hall,  and 
now  we  have  nobody.  The  Throckmortons  are 
gone  into  Berkshire,  and  the  Courtenays  into 
Yorkshire.  They  are  so  pleasant  a  family,,  that  I 
heartily  wish  you  to  see  them ;  and  at  the  same 
time  wish  to  see  you  before  they  return,  which 
will  not  be  sooner  than  October.  How  shall  I  re- 
concile these  wishes  seemingly  opposite?  Why, 
by  wishing  that  you  may  come  soon  and  stay  long. 
I  know  no  other  way  of  doing  it. 

My  poor  Mary  is  much  as  usual.  I  have  set 
up  Homer's  head,  and  inscribed  the  pedestal;  my 
own  Greek  at  the  top,  with  your  translation  under 
it,  and 


'as  cTi 


TTettS  ft)  TTAt 


gly  &C. 


It  makes  altogether  a  very  smart  and  learned  ap- 
pearance. "W.  C. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

Aug.  29,  1793. 

Your  question,  at  what  time  your  coming  to  us 
will  be  most  agreeable,  is  a  knotty  one,  and  such 
as,  had  I  the  wisdom  of  Solomon,  I  should  be  puz- 
zled to  answer.  I  will  therefore  leave  it  still  a 
question,  and  refer  the  time  of  your  journey  Wes- 
tonward  entirely  to  your  own  election:  adding 
this  one  limitation  however,  that  I  do  not  wish  to 
see  you  exactly  at  present,  on  account  of  the  un- 
finished state  of  my  study,  the  wainscot  of  which 
still  smells  of  paint,  and  which  is  not  yet  papered. 
But  to  return :  as  I  have  insinuated,  thy  pleasant 
company  is  the  thing  which  I  always  wish,  and  as 
much  at  one  time  as  at  another.  I  believe,  if  I 
examine  myself  minutely,  since  I  despair  of  ever 
having  it  in  the  height  of  summer,  which  for  your 
sake  I  should  desire  most,  the  depth  of  the  winter 
is  the  season  which  would  be  most  eligible  to  me. 
For  then  it  is  that,  in  general,  I  have  most  need  of  a 
cordial,  and  particularly  in  the  month  of  January. 
I  am  sorry  however  that  I  have  departed  so  far 
from  my  first  purpose,  and  am  answering  a  question 
which  I  declared  myself  unable  to  answer.  Choose 
thy  own  time,  secure  of  this,  that  whatever  time 
that  be,  it  will  always  to  us  be  a  welcome  one. 

I  thank  you  for  your  pleasant  extract  of  Miss 
Fanshaw's  letter. 

Her  pen  drops  eloquence  as  sweet 
As  any  muse's  tongue  can  speak ; 
Nor  need  a  scribe,  like  her,  regret 
Her  want  of  Latin  or  of  Greek. 

And  now,  my  dear,  adieu!  I  have  done  more 
than  I  expected,  and  begin  to  feel  myself  exhaust/ 
ed  with  so  much  scribbUng  at  the  end  of  four  hours' 
close  application  to  study.  W.  C 


398 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  463, 464, 465. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  JOHNSON. 

MY  DEAREST  JOHNNY,         WestoUy  Sept.  6,  1793. 

To  do  a  kind  thing,  and  in  a  kind  manner,  is  a 
double  kindness,  and  no  man  is  more  addicted  to 
both  than  you,  or  more  skilful  in  contriving  them. 
Your  plan  to  surprise  me  agreeably  succeeded  to 
admiration.  It  was  only  the  day  before  yesterday 
that,  while  we  walked  after  dinner  i^  the  orchard, 
Mrs.  Unwin  between  Sam  and  me,  hearing  the  hall 
clock,  I  observed  a  great  difference  between  that 
and  ours,  and  began  immediately  to  lament  as  I 
had  often  done,  that  there  was  not  a  sun  dial  in 
all  Weston  to  ascertain  the  true  time  for  us.  My 
complaint  was  long,  and  lasted  till  having  turned 
into  the  grass  walk,  we  reached  the  new  building 
at  the  end  of  it ;  where  we  sat  awhile  and  reposed 
ourselves.  In  a  few  minutes  we  returned  by  the 
way  we  came,  when  what  think  you  was  my  as- 
tonishment to  see  what  I  had  not  seen  before, 
though  I  had  passed  close  by  it,  a  smart  sun-dia,l 
mounted  on  a  smart  stone  pedestal !  I  assure  you 
it  seemed  the  effect  of  conjuration.  I  stopped 
short,  and  exclaimed, — "  Why,  here  is  a  sun-dial, 
and  upon  our  ground!  How  is  this'?  Tell  me 
Sam,  how  came  it  here'?  Do  you  know  any  thing 
about  it  ]"  At  first  I  really  thought  (that  is  to  say, 
as  soon  as  I  could  think  at  all)  that  this  factotum 
of  mine,  Sam  Roberts,  having  often  heard  me  de- 
plore the  want  of  one,  had  given  orders  for  the 
supply  of  that  want  himself,  without  my  know- 
ledge, and  was  half  pleased  and  half  offended.  But 
he  soon  exculpated  himself  by  imputing  the  fact 
to  you.  It  was  brought  up  to  Weston  (it  seems) 
about  noon :  but  Andrews  stopped  the  cart  at  the 
blacksmith's,  whence  he  sent  to  inquire  if  I  was 
gone  for  my  walk.  As  it  happened,  I  walked  not 
till  two  o'clock.  So  there  it  stood  waiting  till  I 
should  go  forth,  and  was  introduced  before  my 
return.  Fortunately  too  I  went  out  at  the  church 
end  of  the  village,  and  consequently  saw  nothing 
of  it.  How  I  could  possibly  pass  it  without  seeing 
it,  when  it  stood  in  the  walk,  I  know  not,  but  it  is 
certain  that  I  did.  And  where  I  shall  fix  it  now, 
I  know  as  little.  It  cannot  stand  between  the  two 
gates,  the  place  of  your  choice,  as  I  understand 
from  Samuel,  because  the  hay-cart  must  pass  that 
way  in  the  season.  But  we  are  now  busy  in  wind- 
ing the  walk  all  round  the  orchard,  and  in  doing 
so  shall  doubtless  stumble  at  last  upon  some  open 
spot  that  will  suit  it. 

There  it  shall  stand,  while  I  live,  a  constant 
monument  of  your  kindness. 

I  have  this  moment  finished  the  twelfth  book 
of  the  Odyssey,  and  I  read  the  Iliad  to  Mrs.  Un- 
win every  evening. 

j  The  effect  of  this  reading  is,  that  I  still  spy 
jalemishes,  something  at  least  that  1  can  mend,  so 


that,  after  all,  the  transcript  of  alterations,  which 
you  and  George  have  made,  will  not  be  a  perfect 
one.  It  would  be  foolish  to  forego  an  opportunity 
of  improvement  for  such  a  reason ;  neither  will  I. 
It  is  ten  o'clock,  and  I  must  breakfast.  Adieu, 
therefore,  my  dear  Johnny !  Remember  your  ap- 
pointment to  see  us  in  October.    Ever  yours, 

W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAj:.EY,  ESa. 

Weston,  Sept.  8,  1793. 

Non  sum  quod  simulo,  my  dearest  brother !  I 
seem  cheerful  upon  paper  sometimes,  when  I  am 
absolutely  the  most  dejected  of  all  creatures.  De- 
sirous however  to  gain  something  myself  by  my 
own  letters,  unprofitable  as  they  may  and  must  be 
to  my  friends,  I  keep  melancholy  out  of  them  as 
much  as  I  can,  that  I  may,  if  possible,  by  assuming 
a  less  gloomy  air,  deceive  myself,  and,  by  feigning 
with  a  continuance,  improve  the  fiction  into  reality. 

So  you  have  seen  Flaxman's  figures,  which  I 
intended  you  should  not  have  seen  till  I  had  spread 
them  before  you.  How  did  you  dare  to  look  at 
them  1  You  should  have  covered  your  eyes  with 
both  hands.  I  am  charmed  with  Flaxman's  Pe- 
nelope, and  though  you  don't  deserve  that  I  should, 
will  send  you  a  few  lines,  such  as  they  are,  with 
which  she  inspired  me  the  other  day,  while  I  was 
taking  my  noon- day  walk. 

I  know  not  that  you  will  meet  any  body  here, 
when  we  see  you  in  October,  unless  perhaps  my 
Johnny  should  happen  to  be  with  us.  If  Tom  is 
charmed  with  the  thoughts  of  coming  to  Weston, 
we  are  equally  so  with  the  thoughts  of  seeing  him 
here.  At  his  years,  I  should  hardly  hope  to  make 
his  visit  agreeable  to  him,  did  I  not  know  that  he 
is  of  a  temper  and  disposition  that  must  make  him 
happy  every  where.  Give  our  love  to  him.  If 
Romney  can  come  with  you,  we  have  both  room 
to  receive  him,  and  hearts  to  make  him  most  wel- 
come. W.  C. 


TO  MRS.  COURTENAY. 

Sept.  15, 1793. 

A  THOUSAND  thanks,  my  dearest  Catharina,  for 
your  pleasant  letter;  one  of  the  pleasantest  that  I 
have  received  since  your  departure.  You  are  very 
good  to  apologize  for  your  delay,  but  I  had  not 
flattered  myself  with  the  hopes  of  a  speedier  an- 
swer. Knowing  fiijl  well  your  talents  for  enter- 
taining your  friends  who  are  present,  I  was  sure 
you  would  with  difliculty  find  half  an  hour  that 
you  could  devote  to  an  absent  one. 

I  am  glad  that  you  think  of  your  return.  Poor 
Weston  is  a  desolation  without  you.  In  the  m^aa 


\ 


Let.  466,  4G7. 


LETTERS. 


399 


time  I  amuse  myself  as  well  as  I  can,  thrumming 
old  Homer's  lyre,  and  turning  the  premises  upside 
down.  Upside  down  indeed,  for  so  it  is  literally 
that  I  have  been  dealing  with  the  orchard,  almost 
ever  since  you  went,  digging  and  delving  it  around 
to  make  a  new  walk,  which  now  begins  to  assume 
the  shape  of  one,  and  to  look  as  if  some  time  or 
other  it  may  serve  in  that  capacity.  Taking  my 
usual  exercise  there  the  other  day  with  Mrs.  Un- 
win,  a  wide  disagreement  between  your  clock  and 
ours,  occasioned  me  to  complain  much,  as  I  have 
often  done,  of  the  want  of  a  dial.  Guess  my  sur- 
prise, when  at  the  close  of  my  complaint  I  saw 
one — saw  one  close  at  my  side ;  a  smart  one,  glit- 
tering in  the  sun,  and  mounted  on  a  pedestal  of 
stone.  I  was  astonished.  "  This,"  I  exclaimed, 
'4s  absolute  conjuration!"  It  was  a  most  myste- 
rious affair,  but  the  mystery  was  at  last  explained. 

This  scribble  I  presume  vvill  find  you  just  ar- 
rived at  Bucklands.  I  would  with  all  my  heart 
that  since  dials  can  be  thus  suddenly  conjured 
from  one  place  to  another,  I  could  be  so  too,  and 
could  start  up  before  your  eyes  in  the  middle  of 
some  walk  or  lawn,  where  you  and  Lady  Frog 
iire  wandering. 

"While  Pitcairne  whistles  for  his  family  estate 
in  Fifeshire,  he  will  do  well  if  he  will  sound  a  few 
notes  for  me.  I  am  originally  of  the  same  shire, 
and  a  family  of  my  name  is  still  there,  to  whom 
perhaps  he  way  whistle  on  my  behalf,  not  alto- 
gether in  vain.  So  shall  his  fife  excel  all  my  po- 
etical efforts,  which  have  not  yet,  and  I  dare  say 
never  will,  effectually  charm  one  acre  of  ground 
into  my  possession. 

Remember  me  to  Sir  John,  Lady  Frog,  and 
your  husband— tell  them  I  love  them  all.  She 
told  me  once  she  was  jealous,  now  indeed  she 
seenis  to  have  son^e  reasons,  since  to  her  1  have 
not  written,  and  have  written  twice  to  you.  But 
bid  her  be  of  good  courage,  in  due  time  I  will  give 
her  proof  of  my  constancy.  W.  C. 


Here  you  will  meet  Mr.  Rose,  who  comes  on 
the  eighth,  and  brings  with  him  Mr.  Lawrence, 
the  painter,  you  may  guess  for  what  purpose. 
Lawrence  returns  when  he  has  made  his  copy  of 
me,  but  Mr.  Rose  will  remain  perhaps  as  long  as 
you  will.  Hayley  on  the  contrary  will  come,  I 
suspose,  just  in  time  not  to  see  you.  Him  we  ex- 
pect on  the  twentieth.  I  trust  however,  that  thou 
wilt  so  order  thy  pastoral  matters,  as  to  make  thy 
stay  here  as  long  as  possible. 

Lady  Hesketh,  in  her  last  letter,  inquires  very- 
kindly  after  you,  asks  me  for  your  address,  and 
purposes  soon  to  write  to  you.  We  hope  to  see 
her  in  November — so  that  after  a  summer  without 
company,  we  are  likely  to  have  an  autumn  and  a 
winter  sociable  enough.  W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  JOHNSON. 

Westan,  Sept.  29,  1793. 


MY  DEAREST  JOHNOT, 

You  have  done  well  to  leave  off  visiting,  and 
being  visited.  Visits  are  insatiable  devourers  of 
time,  and  fit  only  for  those  who,  if  they  did  not 
that,  would  do  nothing.  The  worst  consequence 
of  such  departures  from  common  practice  is  to  be 
termed  a  singular  sort  of  a  fellow,  or  an  odd  fish; 
a  sort  of  reproach  that  a  man  might  be  wise 
3nough  to  condemn,  who  had  not  half  your  un- 
derstanding. 

I  look  forward  with  pleasure  to  October  the 
eleventh,  the  day  which  I  expect  will  be  Albo  no- 
tandus  lapillo,  on  account  of  your  arrival  here. 

2K 


Weston,  Oct.  5,  1793. 
My  good  intentions  towards  you,  my  dearest 
brother,  are  continually  frustrated ;  and  which  is 
most  provoking,  not  by  such  engagements  and 
avocations  as  have  a  right  to  my  attention,  such  as 
those  to  my  Mary,  and  to  the  old  bard  of  Greece, 
but  by  mere  impertinences,  such  as  calls  of  civility 
from  persons  not  very  interesting  to  me,  and  let- 
ters from  a  distance  still  less  interesting,  because 
the  writers  of  them  are  strangers.  A  man  sent 
me  a  long  copy  of  verses,  which  I  could  do  no 
less  than  acknowledge.  They  were  silly  enough, 
and  cost  me  eighteen  pence,  which  was  seventeen 
pence  halfpenny  farthing  more  than  they  were 
worth.  Another  sent  me  at  the  same  time  a  plan, 
requesting  my  opinion  of  it,  and  that  I  would  lend 
him  my  name  as  editor ;  a  request  with  which  I 
shall  not  comply,  but  I  am  obliged  to  tell  him  so, 
and  one  letter  is  all  that  I  have  time  to  despatch 
in  a  day,  sometimes  half  a  one,  and  sometimes  I 
am  not  able  to  write  at  all.  Thus  it  is  that  my 
time  perishes,  and  I  can  neither  give  so  much  of 
it  as  I  would  to  you  or  to  any  other  valuable  pur- 
pose. 

On  Tuesday  we  expect  company,  Mr.  Rose 
and  Lawrence  the  painter.  Yet  once  more  is  my 
patience  to  be  exercised,  and  once  more  I  am 
made  to  wish  that  my  face  had  been  moveable^ 
to  put  on  and  take  off  at  pleasure,  so  as  to  be  por- 
table in  a  bandbox,  and  sent  to  the  artist.  These 
however  will  be  gone,  as  I  believe  I  told  you,  be- 
fore you  arrive,  at  which  time  I  know  not  that 
any  body  will  be  here,  except  my  Johnny,  whose 
presence  will  not  at  all  interfere  with  our  read- 
ings— you  will  not,  I  believe,  find  me  a  very 
slashing  critic — I  hardly  indeed  expect  to  find  any 
thing  in  your  life  of  Milton  that  I  shall  sentence 
to  amputation.  How  should  it  be  too  long?  A 
well  written  work,  sensible  and  spirited,  such  as 


400 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  468, 469,  470. 


yours  was,  when  1  saw  it,  is  never  so.  But  how- 
ever we  shall  see.  I  promise  to  spare  nothing  that 
I  think  may  be  lopped  off  with  advantage. 

I  began  this  letter  yesterday,  but  could  not 
finish  it  till  now.  I  have  risen  this  morning  like 
an  infernal  frog  out  of  Acheron,  covered  with  the 
ooze  and  mud  of  melancholy.  For  this  reason  I 
am  not  sorry  to  find  myself  at  the  bottom  of  my 
paper,  for  had  1  more  room  perhaps  I  might  fill 
it  all  with  croaking,  and  make  an  heart  ache  at 
Eartham,  which  I  wish  to  be  always  cheerful. 
Adieu.  My  poor  sympathizing  Mary  is  of  course 
sadj  but  always  mindful  of  you.  W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  BROTHER,  Oct.  18,  1792. 

I  HAVE  not  at  present  much  that  is  necessary 
to  say  here,  because  I  shall  have  the  happiness  of 
seeing  you  so  soon ;  my  time,  according  to  custom, 
is  a  mere  scrap,  for  which  reason  such  must  be 
my  letter  also. 

You  will  find  here  more  than  I  have  hitherto 
given  you  reason  to  expect,  but  none  who  will  not 
be  happy  to  see  you.  These  however  stay  with 
us  but  a  short  time,  and  will  leave  us  in  full  pos- 
session of  Weston  on  Wednesday  next. 

I  look  forward  with  joy  to  your  coming,  heartily 
wishing  you  a  pleasant  journey,  in  which  my  poor 
Mary  joins  me.  Give  our  best  love  to  Tom; 
without  whom,  after  being  taught  to  look  for  him, 
we  should  feel  our  pleasure  in  the  interview  much 
diminished. 

Lseti  expectamus  te  puerumque  tuuin. 

w.  c. 


TO  THE  REV.  J.  JEKYLL  RYE. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  Weston.,  Nov.  3,  1793. 

Sensible  as  I  am  of  your  kindness  in  taking 
such  a  journey,  at  no  very  pleasant  season,  merely 
to  serve  a  friend  of  mine,  I  can  not  allow  my  thanks 
to  sleep  till  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you. 
I  hope  never  to  show  myself  unmindful  of  so  great 
a  favour.  Two  lines  which  I  received  yesterday 
from  Mr.  Hurdis,  written  hastily  on  the  day  of 
decision,  informed  me  that  it  was  made  in  Lis  fa- 
vour, and  by  a  majority  of  twenty.  I  have  great 
satisfaction  in  the  event,  and  consequently  hold  my- 
self indebted  to  all  who  at  my  instance  have  con- 
tributed to  it. 

You  may  depend  on  me  for  due  attention  to  the 
honest  clerk's  request.  When  he  called,  it  was 
not  possible  that  I  should  answer  your  obliging 
letter;  for  he  arrived  here  very  early,  and  if  I  suf- 
fered any  thing  to  interfere  with  my  morning 
studies  I  should  never  accomplish  niy  labours. 


Your  hint  concerning  the  subject  for  t  is  year's 
c6py  is  a  very  good  one,  and  shall  not  be  ne- 
glected. 

I  remain,  sincerely  yours,  W.  C. 


TO  MRS.  COURTENAY. 

Weston,  Nov.  4,  1793. 
I  SELDOM  rejoice  in  a  day  of  soaking  rain  like 
this;  but  in  this,  my  dearest  Catharina,  I  do  re- 
joice sincerely,  because  it  affords  me  an  opportu- 
nity of  writing  to  you,  which  if  fair  weather  had 
invited  us  into  the  orchard  walk  at  the  usual  hour, 
I  should  not  easily  have  found.  I  am  a  most 
busy  man,  busy  to  a  degree  that  sometimes  half 
distracts  me;  but  if  complete  distraction  be  occa- 
sioned by  having  the  thoughts  too  much  and  too 
long  attached  to  a  single  point,  I  am  in  no  danger 
of  it,  with  such  a  perpetual  whirl  are  mine  whisk- 
ed about  from  one  subject  to  another.  When 
two  poets  meet  there  are  fine  doings  I  can  assure 
you.  My  Homer  finds  work  for  Hayley,  and  his 
Life  of  Milton  work  for  rne,  so  that  we  are  nei- 
ther of  us  one  moment  idle.  Poor  Mrs.  IJnwin  in 
the  mean  time  sits  quiet  in  her  corner,  occasion- 
ally laughing  at  us  both,  and  not  seldom  inter- 
rupting us  with  some  question  or  remark,  for 
which  she  is  constantly  rewarded  by  me  with  a 
"  Hush — hold  your  peace."  Bless  yourself,  my 
dear  Catharina,  that  you  are  not  connected  with 
a  poet,  especially  that  you  have  not  two  to  deal 
with ;  ladies  who  have,  may  be  bidden  indeed  to 
hold  their  peace,  but  very  little  peace  have  they. 
How  shouldthey  infact  have  any,  continually  en- 
joined as  they  are  to  be  silent '? 

******  ^ 

The  same  fever  that  has  been  so  epidemic  there, 
has  been  severely  felt  here  likewise;  some  have 
died,  and  a  multitude  have  been  in  danger.  Two 
under  our  own  roof  have  been  infected  with  it,  and 
I  am  not  sure  that  I  have  perfectly  escaped  my- 
self, but  I  am  now  well  again. 
,  I  have  persuaded  Hayley  to  stay  a  week  longer, 
and  again  my  hopes  revive,  that  he  may  yet  have 
an  opportunity  to  know  my  friends  before  he  re- 
turns into  Sussex.  I  write  amidst  a  chaos  of  in- 
terruptions, Hayley  on  one  hand  spouts  Greek,  and 
on  the  other  hand,  Mrs.  Unwin  continues  talking, 
sometimes  to  us,  and  sometimes,  because  we  are 
both  too  busy  to  attend  to  her,  she  holds  a  dia- 
logue with  herself — Cluery,  is  not  this  a  bull — 
and  ought  I  not  instead  of  dialogue  to  have  said 
soliloquy  1 

Adieu.  With  our  united  love  to  all  your  party, 
and  with  ardent  wishes  soon  to  see  you  all  at  Wes- 
ton, I  remain,  my  dearest  Catharina, 

Ever  yours,  W.  C. 


Let.  471,  473,  m 


LETTERS. 


401 


TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa. 


laurel,  and  so  much  the  more  for  the  credit  of 
those  who  have  favoured  him  with  their  suffrages. 

I  am  entirely  of  your  mind  respecting  this  con- 
flagration by  which  all  Europe  suffers  at  present, 
and  is  likely  to  suffer  for  a  long  time  to  come. 
The  same  mistake  seems  to  have  prevailed  as  in 


MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Weston,  Nov..5,  1793. 

In  a  letter  from  Lady  Hesketh,  which  I  received 
not  long  since,  she  informed  me  how  very  pleasant- 
ly she  had  spent  some  time  at  Wargrave.  We  the  American  business.  We  then  flattered  our- 
now  begin  to  expect  her  here,  where  our  charms  selves  that  the  colonies  would  prove  an  easy  con- 
of  situation  are  perhaps  not  equal  to  yours,  yet  by  quest:  and  when  all  the  neighbour  nations  armed 
no  means  contemptible.  She  told  me  she  had  themselves  against  France,  we  imagined  I  believe 
spoken  to  you  in  very  handsome  terms  of  the  that  she  too  would  be  presently  vanquished.  But 
country  round  about  us,  but  not  so  of  our  house,  |we  begin  already  to  be  undeceived,  and  God  only 
and  the  view  before.  The  house  itself  however  knows  to  what  a  degree  we  may  find  we  have 
is  not  unworthy  some  commendation;  small  as  it  erred,  at  the  conclusion.  Such  however  is  the 
is,  it  is  neat,  and  neater  than  she  is  aware  of;  for  state  of  things  all  around  us,  as  reminds  me  con- 
my  study  and  the  room  over  it  have  been  repaired  tinually  of  the  Psalmist's  expression—"  He  shall 
and  beautified  this  summer,  and  little  more  was  break  them  in  pieces  like  a  potter's  vessel" — And 
wanting  to  make  it  an  abode  sufficiently  commo-  1 1  rather  wish  than  hope  in  some  of  my  melancho- 
dious  for  a  man  of  my  moderate  desires.    As  ly  moods  that  England  herself  may  escape  a  frac- 


to  the  prospect  from  it,  that  she  misrepresented 
strangely,  as  I  hope  soon  to  have  an  opportunity 
to  convince  her  by  ocular  demonstration.  She 
told  you,  I  know,  of  certain  cottages  opposite  to 
us,  or  rather  she  described  them  as  poor  houses 
and  hovels  that  effectually  blind  our  windows. 
But  none  such  exist.    On  the  contrary,  the  oppo- 


I  remain  truly  yours,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  MR.  HURDIS. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  Weston,  Nov.  24,  1793. 

Though  my  congratulations  have  been  delayed, 
site  object,  and  the  only  one,  is  an  orchard,  so  well  you  have  no  friend,  numerous  as  your  friends  are, 
planted,  and  with  trees  of  such  growth,  that  we  jwho  has  more  sincerely  rejoiced  in  your  success 
seem  to  look  into  a  wood,  or  rather  to  be  sur-  than  1!  It  was  no  small  mortification  to  me  to 
rounded  by  one.  Thus,  placed  as  we  are  in  the  find  that  three  out  of  the  six,  whom  I  had  en- 
midst  of  a  village,  we  have  none  of  the  disagreea-  'gaged,  were  not  qualified  to  vote.  You  have  pre- 
bles  that  belong  to  such  a  position,  and  the  village  |vailed,  however,  and  by  a  considerable  majority; 
itself  is  one  of  the  prettiest  I  know;  terminated  at  there  is  therefore  no  room  left  for  regret.  When 
one  end  by  the  church  tower,  seen  through  trees,  lyour  short  note  arrived,  which  gave  me  the  agree- 
and  at  the  other,  by  a  very  handsome  gateway,  jable  news  of  your  victory,  our  friend  of  Eartham 
opening  into  a  fine  grove  of  elms,  belonging  to  was  with  me,  and  shared  largely  in  the  joy  that  I 


our  neighbour  Courtenay.  How  happy  should 
be  to  show  it  instead  of  describing  it  to  you ! 

Adieu,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 


TO  THE  REV.  WALTER  BAGOT. 


felt  on  the  occasion.  He  left  me  but  a  few  days 
since,  having  spent  somewhat  more  than  a  fort- 
night here;  during  which  time  we  employed  all 
our  leisure  hours  in  the  revisal  of  his  Life  of  Mil- 
ton. It  is  BOW  finished,  and  a  very  finished  work 
it  is;  and  one  that  will  do  great  honour,  I  am  per- 
suaded, to  the  biographer,  and  the  excellent  man, 
of  injured  memory,  who  is  the  subject  of  it.  As 
to  my  own  concern,  with  the  works  of  this  first  of 
poets,  which  has  been  long  a  matter  of  burthen- 


MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Weston,  Nov.  10,  1793. 

You  are  very  kind  to  consider  my  literary  en- 
gagements, and  to  make  them  a  reason  for  not 

interrupting  me  more  frequently  with  a  letter ;  but  some  contemplation,  I  have  the  happiness  to  find 
though  I  am  indeed  as  busy  as  an  author  or  an  at  last  that  I  am  at  liberty  to  postpone  my  labours, 
editor  can  well  be,  and  am  not  apt  to  be  overjoyed  While  I  expected  that  my  commentary  would  be 
at  the  arrival  of  letters  from  uninteresting  quar-  called  for  in  the  ensuing  spring,  I  looked  forward 


ters,  T  shall  always  I  hope  have  leisure  both  to 
peruse  and  to  answer  those  of  my  real  friends,  and 
to  do  both  with  pleasure. 

I  have  to  thank  you  much  for  your  benevolent 
aid  in  the  aftair  of  my  friend  Hurdis.  You  have 
doubtless  learned  ere  now,  that  he  has  succeeded, 
and  carried  the  prize  by  a  majority  of  twenty.  He 
IS  well  qualified  for  the  post  he  has  gained.  So 
much  the  better  for  the  honour  of  the  Oxonian 


to  the  undertaking  with  dismay,  not  seeing  a  sha- 
dow of  probability  that  I  should  be  ready  to  an- 
swer the  demand.  For  this  ultimate  revisal  of  my 
Homer,  together  with  the  notes,  occupies  com- 
pletely at  present  (and  will  for  some  time  longer) 
all  the  little  leisure  that  I  have  for  study:  leisure 
which  I  gain  at  this  season  of  the  year  by  rising 
long  before  day-light. 
You  are  now  become  a  nearer  neighbour,  and. 


402 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let,,  474,  475,  476, 


as  your  professorship,  I  hope,  will  not  engross 
you  wholly,  will  find  an  opportunity  to  give  me 
your  company  at  Weston.  Let  me  hear  from 
you  soon,  tell  me  how  you  like  your  new  office, 
and  whether  you  perform  the  duties  of  it  with 
pleasure  to  yourself.  With  much  pleasure  to 
others  you  will,  I  doubt  not,  and  with  equal  ad 
vantage.  "VV.  C. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,         Wesion,  Nov.  29,  179^ 

I  HAVE  risen  while  the  owls  are  still  hooting,  to 
pursue  my  accustomed  labours  in  the  mine  of  Ho- 
mer; but  before  I  enter  upon  them,  shall  give  the 
first  moment  of  daylight  to  the  purpose  of  thanking 
you  for  your  last  letter,  containing  many  pleasant 
articles  of  intelligence,  with  nothing  to  abate  the 
pleasantness  of  them,  except  the  single  circum- 
stance that  we  are  not  likely  to  see  you  here  so 
soon  as  I  expected.  My  hope  was,  that  the  first 
frost  would  bring  you,  and  the  amiable  painter 
with  you.  If  however  you  are  prevented  by  the 
business  of  your  respective  professions,  you  are 
well  prevented,  and  I  will  endeavour  to  be  patient. 
When  the  latter  was  here,  he  mentioned  one  day 
the  subject  of  Diomede's  horses,  driven  under  the 
axle  of  his  chariot  by  the  thunderbolt  which  fell  at 
their  feet,  as  a  subject  for  his  pencil.  It  is  certainly 
a  noble  one,  and  therefore  worthy  of  his  study  and 
attention.  It  occurred  to  me  at  the  moment,  but 
I  know  not  what  it  was  that  made  me  forget  it 
again  the,next  moment,  that  the  horses  of  Achilles 
flying  over  the  foss,  with  Patroclus  and  Automedon 
in  the  chariot,  would  be  a  good  companion  for  it. 
Should  you  happen  to  recollect  this,  when  you 
next  see  him,  you  may  submit  it,  if  you  please,  to 
h^s  consideration.  I  stumbled  yesterday  on  ano- 
ther subject,  which  reminded  me  of  said  excellent 
artist,  as  likely  to  aftbrd  a  fine  opportunity  to  the 
expression  that  he  could  give  it.  It  is  found  in 
the  shooting  match  in  the  twenty-third  book  of  the 
Iliad,  between  Meriones  and  Teucer.  The  former 
cuts  the  string  with  which  the  dove  is  tied  to  the 
mast-head,  and  sets  her  at  liberty;  the  latter  stand- 
ing at  his  side,  in  all  the  eagerness  of  emulation, 
points  an  arrow  at  the  mark  with  his  right  hand, 
while  with  his  left  he  snatches  the  bow  from  his 
competitor.  He  is  a  fine  poetical  figure,  but  Mr. 
Lawrence  himself  must  judge  whether  or  not  he 
promises  as  well  for  the  canvass. 


side  out  for  the  inspection  of  all  who  choose  to  in- 
spect it,  to  make  a  secret  of  his  face  seems  but  lit- 
tle better  than  a  self  contradiction.  At  the  same 
time,  however,  1  shall  be  best  pleased  if  it  be  kept, 
according  to  your  intentions,  as  a  rarity, 

I  have  lost  Hayley,  and  begin  to  be  uneasy  at 
not  hearing  from  him:  tell  me  about  him  when 
you  write. 

I  should  be  happy  to  have  a  work  of  mine  em- 
bellished by  Lawrence,  and  made  a  companion  fof 
a  work  of  Hayley's.  It  is  an  event  to  which  I 
look  forward  with  the  utmost  complacence.  I  can 
not  tell  you  what  a  rehef  I  feel  it,  not  to  be  pressed 
for  Milton. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROSE,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  Weston,  Dec.  8,  1793, 

In  my  last  I  forgot  to  thank  you  for  the  box 
of  books,  containing  also  the  pamphlets.  We  have 
read,  that  is  to  say,  my  cousin  has,  who  reads  to 
us  in  an  evening,  the  history  of  Jonathan  Wild, 
and  found  it  highly  entertaining.  The  satire  on 
great  men  is  witty,  and  I  believe  perfectly  just: 
we  have  no  censure  to  pass  on  it,  unless  that  we 
think  the  character  of  Mrs.  Heartfree  not  well 
sustained ;  not  quite  delicate  in  the  latter  part  of  it ; 
and  that  the  constant  effect  of  her  charms  upon 
every  man  who  sees  her  has  a  sameness  in  it  that 
is  tiresome,  and  betrays  either  much  carelessness, 
or  idleness,  or  lack  of  invention.  It  is  possible  in- 
deed that  the  author  might  intend  by  this  circum- 
stance a  satirical  glance  at  novelists,  whose  he- 
roinefe  are  generally  all  bewitching;  but  it  is  a  fault 
that  he  had  better  have  noticed  in  another  manner, 
and  not  have  exemplified  in  his  own. 

The  first  volume  of  Man  as  he  is,  has  Iain  un- 
read in  my  study  window  this  twelvemonth,  and. 
would  have  been  returned  unread  to  its  owner,  had 
not  my  cousin  come  in  good  time  to  save  it  from 
that  disgrace.  We  are  now  reading  it,  and  find 
it  excellent :  abounding  with  wit,  and  just  senti- 
ment, and  knowledge  both  of  books  and  men. 
Adieu.  'W',  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 


Weston,  Dec.  8,  1793. 
I  HAVE  waited,  and  waited  impatiently,  for  a 
line  from  you,  and  am,  at  last  determined  to  send 
He  does  great  honour  to  my  physiognomy  by  |  you  one,  to  inquire  what  is  become  of  you,  and 


his  intention  to  get  it  engraved;  and  tliough  I  think  i  why  you  are  silent  so  much  longer  than  usual. 


1  foresee  that  this  private  publication  will  grow  in 
time  into  a  publication  of  absolute  publicity,  I  find 
it  impossible  to  be  dissatisfied  with  any  thing  that 
seems  eligible  both  to  him  and  you.  To  say  the 
truth,  when  a  man  has  once  turned  his  mind  in- 


I  want  to  know  many  things  which  only  you 
can  tell  me,  but  especially  I  want  to  know  what 
has  been  the  issue  of  your  conference  with  Nichol, 
Has  he  seen  your  work?  I  am  impatient  for  t!ie 
appearance  of  it,  because  impatient  to  have  the 


Let.  477,478 


LETTERS. 


403 


spotless  credit  of  the  great  poet's  character,  as  a 
man  and  a  citizen,  vindicated  as  it  ought  to  be, 
and  as  it  never  will  be  again. 

It  is  a  great  relief  to  me  that  my  Miltonic  la- 
bours are  suspended.  I  am  novs^  busy  in  tran- 
scribing the  alterations  of  Homer,  having  finished 
the  w^hole  revisal.  I  must  then  v^rite  a  new  Pre- 
face, which  done  I  shall  endeavour  immediately  to 
descant  on  The  Four  Ages.  Adieu,  my  dear  bro- 
ther. W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

Weston,  Dec.  17,  1793. 

O  Jove !  and  all  ye  Gods !  grant  this  my  son 
To  prove,  like  me,  pre-eminent  in  Troy ! 
In  valour  such,  and  firmness  of  command ! 
Be  he  extoU'd  when  he  returns  from  fight, 
As  far  his  sire's  superior!  may  he  slay 
His  enemy,  bring  home  his  gory  spoils, 
And  may  his  mother's  heart  o'erflow  with  joy  ! 

I  ROSE  this  morning,  at  six  o'clock,  on  purpose 
to  translate  this  prayer  again,  and  to  write  to  my 
dear  brother.  Here  you  have  it,  such  as  it  is,  not 
perfectly  according  to  my  own  liking,  but  as  well 
as  I  could  make  it,  and  I  think  better  than  either 
yours,  or  Lord  Thurlow's.  You  with  your  six 
lines  have  made  yourself  stiff  and  ungraceful,  and 
he  with  his  seven  has  produced  as  good  prose  as 
heart  Can  wish,  but  no  poetry  at  all.  A  scrupu- 
lous attention  to  the  letter  has  spoiled  you  both 
you  have  neither  the  spirit  nor  the  manner  of  Ho- 
mer. A  portion  of  both  may  be  found  I  believe 
in  my  version,  but  not  so  much  as  I  wish — it  is 
better  however  than  the  printed  one.  His  lord 
ship's  two  first  lines  I  can  not  very  well  under- 
stand ;  he  seems  to  me  to  give  a  sense  to  the  ori- 
ginal that  does  not  belong  to  it.  Hector,  I  appre 
hend,  does  not  say,  "Grant  that  he  may  prove 
himself  my  son,  and  be  eminent,  &c. — but  grant 
that  this  my  son  may  prove  eminent" — which  is  a 
material  difference.  In  the  latter  sense  I  find  the 
simplicity  of  an  ancient;  in  the  former,  that  is  to 
say,  in  the  notion  of  a  man  proving  himself  his 
father's  son  by  similar  merit,  the  finesse  and  dex- 
terity of  a  modern.  His  lordship  too  makes  the 
man,  who  gives  the  young  hero  his  commenda- 
tion, the  person  who  returns  from  battle;  whereas 
Homer  makes  the  young  hero  himself  that  person, 
at  least  if  Clarke  is  a  just  interpreter,  which  I  sup- 
pose is  hardly  to  be  disputed. 

If  my  old  friend  would  look  into  my  preface,  he 
would  find  a  principle  laid  down  there,  which  per- 
haps it  would  not  be  easy  to  invalidate,  and  which 
properly  aiteended  to  would  equally  secure  a  trans- 
lation from  stiffness  and  friom  wildness.  The 
principle  I  mean  is  this — "  Close,  but  not  so  close 
as  to  be  servile  \  free^  but  not  so  free  as  to  be  licen- 

3j 


tious!"  A  superstitious  fidelity  loses  the  spirit, 
and  a  loose  deviation  the  sense  of  the  translated 
author—a  happy  moderation  in  either  case  is  the 
only  possible  way  of  preserving  both. 

Thus  have  I  disciplined  you  both ;  and  now,  if 
you  please,  you  may  both  discipline  me.  I  shall 
not  enter  my  version  in  my  book  till  it  has  under- 
gone your  strictures  at  least ;  and  should  you  write 
to  the  noble  critic  again,  you  are  welcome  to  sub- 
mit it  to  his.  We  are  three  awkward  fellows  in- 
deed, if  we  can  not  amongst  us  make  a  tolerably 
good  translation  of  six  lines  of  Homer.  Adieu. 

W.  C. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESa. 

MY  DEAR  HAYLEY,  Weston,  Jan.  5, 1794. 

1  HAVE  waited,  but  waited  in  vain,  for  a  propi- 
tious moment,  when  I  might  give  my  old  friend's 
objections  the  consideration  they  deserve;  I  shall 
at  last  be  forced  to  send  a  vague  answer,  unwor- 
thy to  be  sent  to  a  person  accustomed,  like  him,  to 
close  reasoning  and  abstruse  discussion,  for  I  rise 
after  ill  rest,  and  with  a  frame  of  mind  perfectly 
unsuited  to  the  occasion.  I  sit  too  at  the  window 
for  light's  sake,  where  I  am  so  cold,  that  my  pen 
slips  out  of  my  fingers.  First,  I  will  give  you  a 
translation  de  novo  of  this  untranslated  prayer.  It 
is  shaped  as  nearly  as  I  could  contrive  to  his  lord- 
ship's ideas,  but  I  have  little  hope  that  it  will  sa- 
tisfy him. 

Grant  Jove,  and  ye  Gods,  that  this  my  son 
Be,  as  myself  have  been,  illustrious  here  ! 
A  valiant  man !  and  let  him  reign  in  Troy ; 
May  all  who  witness  his  return  from  fight 

Hereafter,  say  he  far  excels  his  sire  ; 

And  let  him  bring  back  gory  trophies,  stript 
From  foes  slain  by  him,  to  his  mother's  joy. 

Imlac,  in  Rasselas,  says — I  forget  to  whom, 
"You  have  convinced  me  that  it  is  impossible  to 
be  a  poet."  In  like  manner,  I  might  say  to  his 
lordship,  you  have  convinced  me  that  it  is  impos- 
sible to  be  a  translator;  to  be  a  translator,  on  his 
terms,  at  least,  is  I  am  sure  impossible.  On  his 
terms  I  would  defy  Homer  himself,  were  he 
alive,  to  translate  the  Paradise  Lost  into  Greek. 
Yet  Milton  had  Homer  much  in  his  eye  when  he 
composed  that  poem.  Whereas  Homer  never 
thought  of  me  or  my  translation.  There  are  mi- 
nutiae in  every  language,  which  transfused  into 
another  will  spoil  the  version.  Such  extreme 
fidelity  is  in  fact  unfaithful.  Such  close  resem- 
blance takes  away  all  likeness.  The  original  is 
elegant,  easy,  natural;  the  copy  is  clumsy,  con- 
strained, unnatural:  To  what  is  this  owing'?  To 
the  adoption  of  terms  not  congenial  to  your  pur- 
pose, and  of  a  context,  such  as  no  man  writing  an 
original  work  would  make  use  of  Homer  is  every 
thing  that  a  poet  should  be.  A  translation  of  Ho- 
3 


404 


COWPER'S  WORKS. 


Let.  479. 


mer,  so  made,  will  be  every  thing  that  a  transla- 
tion of  Homer  should  not  be.  Because  it  will  be 
written  in  no  language  under  Heaven,  It  will  be 
English,  and  it  will  be  Greek,  and  therefore  it  will 
be  neither.  He  is  the  man,  whoever  he  be  (I  do 
not  pretend  to  be  that  man  myself,)  he  is  the  man 
best  qualified  as  a  translator  of  Homer,  who  was 
drenched,  and  steeped,  and  soaked  himself  in  the 
effusions  of  his  genius  till  he  has  imbibed  their 
colour  to  the  bone;  and  who,  when  he  is  thus 
dyed  through  and  through,  distinguishing  between 
what  is  essentially  Greek,  and  what  may  be  habit- 
ed in  English,  rejects  the  former,  and  is  faithful  to 
the  latter,  as  far  as  the  purpose  of  fine  poetry  will 
permit,  and  no  further ;  this  I  think,  may  be  easily 
proved.  Homer  is  every  where  remarkable  either 
for  ease,  dignity,  f  or  energy  of  expression;  for 
grandeur  of  conception,  and  a  majestic  flow  of 
numbers.  If  we  copy  him  so  closely  as  to  make 
every  one  of  these  excellent  properties  of  his  abso- 
lutely unattainable,  which  will  certainly  be  the 
effect  of  too  close  a  copy,  instead  of  translating,  we 
murder  him.  Therefore,  after  all  that  his  lordship 
has  said,  I  still  hold  freedom  to  be  indispensable. 
Freedom,  T  mean  with  respect  to  the  expression : 
freedom  so  limited,  as  never  to  leave  beihind  the 
matter :  but  at  the  same  time  indulged  with  a  suf- 
ficient scope  to  secure  the  spirit,  and  as  much  as 
possible  of  the  manner.  I  say  as  much  as  possible, 
because  an  English  manner  must  differ  from  a 
Greek  one,  in  order  to  be  graceful,  and  for  this  there 
is  no  remedy.  Can  an  ungraceful,  awkward  trans- 
lation of  Homer  be  a  good  onel  No.  But  a 
graceful,  easy,  natural,  faithful  version  of  him,  will 
not  that  be  a  good  one'?  Yes.  Allow  me  but  this, 
and  I  insist  upon  it,  that  such  an  one  may  be  pro- 
duced on  my  principles,  and  can  be  produced  on 
no  other. 


,  I  have  not  had  time  to  criticise  his  lordship's 
other  version.  You  know  how  little  time  I  have 
for  any  thing,  and  can  tell  him  so. 

Adieu!  my  dear  brother,  1  have  now  tired  both 
you  and  myself;  and  with  the  love  of  the  whole 
trio,  remain  Yours  ever,         W.  C. 

Reading  his  lordship's  sentiments  over  again,  I 
am  inclined  to  think  that  in  all  I  have  said,  I  have 
only  given  him  back  the  same  in  other  terms.  He 
disallows  both  the  absolute  free,  and  the  absolute 
close — so  do  I;  and,  if  I  understand  myself,  have 
said  so  in  my  Preface  He  wishes  to  recommend 
a  medium,  though  he  will  not  call  it  so;  so  do  I; 
only  we  express  it  differently.  What  is  it  then 
we  dispute  about '?  My  head  is  not  good  enough 
to-day  to  discover. 


TO  LADY  HESKETH. 

DEAR  COUSIN,  Muudslcy,  Oct.  13, 1793. 

You  describe  delightful  scenes,  but  you  descnbe 
them  to  one,  who  if  he  even  saw  them,  could  re- 
ceive no  delight  from  them:  who  has  a  faint  re- 
collection, and  so  faint,  as  to  be  like  an  almost  for- 
gotten dream,  that  once  he  was  susceptible  of 
pleasure  from  such  causes.  The  country  that  you 
have  had  in  prospect  has  been  always  famed  for  its 
beauties ;  but  the  wretch  who  can  derive  no  grati- 
fication from  a  view  of  nature,  even  under  the  dis- 
advantage of  her  most  ordinary  dress,  will  have  no 
eyes  to  admire  her  in  any. 

In  one  day,  in  one  minute,  I  should  rather  have 
said,  she  became  an  universal  blank  to  me;  and 
though  from  a  different  cause,  yet  With  an  effect 
as  difficult  to  remove,  as  blindness  itself. 
*      *  *      *      *      ♦  ♦ 


THE  END  OF  COWPER'S  WORKS. 


•  OP 

JAMES  THOMSON. 


The  articles  marked  with  an  asterisk  have  never  before  appeared  in  any  edition  of  Thomson's  Poems,  and  some  of  them 
are  printed  for  the  first  time  from  the  Author's  MS. 


Memoir  of  James  Thomson, 
Addenda  to  the  Memoir  of  Thomson, 
Commendatory  Verses,  - 


THE  SEASONS. 

Spring, 


Page. 
-  iv 

xxvi 

XXXV 


Summer,  12 

Autumn,  29 

Winter,       -      -      -      .  .      .  .41 

Hymn,  51 

iSpecimenof  Alterations,  53 

Castle  of  Indolence,  Canto  I.  ib. 


Page. 


119 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 


Canto  II.  

Glossary,     .      .      .      .  . 

Britannia,  

Liberty,  Part  I.  Ancient  and  Modern  Italy  compared. 

Part  II.  Greece,  

Part  III.  Rome,  

Part  IV.  Britain,  

PartV.  The  Prospect,  .... 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 
To  the  Memory  of  Lord  Talbot,  108 


To  the  Memory  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton,     -      .      .  . 

On  the  Death  of  Mr.  Aikman,  

Epitaph  on  Miss  Stanley,  

On  the  Death  of  his  Mother,  ..... 

The  Happy  Man,  

A  Paraphrase  on  the  latter  part  of  the  Sixth  Chapter  of 

Matthev7,  

On  iEolus's  Harp,  

Hymn  on  Solitude,  

To  Seraphina,  

Verses  addressed  to  Amanda,  

Verses  addressed  to  Amanda,  with  "  The  Seasons," 
SONGS. 

A  Nuptial  Song,  

*To  Amanda,  

To  Amanda,  

To  Fortune,  

Come,  gentle  God,   -      .      .      .  . 

To  her  I  love,  

To  the  God  of  fond  desire,  .... 
The  Lover's  Fate,       .  ... 
To  the  Nightingale,  -      .  ... 
ToMyra,    -  .   


SONG?  IN  THE  MASQUE  OF  ALFRED. 
To  Peace,  ..... 

To  Alfred,  

Sweet  Valley,  say,  .... 
From  those  eternal  Regions, 

Contentment,  jj^^ 

Rule  Britannia,  j),^ 

To  the  Rev.  PatncK  Murdoch,  12c 

To  his  Royal  Highness  the  Prince  of  Wales,  .  .  jb 
*To  Dr.  Dela  Cour,  in  Ireland,  on  his  "Prospect  of  Poet- 

^y"  ib 

'Hymn  to  God's  Power,  .121 

*A  Poetical  Epistle  to  Sir  William  Bennet,  Bart,  of  Grub- 

bat,  ib 

*On  Mrs.  Mendez'  Birthday,  122 

'An  Elegy  upon  James  Therburn,  -  -  -  -  .  ib 
On  the  Report  that  a  Wooden  Bridge  was  to  be  built  at 

Westminster,  -  -  -  ^-  .  .  -  ib. 
The  Incomparable  Soporific  Doctor,      .      .      .      .  ib. 

"Lisy's  Parting  with  her  Cat,  123 

'On  the  Hoop,  ib. 

'Stanzas  sent  to  Mr.  Lyttelton  soon  after  the  Death  of  his 

Wife,  ib. 

'OnMay,  ib. 

*The  Morning  in  the  Country,     .      .      .      .      „  124 

'On  a  Country  Lite,  j^, 

'On  Happhiess,  125 

'Verses  on  receiving  a  Flower  from  his  Mistress,  .  .  126 
Prologue  to  Tancred  and  Sigismunda,  -  -  -  ib. 
Epilogue  to  Tancred  and  Sigismunda,    -      -      .  .127 

Epilogue  to  Agamemnon,  jb. 

Prologue  to  Mallet's  Mustapha,  ib, 

'Psalm  civ.  paraphrased,  128 

'Lines  on  Marie  Field,  129 

*On  Beauty,  ib. 

'A  Complaint  on  the  Miseries  of  Life,    ....  130 

*An  Elegy  on  Parting,  ib. 

'Song— When  ....  blooming  Spring,  -  .  131 
'A  Pastoral  betwixt  David,  Thirsis,  and  the  Angel  Ga- 

briel,  upon  the  Birth  of  our  Saviour,  .  .  ib. 
'A  Pastoral  between  Thirsis  and  Corydon,  on  the  Death 

of  Damon,  by  whom  is  meant  Mr.  W.  Riddell  -  ib. 
*A  Pastoral  Entertainment,  132 

On  the  Death  of  Thomson,  by  Colling,   .      -      .      .  ib, 

.  133 


ib.  I  Addi-ess  to  the  Shade  of  Thomson,  by  Burns, 


\ 


♦ 


"  Tutored  by  thee,  sweet  Poetry  exalts 
Her  voice  of  ages;  and  informs  the  page 
With  music,  image,  sentiment,  and  thoughts, 
Kever  to  die ! 


The  biography  of  a  man  whose  hfe  was  passed 
in  his  study,  and  who  is  known  to  the  world  by 
his  writings  alone,  can  present  few  facts  to  render 
it  popular,  unless  it  was  chequered  by  events  that 
excite  interest,  or  marked  by  traits  which  lessen 
esteem.  If  a  Poet  has  been  vicious,  the  account 
of  the  misfortunes  which  vice  never  fails  to  bring, 
and  of  its  effects  on  himself,  is  read  with  atten- 
tion; but  the  career  of  him  who  was  uniformly 
virtuous,  who  experienced  no  remarkable  vicissi- 
tudes of  fortune,  and  who  was  only  eminent  from 
the  genius  which  his  writings  display,  must  yield 
in  variety  of  incident  to  that  of  a  pirate  or  cour- 


There  is  nevertheless  much  that  will  gratify  a 
reader  whose  taste  is  not  so  vitiated  as  to  require 
the  excitement  of  romance,  in  tracing  the  progress 
of  a  distinguished  literary  person ;  and  he  who  is 
not  desirous  of  knowing  the  history  of  a  writer 
whose  name  is  associated  with  his  earliest  recol- 
lections must  be  void  of  every  spark  of  curiosity 
A  favourite  author  possesses  claims  upon  our  re 
gard  similar  to  those  of  friendship ;  and  the  tale 
which  would  be  dull  and  tiresome  if  it  concerned 
any  other  person,  is  read,  or  listened  to,  with  the 
liveliest  pleasure. 

Thomson's  hfe  must  be  indebted  for  whatever 
gratification  it  may  afford  to  the  sympathy  of  his 
admirers,  since  it  is  destitute  of  all  other  attrac- 
tions. Little  has  been  preserved  concerning  him, 
perhaps  because  very  little  was  deserving  of  being 
recorded ;  and  these  notices  are  so  scattered  that 
it  has  required  some  labour  to  form  the  present 
memoir.  He  did  less  for  his  own  history  than 
almost  any  other  poet  of  the  time,  as  his  works 
contain  few  egotisms,  and  his  great  dislike  to  cor- 
respondence prevented  the  existence  of  those  fa- 
miliar letters  which  form  the  most  delightful  mate- 
rials for  biography. 

The  task  of  preparing  this  memoir  has,  how- 
ever, been  a  grateful  one.  A  writer  can  not  be 
indifferent  to  the  pleasure  of  rendering  justice  to 
merit  which  has  been  traduced,  and  of  placing 
an  amiable  and  unblemished  character  in  its  true 
light.   Mankind  are  too  apt  to  form  their  judg- 


ment on  the  opinions  of  superior  understandings, 
without  reflecting  that  none  are  exempt  from 
caprice  even  if  they  be  so  from  errors ;  and  though 
the  statements  of  an  author  may  be  generally 
just,  cases  occur  in  which  he  is  prejudiced  or 
misinformed.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say, 
that  the  Life  of  Thomson  by  Dr.  Johnson  is 
alluded  to ;  and  few  need  be  told  that  this  is  not 
the  first  time  his  account  of  the  Poet  has  been 
charged  with  injustice.  The  inquiries  necessary 
for  this  article  have  tended  to  confirm  the  suspi- 
cion that  the  colossus  of  literature  was  influenced 
by  some  extraordinary  bias  against  the  author  of 
"  The  Seasons,"  for  not  a  single  notice  of  him, 
reflecting  upon  his  character,  has  been  found 
which  is  not  traceable  to  Johnson.  His  Life  is 
sneering  and  satirical,  and  he  rarely  admits  Thom- 
son to  have  possessed  a  merit  without  accompa- 
nying it  by  an  ungenerous  remark.  The  cause 
of  this  conduct  must  be  sought  in  vain;  but  the 
temper  of  Johnson  and  his  violent  political  feel- 
ings are  sufficiently  notorious  to  render  the  pa- 
triotic sentiments  which  Thomson  every  where 
inculcates  a  sufficient  explanation  of  his  hostility, 
whilst  his  country  may  have  been  another  grouncl 
for  his  dislike.  Before  dismissing  Dr.  Johnson's 
Life  it  is  material  to  state,  that  his  assertions  re- 
specting Thomson  are  entitled  to  little  credit  when 
opposed  by  other  testimony;  for  it  can  be  proved 
that  he  knew  fittle  about  him(  and  that  he  was 
too  negligent  to  avail  himself  of  the  information 
which  he  sought.  It  must  be  remembered,  too, 
that  Johnson  never  saw  him ;  and  that  whatever 
he  may  have  learned  from  others  avails  nothing 
in  comparison  with  the  account  of  his  personal 
and  intimate  friends  whose  esteem  is  in  itself  am- 
ple evidence  of  his  virtues. 

James  Thomson  was  the  son  of  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Thomson,  of  Ednam,  in  the  shire  of  Rox- 
burgh, at  which  place  the  Poet  was  born  on  the 
11th  of  September,  1700.  Less  has  been  said  ot 
his  parents  than  they  merit,  and  from  the  slight 
manner  in  which  they  have  been  noticed  the  idea 
may  have  arisen  that  he  was  of  obscure  origin. 


IV 


.  MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


His  father  was  well  descended,  and  his  mother 
was  Beatrix,  the  daughter  and  coheiress  of  Mr. 
Trotter,  of  Fogo,*  a  genteel  family  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Greenlaw  in  Berwickshire.  Though 
Mr.  Thomson's  worth  was  of  that  unostentatious 
kind  which  only  entitles  him  to  the  praise  of  be- 
ing a  good  father,  a  good  husband,  and  a  good 
man,  fulfilling  his  clerical  duties  with  pious  dili- 
gence, and  who 

"  This  noble  ensample  to  his  shepe  he  yaf, 
That  first  he  wrought  and  afterwards  he  taught," 

nearly  all  the  sterling  parts  of  human  excellence 
are  comprised  in  that  character. 

At  an  early  period  of  the  Poet's  life,  his  dawning 
talents  attracted  the  attention  of  Mr.  Riccarton,  a 
neighbouring  clergyman,  and  a  judicious  friend 
of  his  father,  who  cojisented  to  his  superintending 
his  son's  education.  He  was  placed  at  school  in 
Jedburgh,  and  the  care  this  gentleman  bestowed 
on  him  was  well  rewarded  by  the  success  which 
attended  his  exertions. 

Nor  was  Mr.  Riccarton  his  only  patron.  Sir 
William  Bennet,  of  Chesters,  near  Jedburgh,  who 
was  distinguished  for  his  wit,  honoured  him  with 
his  kindness,  and  invited  him  to  spend  his  summer 
vacations  at  his  seat.  Under  the  auspices  of  these 
generous  friends,  and  of  Sir  Gilbert  Eliot  of  Minto, 
Thomson  wrote  various  pieces ;  but  on  the  first  of 
January  he  destroyed  the  labours  of  the  preceding 
year,  and  celebrated  the  annual  conflagration  by 
some  humorous  verses,  stating  his  reasons  for  their 
condemnation.  A  poetical  epistle,  addressed  to 
Sir  William  Bennet,  and  written  in  his  fourteenth 
year,  has  however  beerl  lately  discovered,  and  it 
will  be  found  in  this  edition  of  his  works. 

From  Jedburgh  he  was  sent  to  the  university 
of  Edinburgh,  being  intended  for  the  church;  but 
before  he  had  been  two  years  there,  he  lost  his 
father,  who  died  so  suddenly  that  he  did  not  see  j 
him  before  his  decease,  a  circumstance  which  so 
much  increased  his  grief  that  he  is  said  to  have 
evinced  his  affliction  in  an  extraordinary  manner. 
His  widowed  mother,  who  was  left  with  nine  chil- 
dren slenderly  provided  for,  was  advised  to  remove 
to  Edinburgh,  where  she  remained,  living  in  an 
economical  manner,  until  James  had  completed 
his  studies. 

Whilst  at  the  University,  Thomson  contributed 
three  articles  to  a  volume  entitled  "  The  Edin- 
burgh Miscellany,"  printed  in  that  city  in  1720,  by 
a  club  called  the  Athenian  Society.  One  of  them, 
"  On  a  Country  Life,  by  a  Student  of  the  Uni- 


.  *  Mrs.  Thomson's  sister  married  first  a  Mr.  Hume,  and  se- 
condly the  Rev.  Mr.  Nicolson,  Minister  of  Preston  and  Bun- 
cle.  Their  daughter  Elizabeth  married  her  namesake,  Ro- 
bert Nicholson,  of  Lonend  near  Berwick-on-Tweed,  the  great 
grandfather  of  Alexander  Nicholson,  Esq.  of  East  Court, 
Charlton  Regis. 


versity,"  £tnd  signed  with  the  initial  of  his  name, 
shows  how  early  the  love  of  rural  scenery  and 
pursuits  took  possession  of  his  mind,  and  may  be 
deemed  the  first  conceptions  of  "  The  Seasons." 
His  productions  were  rather  severely  treated  by 
some  learned  persons  into  whose  hands  they  fell, 
and  one  of  his  biographers  has  laboured  to  prove 
the  want  of  taste  of  his  judges.  This  charge 
is,  probably,  unjust,  for  the  early  pieces  of  the 
author  of  The  Seasons  afford  slight  indication 
of  his  future  powers,  and  the  criticism  was  far 
from  destroying  his  attachment  to  the  muses.  An 
accident,  connected  with  the  indulgence^  of  his 
taste,  made  him  suddenly  renounce  the  profession 
for  which  he  was  designed,  and  his  views  became 
directed  to  London.  Mr.  Hamilton,  the  Divinity 
Professor  of  Edinburgh,  having  given  Thomson 
the  104th  Psalm  as  an  exercise,  he  made  so  poeti- 
cal a  paraphrase  of  it,  that  the  professor  and  the 
audience  were  equally  surprised.  After  compli- 
menting the  writer,  he  told  him  that  if  he  expected 
to  be  useful  in  the  ministry,  he  must  restrain  his 
imagination,  and  adopt  language  more  suited  to  a 
country  congregation;  and,  according  to  Dr.  John- 
son, Mr.  HsMgilton  censured  one  of  the  expressions 
as  indecentj'iMiot  profane.  Part  of  this  paraphrase 
only  has  been  printed,  but  a  perfect  copy  will  be 
found  in  the  present  edition,  not  on  account  of  its 
merits,  which  are  far  from  conspicuous,  but  from 
the  circumstances  connected  with  it.  The  obnox- 
ious line  will,  however,  be  sought  for  in  vain;  but 
it  may  have  been  altered  in  this  transcript. 

This  piece  having  fallen  under  the  notice  of 
Mr.  Auditor  Benson,  he  expressed  his  admiration 
of  it,  and  added,  that  if  the  author  came  to  Lon- 
don, he  had  no  doubt  his  merit  would  be  properly 
encouraged.  This  remark  was  communicated  to 
Thomson,  apparently,  by  Lady  Grizel  Baillie,  a 
relation  of  his  mother's,  and  he  accordingly  em- 
barked at  Leith  in  the  autumn  of  J  725,  but  as,  on 
his  arrival  in  the  metropolis,  he  received  no  assist- 
ance from  her  ladyship,  he  found  himself  without 
money  or  friends.  To  what  extent  he  suffered  the 
stings  of  poverty  is  uncertain;  and  his  zealous  ad- 
mirer, the  Earl  of  Buchan,  is  very  indignant  at 
the  assertion,  that  "  his  first  want  was  a  pair  of 
shoes."  Johnson,  on  whose  authority  it  rests,  is 
not  likely  to  have  invented  the  statement:  and,  as 
it  reflects  no  discredit  on  the  Poet,  whether  it  arose 
from  a  temporary  exhaustion  of  his  finances,  or 
from  the  impossibility  of  recruiting  them,  except- 
ing by  the  sale  of  one  of  his  works,  his  Lordship's 
anger  is  misplaced. 

That  he  was  stored  with  letters  of  introduction 
may  be  supposed ;  but,  having  tied  them  up  in  a 
handkerchief,  they  were  stolen  from  him,  an  acci- 
dent sufficiently  disastrous  to  a  young  stranger, 
in  the  metropolis,  to  explain  the  condition  in  which 
he  is  represented  to  have  found  himself. 


MEMOIR  OP  JAMES  THOMSON. 


V 


Shortly  after  Thomson  left  Edinburgh,  he  lost 
his  mother,  whom  he  loved  with  all  a  son's  ten- 
derness, and  to  whose  talents  and  virtues  he  was 
eminently  indebted  for  the  cultivation  of  his  own. 
In  the  poem  which  he  wrote  to  her  memory,  he 
thus  feelingly  adverts  to  the  moment  when  he 
took  his  last  leave  of  her: — 

"  When  on  the  margin  of  the  briny  flood, 
Chill'd  with  a  sad  presaging  damp  I  stood, 
Took  the  last  look,  ne'er  to  behold  her  more, 
And  mixed  our  murmurs  with  the  wavy  roar, 
Heard  the  last  words  fall  from  her  pious  tongue, 
Then,  wild  into  the  bulging  vessel  flung. 
Which  soon,  too  soon,  convey'd  me  from  her  sight, 
Dearer  than  life,  and  liberty,  and  light !" 

A  very  interesting  letter  from  Thomson  to  his 
friend  Dr.  Cranston,  written  ab^t  this  time, 
proves  that  he  was  nearly  destitute ramioney;  and 
it  is  extremely  deserving  of  attention  from  the 
statement  that  the  idea  of  writing  The  Seasons 
originated  from  reading  a  poem  on  Winter,  by 
Mr.  Rickleton,  which  sets  at  rest  the  dispute  whe- 
ther that  poem  was  composed  before  or  after  his 
arrival  in  London.*  It  is  without  a  date,  but  must 
have  been  written  in  S^sptember  172^^nd,  as  the 
post  mark  was  Barnet,t  it  seems  h^^n  resided 
in  that  village. 

"dear  sir, 

' '  I  would  chide  you  for  the  slackness  of  your 
correspondence ;  but,  having  blamed  you  wrong- 
fully last  time,  I  shall  say  nothing  until  I  hear 
from  you,  which  I  hope  will  be  soon. 

"  There  is  a  little  business  I  would  communicate 
to  you  before  I  come  to  the  more  entertaining  part 
of  our  correspondence.  I  am  going,  hard  task  I 
to  complain,  and  beg  your  assistance.  When  I 
came  up  here  I  bi^ought  very  little  money  along 
with  me,  expecting  some  more  upon  the  selling 
of  Widehope,  which  was  to  have  been  sold  that 
day  my  mother  was  buried.  Now  it  is  unsold 
yet ;  but  will  be  disposed  of  as  soon  as  it  can  be 
conven^ntly  done,  though  indeed  it  is  perplexed 
with  some  difficulties.    I  was  a  long  time  here 


*  A  writer  in  the  Literary  Gazette  asserts  that  "Winter" 
was  written  previous  to  this  period,  during  the  vacations, 
when  Thomson  retired  from  Edinburgh  to  Roxburghshire, 
•where  it  is  a  current  tale  that  he  composed  the  awful  picture 
of  the  man  perishing  in  the  snow,  while  on  a  visit  to  a  friend 
among  the  wild  hills  about  Yetholra,  eight  or  nine  miles  from 
Kelso  and  Ednam,  the  place  of  his  birth.  Foulkner,  howeTOr, 
in  his  Historical  and  Topographical  Account  of  Fulham,  p. 
359,  says: — "In  a  room  in  the  Dove  Coffee-house,  situated 
facing  the  water-side,  between  the  Upper  and  Lower  Mall  at 
Hammersmith,  Thompson  wrote  his  Winter.  He  was  in  the 
habit  of  frequenting  this  house  during  the  winter  season,  when 
the  Thames  was  frozen,  and  the  surrounding  country  covered 
with  snow.  This  fact  is  well  authenticated,  and  many  per- 
Bons  visit  the  house  to  the  present  day." 

*  Query,  Barnes,  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames  1 


living  at  my  own  charges,  and  you  know  how  ex- 
pensive that  is;  this,  together  with  the  furnishing 
of  myself  with  clothes,  linen,  one  thing  and  ano- 
ther, to  fit  me  for  any  business  of  this  nature  here, 
necessarily  obliged  me  to  contract  some  debts.  Be- 
ing a  stranger  here,  it  is  a  wonder  how  I  got  any 
credit ;  but  I  can  not  expect  it  will  be  long  sus- 
tained unless  I  immediately  clear  it.  Even  now, 
I  believe,  it  is  at  a  crisis.  My  friends  have  no 
money  to  send  me  till  the  land  is  sold,  and  my 
creditors  will  not  wait  till  then :  you  know  what 
the  consequences  would  be.  Now  the  assistance 
I  would  beg  of  you,  and  which  I  know,  if  in  your 
power,  you  will  not  refuse  me,  is  a  letter  of  credit 
on  some  merchant,  banker,  or  such  like  person  in 
London,  for  the  matter  of  twelve  pounds,  till  I  get 
money  upon  the  selling  of  the  land,  which  I  am  at 
last  certain  of.  If  you  could  either  give  it  me 
yourself,  or  procure  it,  though  you  do  not  owe  it  to 
my  merit,  yet  you  owe  it  to  your  ow^n  nature, 
which  I  know  so  well  as  to  say  no  more  on  the 
subject ;  only  allow  me  to  add  that  when  I  first 
fell  upon  such  a  project,  the  only  thing  I  have  for 
it  in  my  present  circumstances,  knowing  the  selfish, 
inhumane  temper  of  the  generaUty  of  the  world, 
you  were  the  first  person  that  offered  to  my 
thoughts  as  one  to  whom  1  had  the  confidence  to 
make  such  an  address. 

"  Now  I  imagine  you  seized  with  a  fine,  ro- 
mantic, kind  of  a  melancholy  on  the  fading  of  the 
year ;  now  I  figure  you  wandering,  philosophical 
and  pensive,  amidst  the  brown,  withered  groves, 
while  the  leaves  rustle  under  your  feet,  the  sun 
gives  a  farewell  parting  gleam,  and  the  birds 

Stir  the  faint  note,  and  but  attejnpt  to  sing. 

"  Then  again,  when  the  heavens  wear  a  more 
gloomy  aspect,  the  winds  whistle,  and  the  waters 
spout,  I  see  you  in  the  well  known  Cleugh,  be- 
neath the  solemn  arch  of  tall,  thick,  embowering 
trees,  listening  to  the  amusing  lull  of  the  many 
steep,  moss-grown  cascades;  while  deep,  divine 
contemplation,  the  genius  of  the  place,  prompts 
each  swelling  awful  thought.  I  am  sure  you  would 
not  resign  your  part  in  that  scene  at  an  easy  rate. 
None  ever  enjoyed  it  to  the  height  you  do,  and 
you  are  worthy  of  it.  There  I  walk  in  spirit,  and 
disport  in  its  beloved  gloom.  This  country  I  am 
in  is  not  very  entertaining;  no  variety  but  that 
of  woods,  and  them  we  have  in  abundance;  but 
where  is  the  living  stream'?  the  airy  mountain*? 
and  the  hanging  rock '?  with  twenty  otlier  things 
that  elegantly  please  the  lover  of  nature.  Nature 
delights  me  in  every  form,  I  am  just  now  painting 
her  in  her  most  lugubrious  dress  for  my  own 
amusement,  describing  Winter  as  it  presents  itself. 
After  my  first  proposal  of  the  subject, 

I  sing  of  Winter,  and  his  gelid  reign. 
Nor  let  a  rhyming  insect  of  the  Spring 


MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


Deem  it  a  barren  theme.   To  me  'lis  full 
Of  manly  charms;  to  me,  who  court  the  shade, 
Whom  the  gay  seasons  suit  not,  and  who  shun 
The  glai-e  of  Summer.  Welcome,  kindred  glooms ! 
Drear,  awful,  wintry  horrors,  welcome  all  1  &c. 

"After  this  introdviction,  I  say,  which  insists 
for  a  few  lines  further,  I  prosecute  the  purport  of 
the  following  ones: 

Nor  can  I,  O,  departing  Summer !  choose 
But  consecrate  one  pitying  line  to  you ; 
Sing  your  last  temper'd  days,  and  sunny  calms, 
That  cheer  the  spirits  and  serene  the  soul. 

'  Then  terrible  floods,  and  high  winds,  that  usually 
happen  about  this  time  of  the  year,  and  have  al- 
ready happened  here,  I  wish  you  have  not  felt 
them  too  dreadfully;  the  first  produced  the  in- 
closed hnes;  the  last  are  not  completed.  Mr. 
Rickleton's  Poem  qn  Winter,  which  I  still  have, 
first  put  the  design  into  my  head.  In  it  are  some 
masterly  strokes  that  awakened  me:  being  only  a 
present  amusement,  it  is  ten  to  one  but  I  drop  it 
whenever  another  fancy  comes  across. 

"  I  believe  it  had  been  much  more  for  your  en- 
tertainment if  in  this  letter  I  had  cited  other  peo- 
ple instead  of  myself,  but  I  must  defer  that  until 
another  time.  If  you  have  not  seen  it  already,  I 
have  just  now  in  my  hands  an  original  of  Sir 
Alexander  Brand's,  the  crazed  Scots  knight  with 
the  woeful  countenance,  you  would  relish.  I  be- 
lieve it  might  make  Miss  John  catch  hold  of  his 
knees,  which  I  take  in  him  to  be  a  degree  of  mirth 
only  inferior  to  falling  back  again  with  an  elastic 
spring.    It  is  very  printed  in  the  Evening 

Post,  so  perhaps  you  have  seen  these  panegyrics 
of  our  declining  bard;  one  on  the  princess's  birth- 
day, the  other  on  his  majesty's,  in  cantos : 
they  are  written  in  the  spirit  of  a  complicated 
craziness.  . 

"  I  was  in  London  lately  a  night,  and  in  the  old 
playhouse  saw  a  comedy  acted,  called  '  Love  makes 
a  Man,  or  the  Fop's  Fortune,'  where  I  beheld 
Miller  and  Gibber  shine  to  my  infinite  entertain- 
ment. In  and  about  London  this  month  of  Sep- 
tember near  a  hundred  people  have  died  by  acci- 
dent and  suicide.  There  was  one  blacksmith, 
tired  of  the  hammer,  who  hanged  himself,  and  left 
written  behind  him  this  concise  epitaph, 


to  see  him  from  amongst  the  rubbish  of  his  con- 
troversial divinity  and  poUtics,  furbishing  up  his 
ancient  rustic  gallantry. 

Yours  sincerely,    J.  T. 
"  Remember  me  to  all  friends,  Mr.  Rickle,  Miss 
John,  Brother  John,  &c." 

Thomson's  earliest  patron  in  London  was  Mr. 
Forbes,  afterwards  Lord  President  of  the  Session; 
who  is  thus  immortalized  in  the  Seasons, 

"Thee,  Forbes,  too,  whom  every  worth  attends, 
As  (ruth  sincere,  as  weeping  friendship  kind, 
Thee,  truly  generous,  and  in  silence  great, 
Thy  country  feels  through  her  revivinsc  arts, 
Plann'd  by  thy  wisdom,  by  thy  soul  inform'd; 
And  seldom  has  she  known  a  friend  like  thee." 


I,  Joe  Pope, 

Lived  without  hope. 

And  died  by  a  rope. 

or  else  some  epigrammatic  muse  has  belied  him. 

"  Mr.  Muir  has  ample  fund  for  politics  in  the 
present  posture  of  affairs,  as  you  will  find  by  the 
public  news.  I  should  be  glad  to  know  that  great 
minister's  frame  just  now.  Keep  it  to  yourself 
You  /may  whisper  it,  too,  in  Miss  John's  ear:  far 
otherwise  is  his  late  mysterious  brother  Mr.  Tait 
employed, — started  a  superannuated  fortune,  and 
just  now  upon  the  full  scent.    It  is  comical  enough 


Having  se|||is  poetry  in  Scotland,  he  received 
him  withB^dness,  recommended  him  to  his 
friends,  andparticularly  to  Mr.  Aikman,  a  gen- 
tleman moving  in  high  society,  whose  taste  for  de- 
scriptive poetry  was  generated  by  his  pursuits  as  a 
painter.  The  friendship  of  Aikman  was  highly 
appreciated  by  Thomson;  and  on  his  death,  in 
June  1731,  he  wrote  some  verses  which  are  indica- 
tive of  thaj^vid  attachment  for  which  he  was  re- 
markable. 

Among  other  persons  to  whom  he  was  indebted 
for  countenance  and  attention  were  Mr.  Mallet, 
his  school  fellow,  then  private  tutor  to  the  Duke 
of  Montrose  and  his  Grace's  brother  Lord  George 
Graham.  By  Mallet  he  is  supposed  to  have  been 
introduced  to,  and  made  acquainted  with,  the 
characters  of  many  brother  poets  and  other  wits 
of  the  day ;  and  he  was  assisted  by  him  in  nego- 
tiating the  publication  of  his  first  work.  He 
resided,  at  this  time,  in  Lancaster  Court  in  the 
Strand. 

The  poem  of  Winter,  which,  reversing  the 
natural  order,  proved  the  harbinger  of  "The 
Seasons,"  appeared  in  folio  in  March,  1726-7; 
but  it  remained  unsold  till  Mr.  Whateley,  a  gen- 
tleman of  acknowledged  taste,  and  the  author  of 
"  Observations  on  Modern  Gardening,"  discerned 
its  beauties,  and  made  them  the  subject  of  conver- 
sation in  the  circles  in  which  he  visited.  Though 
materially  improved  in  subsequent  editions,  its 
merits  were  suflSciently  striking  to  establish  the 
author's  fame;  but  it  is  stated  that  he  received  no 
more  than  three  guineas  for  his  labours.    It  was 
dedicated  to  Sir  Spencer  Compton,  then  Speaker 
ofjjihe  House  of  Commons,  and  afterwards  Earl 
of  Wilmington,  but  his  motive  for  selecting  him 
as  a  patron  is  unknown;  and  it  would  seem,  from 
Aaron  flill's  lines,  which  he  affixed  to  the  second 
edition  of"  Winter,"  that  he  was  doubtfulto  what 
great  person  he  should  address  it.    In  the  preface 
to  that  edition,  which  appeared  in  the  same  year, 
he  entered  into  a  long  defence  of  poetry,  complain- 
ed of  the  debasing  subjects  to  which  it  was  chiefly 


MEMOIR  OP  JAMES  THOMSON, 


vii 


applied,  and  contended,  in  rapturous  language, 
that  the  works  of  nature  are  most  calculated  to 
produce  poetical  enthusiasm.  According  to  the 
fashion  of  the  time,  he  prefixed  to  the  second  im- 
pression some  commendatory  verses  by  Hill,  Mr. 
Mallet,  and  a  lady  who  styled  herself  Mira.* 

Johnson  asserts  that  "  Winter"  was  unnoticed 
by  Sir  Spencer  Compton  until  Aaron  Hill  roused 
his  attention  by  some  verses  addressed  to  Thom- 
son, and  pubUshed  in  one  of  the  newspapers, 
which  censured  the  great  for  their  neglect  of  in- 
genious men:  but  it  is  obvious,  from  the  verses 
themselves,  that  they  were  written  before  Thom- 
son had  fixed  on  a  patron ;  and  there  is  nothing 
to  justify  the  opinion  that  he  was  indebted  to  Hill 
for  Sir  Spencer's  subsequent  notice  of  him.  In  a 
letter  addressed  to  Hill  he  says: 

"  I  hinted  to  you  in  my  last,  that  on  Saturday 
morning  I  was  with  Sir  Spencer  Compton.  A 
certain  gentleman,  without  my  desire,  spoke  to 
him  concerning  me;  his  answer  was,  that  I  had 
never  come  near  him.  Then  the  gentleman  put 
the  question,  if  he  desired  that  I  should  wait  on 
him?  he  returned,  he  did.  On  this,  the  gentle- 
man gave  me  an  introductory  letter  to  him.  He 
received  me  in  what  they  commonly  call  a  civil 
manner ;  asked  me  some  common-place  questions, 
and  made  me  a  present  of  twenty  guineas.  I  am 
very  ready  to  own,  that  the  present  was  larger 
than  my  performance  deserved;  and  shall  ascribe 
it  to  his  generosity,  or  any  other  cause,  rather  than 
the  merit  of  the  address." 

"  Winter"t  was  universally  read  and  almost  as 
universally  admired,  and  its  reputation  produced 
to  the  author  the  acquaintance  of  several  ladies  of 
rank,  among  whom  were  the  Countess  of  Hert- 
ford, Miss  Drelincourt,  daughter  of  the  Dean  of 
Armagh,  who  became  Viscountess  Primrose,  and 
Mrs.  Stanley;  but  the  most  valuable  effect  of  that 
publication  was  the  friendship  of  Dr.  Thomas 
Rundle,  afterwards  Bishop  of  Derry.  That  learn- 
ed individual,  finding  the  man  to  be  as  estimable 
as  the  poet,  honoured  him  with  his  friendship, 
promulgated  his  fame  by  his  encomiums,  and  by 
introducing  him  to  Sir  Charles,  subsequently  Lord 
Chancellor,  Talbot,  eventually  rendered  him  an 
important  service. 

Stimulated  by  public  applause,  Thomson  next 
year  published  his  "  Summer,"  the  "  Poem  on  the 
death  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton,"  and  his  "  Britannia." 
It  is  said  that  having  been  private  tutor  to  Lord 
Binning,  the  eldest  son  of  the  Earl  of  Haddington, 


*  Dr.  Johnson  says  Mira  was  the  fictitious  name  of  a  lady 
once  too  well  known :  Savage  addressed  verses  to  her  on  read- 
ing her  poems,  and  Aaron  Hill  also  wrote  some  lines  on  her. 

1  To  this  edition  Thomson  artded  the  letters  "  M.  A."  to 
his  name,  but  the  distinction  was  omitted  on  every  other 
occasion. 

2L 


but  at  what  period  has  not  been  ascertained,  ho 
was  desirous  of  evincing  his  gratitude  by  inscrib- 
ing "  Summer"  to  that  nobleman.  Lord  Binning, 
however,  generously  sacrificed  the  distinction  to 
his  desire  of  advancing  the  Poet's  interests,  and  at 

I  his  lordship's  suggestion,  it  was  dedicated  to  the 
well  known  Mr.  Bubb  Dodington,  then  a  Lord 
of  the  Treasury,  in  that  humihating  strain  of  pa,- 

,  negyric  to  which,  happily,  authors  no  longer  sub- 
mit. Whether  the  change  has  been  produced  by 
the  extinction  of  patrons,  or  from  a  worthier  cause, 
the  effect  is  to  rescue  literature  from  the  degrada- 

!  tion  of  paying  sycophantic  homage  to  titled  dull- 
ness or  aristocratic  impertinence ;  and  it  is  left  to 
societies  established  for  the  promotion  of  science 
to  debase  themselves  by  a  fawning  deference  to 
rank,  which  an  individual  would  feel  himself  dis- 
graced by  imitating. 

In  his  eulogy  on  Newton,  Thomson  was  assisted 
by  his  friend  Gray,  who,  being  well  acquainted  with 

'  the  Newtonian  Philosophy,  furnished  him  with  a 
sufficient  idea  of  its  principles  to  enable  him  to 
allude  to  the  subject  with  correctness.  "  Britan- 
nia" owed  its  existence  to  the  displeasure  of  the 
English  merchants  at  the  interruption  of  our  trade 
by  the  Spaniards  in  America.  Thomson  was 
particularly  alive  to  impressions  of  public  liberty, 
and  eagerly  availed  himself  of  a  moment  of  politi- 
cal excitement  to  indulge  his  feelings. 

In  1728,  he  published  his  "  Spring,"  which  he 
inscribed  to  Frances,  Countess  of  Hertford,  wife 
of  Algernon,  then  Earl  of  Hertford,  afterwards 
Duke  of  Somerset.  This  lady,  whose  generous 
intercession  in  i'avour  of  Savage  preserved  his  hfe, 
not  only  patronized  poetry,  but  was  herself  a  votary 
of  the  Muses,*  and  her  letters  create  a  very  fa- 
vourable impression  both  of  her  heart  and  her  un- 
derstanding. If  the  dedication  may  be  relied  on, 
Spring  "grew  up  under  her  encouragement,"  and 

j  Thomson  was  one  summer  the  guest  of  her  lady- 

1  ship  at  her  country  seat;  but  Johnson  says  he* 
took  more  pleasure  in  carousing  with  her  lord 


'  The  Countess  of  Hertford,  according  to  her  own  admis- 
sion, was  the  authoress  of  the  pieces  entitled  "  A  Rui-al  Medi- 
tation," "  A  Penitential  Thought,"  "A  Midnight  Hymn,"  and 
"  The  Dying  Christian's  Hope,"  inserted  in  Watt's  Miscella- 
nies, and  there  assigned  to  Eusebia.  See  a  letter  from  her 
ladyship  to  Dr.  Watts,  in  February,  1736,  printed  in  ths 
Elegant  Epistles,  vol.  v.  p.  525.  On  the  15th  of  May,  1748, 
the  Countess  of  Hertford,  in  a  letter  to  Lady  Luxemborougli, 
noticed  Thomson's  Castle  of  Indolence  in  the  following 
terms:— "I  conclude  you  will  read  Mr.  Thomson's  Castle  of 
Indolence,  it  is  after  the  manner  of  Spenser;  but  I  think  he 
does  not  always  keep  so  close  to  his  style  as  the  author  of  the 
School  Mistress,  whose  name  I  never  knew  till  you  were  so 
good  as  to  inform  me  of  it.  I  believe  the  Castle  of  Indolence 
will  afford  you  much  entertainment :  there  are  many  pretty- 
paintings  in  it ;  but  I  think  the  wizard's  song  deserves  a  pre* 
fererice : 

'He  needs  no  muse  who  dictates  from  the  heart.'  " 


MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


than  in  assisting  her  studies,  and  therefore  was 
never  again  invited:  a  charge  which  Lord  Buchan 
eagerly  repels,  but  upon  as  little  authority  as  it 
was  originally  made. 

Previous  to  the  appearance  of  "Spring,"  Thom- 
son issued  proposals  for  publishing  the  "Four 
Seasons"  by  subscription;  and  in  the  advertise- 
ment, he  pledged  himself  that  the  separate  publi- 
cation of  that  poem  should  not  prevent  the  work 
being  completed  in  the  ensuing  winter. 

The  tragedy  of  Sophonisba,  which  was  written 
and  acted  in  1729,  was  his  next  production ;  and 
such  were  the  expectations  which  the  author's 
fame  excited,  that  the  rehearsals  were  attended 
by  splendid  audiences:  though,  if  Johnson  be  cor- 
rect, nobody  was  much  afiected,  and  the  company 
rose  as  if  from  a  moral  lecture.  Among  those  who 
honoured  the  tragedy  with  particular  regard  was 
the  Glueen,  to  whom,  on  that  account,  it  was  dedi- 
cated; and  in  the  preface  the  author  pleads  in  ex- 
tenuation of  the  errors  of  the  piece,  that  it  was  a 
first  attempt :  he  explains  his  rea'sons  for  choosing 
that  subject,  and  thanks  Mr.  Wilks,  and  more  es- 
pecially Mrs.  Oldfield,  for  their  powerful  repre- 
sentations of  Massinissa  and  Sophonisba,  the  lat- 
ter having,  he  says,  "excelled  what  even  in  the 
fondness  of  an  author  he  could  either  wish  or 
imagine." 

The  success  of  this  tragedy  on  the  stage  was 
not  great,  though  it  went  through  four  editions  in 
the  year  1730,  and  Johnson  ascribes  one  cause  of 
its  failure  to  a  foolish  parody  of  the  silly  line, 
omitted  in  subsequent  impressions,  . 

"Oh,  Sophonisba,  Sophonisba,  O!" 
"O  Jemmy  Thomson,  Jemmy  Thomson,  O !" 


Read  Philips  much,  consider  Milton  more, 
But  from  their  dross  extract  the  purer  ore. 
Let  perspicuity  o'er  all  preside,— 
Soon  Shalt  thou  be  the  nation's  joy  and  pride. 


which  was  very  generally  repeated  through  the 
town.  Pope,  the  same  writer  says,  on  the  asser- 
tion of  Savage,  wrote  the  first  part  of  the  prologue, 
but,  as  he  could  not  be  persuaded  to  finish  it,  the 
remaining  lines  were  added  by  Mallet. 

The  "  Seasons"  were  completed  in  1730,  when 
"  Autumn,"  which  he  addressed  to  the  Right 
Honourable  Arthur  Onslow,  Speaker  of  the 
House  of  Commons,  was  first  printed.  A  very 
material  difierence  exists  between  "the  Seasons" 
as  they  first  appeared,  and  as  they  now  stand. 
From  time  to  time  Thomson  polished  this  work 
with  great-  assiduity  and  success,  perhaps  from 
the  anticipation  that  by  it  he  would  be  best  known 
to  posterity.  To  this  labour  he  was  probably  ex- 
cited by  an  epistle  from  Somerville,  who  asks, 

"Why  should  thy  Muse,  born  so  divinely  fair, 

Want  the  reforming  toilet's  daily  care  I 

Drees  the  gay  maid,  improve  each  native  grace, 

And  call  forth  all  the  glories  of  her  face : 

The  accomplish'd  nymph  in  all  her  best  attire, 

Courts  shall  applaud,  and  prostrate  crowds  admire ; 

For  kind  and  wise  the  parent,  who  reproves 

The  Blightest  blemish  in  the  child  he  iovea. 


Johnson  admits  that  these  revisions  improved 
the  poems  in  general:  but  he  expresses  his  suspi- 
cion that  they  lost  their  race.  A  few  examples  of 
the  benefit  which  they  derived  from  reflection  and 
criticism  prove  that  this  remark  displays  more  in  ■ 
genuity  than  taste;  and  as  instances  of  the  diffev- 
ence  between  early  and  subsequent  editions  of  a 
Poet  s  lucubrations,  they  are  sufficiently  curious  to 
deserve  the  space  they  will  occupy.* 

About  this  time,  through  the  influence  of  Dr. 
Rundle,  who,  on  sending  Mrs.  Sandys  a  copy  of 
"The  Seasons,"  observed,  that  it  was  "  a  volume 
on  which  reason  bestows  as  many  beauties  as  ima- 
gination," Thomson  was  selected  by  Sir  Charles 
Talbot,  then  Solicitor  General,  to  accompany  his 
eldest  son,  Mr.  Charles  Richard  Talbot,  on  his 
travels.  With  this  accomplished  young  man  he 
visited  most  of  the  capitals  iji  Europe,  in  the  year 
1731.  Admitted  to  the  best  society  wherever  they 
went,  unembarrassed  by  pecuniary  considerations, 
and  encouraged  by  the  rising  influence  and  gene- 
rosity of  his  patron,  to  hope  for  a  permanent  inde- 
pendence, if  not  for  a  situation  calculated  for  the 
display  of  talent,  this  must  have  been  the  happiest 
period  of  the  Poet's  life,  since  nothing  more  can  be 
desired  than  youth,  fame,  health,  and  competence 
in  possession,  with  a  bright  perspective  of  future 
renown. 

During  his  absence  from  England  he  appears  to 
have  kept  up  a  correspondence  with  Mr.  Bubb 
Dodington,  to  whom  he  dedicated  his  "  Spring;" 
and  his  letters  which  tend  to  show  that  he  was  on 
terms  of  intimacy  with  that  gentleman  are  entitled 
to  attention.  They  justify  a  more  favourable 
opinion  of  his  epistolary  powers  than,  any  others 
which  have  appeared,  and  are  very  interesting 
from  his  account  of  the  impression  which  foreign 
scenes  made  on  his  mind,  and  of  his  future  inten- 
tions with  respect  to  literature. 

Paris,  Dec.  21,  N.  S.  1730. 

"  M.  de  Voltaire's  Brutus  has  been  acted  here 
seven  or  eight  times  with  applause,  and  still  con- 
tinues to  be  acted.  It  is  matter  of  amusement 
to  me  to  imagine  what  ideas  an  old  republican,  de- 
claiming on  liberty,  must  give  the  generality  of  a 
French  audience.  Voltaire,  in  his  preface,  designs 
to  have  a  stroke  at  criticism ;  and  Lord  have  mercy 
on  the  poor  similes  at  the  end  of  the  acts  in  our 
English  plays,  for  these  seem  to  be  very  worthy 
objects  of  his  French  indignation.  It  is  designed 
to  be  dedicated  to  Lord  Bolingbroke. 

"  I  have  seen  little  of  Paris,  yet  some  streets  and 
playhouses ;  though,  had  I  seen  all  that  is  to  be 


See  the  end  of  "The  Seasons.' 


MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


ix 


seen  here,  you  know  it  too  well  to  need  a  much 
better  account  than  I  can  give.  You  must,  how- 
ever, give  me  leave  to  observe,  that  amid  all  the 
external  and  showy  magnificence  which  the  French 
affect,  one  misses  that  solid  magnificence  of  trade 
and  sincere  plenty  which  not  only  appear  to  be, 
but  are,  substantially,  in  a  kingdom  where  industry 
and  liberty  mutually  support  and  inspirit  each 
other.  That  kingdom  I  suppose  I  need  not  men- 
tion, as  it  is  and  ever  will  be  sufficiently  plain 
from  the  character.  I  shall  return  no  worse  Eng- 
lishman than  when  I  came  away, 

"  Your  observation  I  find  every  day  juster  and 
juster,  that  one  may  profit  more  abroad  by  seeing 
than  by  hearing ;  and  yet  there  are  scarce  any 
travellers  to  be  met  with,  who  have  given  a  land- 
scape of  the  countries  through  which  they  have 
travelled  that  have  seen,  as  you  express  it,  with 
the  Muses'  eye ;  though  that  is  the  first  thing 
which  strikes  me,  and  what  all  readers  and  tra- 
vellers in  the  first  place  demand.  It  seems  to  me, 
that  such  a  poetical  landscape  of  countries,  mixed 
with  moral  observations  on  their  countries  and 
people,  would  not  be  an  ill  judged  undertaking. 
But  then,  the  description  of  the  different  face  of 
nature,  in  different  countries,  must  be  particularly 
marked  and  characteristic,  the  portrait  painting  of 
nature." 

Oct.  24,  1731. 

"  Whit  you  observe  concerning  the  pursuit  of 
poetry,  so  far  engaged  in  it  as  I  am,  is  certainly 
just.  Besides,  let  him  quit  it  who  can,  and  '  erit 
mihi  magnus  Apollo,'  or  something  as  great.  A 
true  genius,  like  light,  must  be  beaming  forth,  as 
a  false  one  is  an  incurable  disease.  One  would 
not,  however,  cUmb  Parnassus,  any  more  than 
your  mortal  hills,  to  fix  for  ever  on  the  barren  top. 
No;  it  is  some  little  dear  retirement  in  the  vale 
below  that  gives  the  right  relish  to  the  prospect, 
which,  without  that,  is  nothing  but  enchantment; 
and  though  pleasing  for  some  time,  at  last  leaves 
us  in  a  desert.  The  great  fat  doctor  of  Bath,* 
told  me  that  poets  should  be  kept  poor,  the  more  to 
animate  their  genius.  This  is  like  the  cruel  cus- 
tom of  putting  a  bird's  eye  out,  that  it  may  sing  the 
sweeter;  but,  surely,  they  sing  sweetest  amid  the 
luxuriant  woods,  while  the  full  spring  blooms 
around  them. 

*'  Travelling  has  long  been  my  fondest  wish,  for 
the  very  purpose  you  recommend.  The  storing 
one's  imagination  with  ideas  all-beautiful,  all-great, 
and  all-perfect  nature :  these  are  the  true  materia 
poetica,  the  light  and  colours,  with  which  fancy 
kindles  up  her  whole  creation,  paints  a  sentiment, 
and  even  embodies  an  abstracted  thought.  I  long 
lo  see  the  fields  where  Virgil  gathered  his  immor- 

Ciuery,  Dr.  Cheyne  1 


tal  honey,  and  tread  the  same  ground  where  men 
have  thought  and  acted  so  greatly. 

"  But  not  to  travel  entirely  like  a  poet,  I  resolve 
not  to  neglect  the  more  prosaic  advantages  of  it, 
for  it  is  no  less  my  ambition  to  be  capable  of  serv- 
ing my  country  in  an  active,  than  in  a  contempla- 
tive way.  At  my  times  of  leisure  abroad,  I  think 
of  attempting  another  tragedy,  and  a  story  more 
addressed  to  common  passions  than  '  Sophonisba.* 
The  Sophonisba  people  now-a-days  must  have 
something  like  themselves,  and  a  public  spirited 
monster  can  never  interest  them.  If  any  thing 
could  make  me  capable  of  an  epic  performance,  it 
would  be  your  favourable  opinion  in  thinking  so. 
But,  as  you  justly  observe,  that  must  be  the  work 
of  years,  and  one  must  be  in  an  epic  situation  to 
execute  it.  My  heart  both  trembles  with  diflS- 
dence,  and  burns  with  ardour  at  the  thought.  The 
story  of  Timoleon  is  good  as  to  the  subject  matter, 
but  an  author  owes,  I  think,  the  scene  of  an  epic 
action  to  his  own  country;  besides,  Timoleon  ad- 
mits of  no  machinery  except  that  of  the  heathen 
gods,  which  will  not  do  at  this  time  of  day,  I 
hope,  hereafter,  to  have  the  direction  of  your  taste 
in  these  affairs;  and  in  the  mean  time  will  endea- 
vour to  expand  those  ideas  and  sentiments,  and  in 
some  degree  to  gather  up  that  knowledge  which  is 
necessary  to  such  an  undertaking. 

"  Should  the  scenes  and  climates  through  which. 
I  pass  inspire  me  with  any  poetry,  it  will  naturally 
have  recourse  to  you.  But  to  hint  a  return  from 
Young  or  Stubbs  were  a  kind  of  poetical  simony, 
especially  when  you  yourself  possess  such  a  portion, 
of  the  spirit." 

Rome,  Nov.  28.  1731, 
"  I  will  make  no  apology  for  neglecting  to  do 
myself  the  honour  of  writing  to  you  since  we  left- 
Paris,  I  may  rather  plead  a  merit  in  not  trou- 
bling you  with  long  scrawls  of  that  travelling  stuff, 
of  which  the  world  is  full,  even  to  loathing.  That 
enthusiasm  which  I  had  upon  me,  with  regard  to 
travelling,  goes  off,  I  find,  very  fast.  One  may 
imagine  fine  things  in  reading  ancient  author^i; 
but  to  travel  is  to  dissipate  that  vision.  A  great 
many  antique  statues,  where  several  of  the  fair 
ideas  of  Greece  are  fixed  for  ever  in  marble,  and 
the  paintings  of  the  first  masters,  are,  indeed,  most 
enchanting  objects.  How  little,  however,  of  these 
suffices !  How  unessential  to  life !  they  are,  surely, 
not  of  that  importance  as  to  set  the  whole  world, 
man,  woman,  and  child,  a-gadding.  I  should  be 
sorry  to  be  Goth  enough  to  think  them  highly  or- 
namental in  life,  when  one  can  have  them  at  home 
without  paying  for  them  at  an  extravagant  price. 
But  for  every  one  who  can  support  it  to  make  a 
trade  of  runnuig  abroad  only  to  stare  at  them,  I 
can  not  help  thinking  something  worse  than  a  pub- 
lic folly.    Instead  of  travelling  so  furiously,  it 


MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


were  wiser  and  more  pulilic  s{:)irited  should  they, 
with  part  of  those  sutns  of  money  spent  that  way, 
send  persons  of  genius  in  architecture,  painting, 
and  sculpture,  to  study  those  arts  abroad,  and  im- 
port them  into  England.  Did  they  but  once  take 
root  here,  how  they  might  flourish  in  such  a  gene- 
rous and  wealthy  country!  The  nature  of  the 
great  painter,  architect,  and  statuary,  is  the  same 
she  ever  was ;  and  is  no  doubt  as  profuse  of  beauty, 
proportion,  lovely  forms,  and  real  genius,  as  former- 
ly she  was  to  the  sunny  realms  of  Greece,  did  we 
but  study  the  one  and  exert  the  other.  In  England, 
if  we  can  not  reach  the  gracefully  superfluous,  yet 
I  hope  we  shall  never  lose  the  substantial,  neces- 
sary, and  vital  arts  of  life ;  such  as  depend  on  la- 
bour, liberty,  and  all  commanding  trade.  For  my 
part,  I,  who  have  no  taste  for  smelling  to  an  old 
musty  stone,  look  upon  those  countries  with  an 
eye  to  poetry,  in  regard  that  the  sisters  reflect  light 
and  images  to  one  another.  Now  I  mention 
poetry,  should  you  inquire  after  my  muse,  all 
that  I  can  answer  is,  that  I  beheve  she  did  not 
cross  the  channel  with  me.  I  know  not  whether 
your  gardener  at  Eastbery  has  heard  any  thing 
of  her  among  the  woods  there;  she  has  not  thought 
fit  to  visit  me  while  I  have  been  in  this  once  poetic 
land,  nor  do  I  feel  the  least  presage  that  she  will. 
But  not  to  lengthen  out  a  letter  that  has  no  pre- 
tence to  entertain  you,  give  me  leave  only  to  add, 
that  I  can  never  lose  the  pleasing  sense  I  have  of 
your  goodness  to  me ;  and  it  is  a  hope  that  I  must 
flatter  myself  with  your  continuance  of  it  upon  my 
return  to  England ;  for  which  my  veneration  and 
love,  I  will  be  vain  enough  to  say,  increase  every 
day,  even  to  fondness  and  devotion." 

Thomson  returned  to  England  in  1732,  with 
his  general  information  much  increased,  and  his 
opinion  of  mankind  considerably  enlarged.  New 
scenes  rather  excited  than  lessened  his  poetic  ar- 
dour ;  and  no  sooner  was  he  settled  than  he  re- 
fiumed  his  pen,  choosing  for  his  subject  "  Liberty  ." 

It  has  been  erroneously  supposed  by  every  bio- 
grapher of  Thomson,  that  immediately  on  his  re- 
turn he  obtained  the  sinecure  situation  of  Secretary 
©f  Briefs  in  the  Court  of  Chancery,  and  that  soon 
after  he  commenced  his  poem  his  young  friend 
Mr.  Talbot  died.  The  slightest  attention  to  dates 
will  show  the  error  of  these  statements.  Sir  Charles 
Talbot  did  not  become  Chancellor  until  the  29th 
of  November,  1733,  shortly  before  which  time  Mr. 
Talbot  died;  so  that  in  fact  "  Liberty"  must  have 
been  nearly  finished  before  his  decease,  and  he  did 
not  live  to  witness  the  service  which  his  father 
conferred  on  Thomson  by  appointing  him  to  the 
©ffice  alluded  to.  The  truth  then  appears  to  be, 
that  actuated  either  by  gratitude  to  his  patron,  or 
l)y  regard  for  his  accomplished  son,  or  probably  by 
K)th  feelings,  the  Poet  resolved  to  evince  his  re- 1 


spect  for  the  living  and  the  dead,  by  prefixing  to 
the  first  part  of  "  Liberty"  an  address  which  should 
commemorate  their  worth  and  his  esteem.  Mr. 
Talbot  died  in  his  twenty-fourth  year,  and  Thom- 
son's eulogy  of  him  is  marked  by  simplicity  and 
tenderness. 

Though  the  most  laboured,  and  in  its  author's 
opinion  the  best  of  his  productions,  "  Liberty"  was 
never  popular,  and  perhaps  most  persons  have 
found  it  as  difficult  to  read  to  an  end  as  Dr.  John- 
son did,  who  eagerly  avails  himself  of  the  neglect 
with  which  it  was  treated  to  indulge  in  one  of  those 
sneers  which  render  his  account  of  Thomson  a 
memorial  of  his  want  of  candour  and  injustice.  It 
was  inscribed  to  Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales,  and 
probably  enabled  Mr.  Lyttleton  to  introduce  him 
to  the  notice  of  his  Royal  Highness.  However 
grieved  at  the  coldness  of  the  public  tcMvards  his 
favourite  work,  and  that  he  felt  it  severely  is  be- 
yond a  doubt,  one  at  least  of  his  friends  gave  him 
every  consolation  which  the  most  extravagant 
praises  can  afford.  That  exquisite  flatterer,  Aaron 
Hill,  whose  taste  and  judgment  gave  zest  to  his 
eulogy,  thus  wrote  to  Thomson  on  the  17th  of 
February,  1734;  and  it  is  amusing  to  compare  the 
opinion  of  a  distinguished  contemporary  with  that 
of  posterity  on  the  same  subject. 

V 

"  DEAR  SIR, 

"You  have  lately  given  me  two  pleasures;  for 
one  of  them  I  am  indebted  to  fortune,  whd  brought 
me  near  you,  though  not  quite  near  enough,  the 
other  night,  at  the  playhouse.  The  second  I 
owe  to  a  hand,  I  am  infinitely  more  proud  to  be 
obliged  by;  for  I  received  your  beautiful  present 
of  Liberty  from  its  author.  It  will  be,  in  all 
senses,  an  ornament  to  my  study.  It  will,  also, 
be  such  to  my -heart  and  my  memory;  for  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  think  of  a  loveliness  in  moral,  a 
frankness  in  social,  or  a  penetration  in  political 
life,  to  which  you  have  not,  in  this  inimitable 
masterpiece,  both  of  language  and  genius,  given 
a  force,  and  a  delicacy,  which  few  shall  be  born 
with  a  capacity  to  feel,  and  none  ever  with  a  ca- 
pacity to  exceed, 

"  I  do  not  know  a  pleasure  I  should  enjoy  with 
more  pride  than  that  of  filling  up  the  leisure  of  a 
well  employed  year,  in  exerting  the  critic,  on  your 
poem;  in  considering  it  first,  with  a  view  to  the 
vastness  of  its  conception,  in  the  general  plan; 
secondly,  to  the  grandeur,  the  depth,  the  unlean- 
ing,  self-supported  richness  of  the  sentiments; 
and  thirdly,  to  the  strength,  the  elegance,  the 
music,  the  comprehensive  living  energy,  and  close 
propriety  of  your  expression.  I  look  upon  this 
mighty  work  as  the  last  stretched  blaze  of  our  ex- 
piring genius.  It  is  the  dying  effort  of  despairing 
and  indignant  virtue,  and  will  stand,  like  one  of 
those  immortal  pyramids,  which  carry  their  mag- 


MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


nificence  through  times  that  wonder  to  see  nothing 
round  them  but  uncomfortable  desert ! 

"  Yet  you  must  give  me  leave,  w^hile  I  but  ad- 
mire your  genius,  to  love  your  soul,  that  has  such 
compass  of  humanity!  your  poem  is  not  newer 
than  your  mind,  nor  your  expression  stronger 
than  your  virtue.  Whatever  school-enthusiasm 
has  misdreamt  of  Homer,  that  he  knew  all  arts, 
aifd  that  his  w^orks  have  taught  their  practice, 
might  be  almost  said  and  proved  of  Mr.  Thom- 
son's '  Liberty,'  without  partiality  or  flattery ; 
whatever  has  been  suffered,  done,  or  thought, 
through  all  the  revolutions  of  forgotten  time,  your 
more  than  magic  muse  revokes,  reacts,  and  ani- 
mates, till  we  become,  cotemporaries  of  every  busy 
ago,  and  see,  and  feel  the  changes,  which  they 
shone  or  sunk  by. 

"  It  is  possible  that  this  devoted  nation,  irreco- 
verably lost  in  luxury,  may,  like  .your 

 Little  artists  form, 

On  higher  life  intent,  its  silken  tomb. 

It  may  rise  to  future  animation,  and,  its  wealth, 
its  pride,  and  commerce  lost,  lose  also  its  cor- 
ruption, and  retriumph,  in  the  strength  of  unde- 
siring  poverty.  For,  certainly,  you  have  detected 
the  sole  root  of  every  English  evil  you  deplore  so 
beautifully: 

Whenever  puff 'd  with  power,  and  gorged  with  wealth, 
Nations,  like  ours,  let  trade  enormous  rise, 
And  east  and  south  their  mingled  treasure  pour; 
Then,  swell'd  impetuous,  the  corrupting  flood 
Bursts  o'er  the  city,  and  devours  the  land. 

"  Think,  seriously,  upon  this  observation,  and 
try  if,  in  all  your  acquaintance  with  past  ages,  you 
can  find  a  people  long  at  once  retaining  pul)lic 
virtue  and  extended  commerce.  Search,  too,  as 
much  in  vain  for  one  who  is,  wiCh  warmer  truth, 
and  better  founded  zeal,  than  I  am. 
Dear  sir,  your  most  obedient 

And  most  humble  servant, 

A.  Hill." 

In  another  letter,  dated  in  the  following  Janua- 
ry, Hill  pointed  out  some  slight  defects  in  "  Liber- 
ty;" and  in  September,  1735,  after  referring  to  a 
copy  of  "  Zara,"  which  he  submitted  for  Thom- 
son's perusal,  he  observed,  "  The  warmth  you 
express  against  the  corruption  and  degeneracy  of 
our  stage  is  an  indignation  both  natural  and  ne- 
cessary in  a  breast — 

'The  bounds  of  self  divinely  bursting!' 

yet  fain  would  I  hope,  it  is  not  in  the  prophetic 
spirit  of  the  character,  that  a  poet,  like  you,  as- 
serts, '  The  root  of  this  evil  is  too  deep  to  be 
pliick'd  up;'"  and  he  then  approves,  with  the 
bitterness  of  a  disappointed  author,  of  the  ana- 
thema which  Thomson  had  pronounced  against 
the  dramatic  taste  of  the  time.    On  the  same  oc- 

3i2 


casion  he  suggested  the  establishment  of  a  tragic 
academy,  and  asked  him  if  he  thought  the  Prince 
of  Wales  would  give  his  support  to  the  plan : — a 
remark  indicative  of  Thomson's  being  sufficiently 
connected  with  the  Prince  to  be  aware  of  his  sen- 
timents. A  letter  from  Hill  in  May  1736,  proves 
that  in  consequence  of  the  failure  of  "  Liberty"  as 
a  speculation,  the  author  generously  resolved  to 
secure  the  publisher  from  loss : 

"  One  of  the  natural  growths  of  such  a  mind, 
as  we  see  in  your  writings,  is  the  generosity  of 
your  purpose,  in  favour  of  the  bookseller.  I  am 
in  love  with  the  humanity  that  inspired  such  a 
sentiment ;  but,  for  the  sake  of  my  country,  wish 
it  may  never  be  carried  into  execution,  because 
the  beauty  of  the  action  would,  of  necessity,  pre- 
vent its  ever  being  forgotten ;  and  a  kind  of  na- 
tional infamy,  which  must  disgrace  us  to  posterity, 
will,  as  infallibly,  be  a  consequence  of  its  being  re- 
membered. 

"  I  confess  myself  sincerely  mortified  to  hear 
that  such  a  poem  as  '  Liberty,'  in  such  a  nation 
as  Great  Britain,  can  have  failed  to  make  a  book- 
seller as  rich  as  an  ungrateful  people  have  been 
made  by  its  invaluable  fund  of  manly  sentiments;  >, 
but  there  are  dispositions,  in  political  as  well  as 
natural  bodies,  which  have  prevalence  to  help  or 
hinder  the  effect  of  medicines:  and  I  am  appre- 
hensive, that  republican  improvements  upon  mon- 
archical foundations  will  but  spoil  two  different 
orders,  either  of  which,  alone,  might  have  had 
strength  and  gracefulness." 

He  proceeds  to  comply  with  Thomson's  request, 
to  send  him  his  criticisms  in  the  event  of  a  second 
edition ;  and  it  appears  from  this  letter,  that  he 
had  complained  that  the  works  of  authors  were 
not  secured  to  them,  as  Hill  says, 

"  ^ould  to  God  you  were  in  the  right,  in  that 
part  of  your  letter  which  wishes,  in  lieu  of  state 
patronage,  in  favour  of  learning,  that  we  had 
only  some  good  act  of  parliament  for  securing  to 
authors  the  property  of  their  own  works.  Me- 
thinks  if  the  act  would  go  deep  enough  to  reach 
the  very  root  of  your  wish,  it  should,  also,  secure 
to  the  public  the  education  of  her  gentlemen  as 
well  as  the  property  of  her  writers;  since,  where 
the  first  are  unable  to  taste,  the  last  must  write  to 
no  purpose." 

Two  other  paragraphs  in  this  communication 
refer  to  Thomson's  acquaintance  with  eminent 
poets  of  the  day : 

"  I  am  pleased  to  hear  that  Mr.  Pope  was  so 
kind  as  to  make  any  inquiries  concerning  me. 
Your  good  nature  was  justly  and  generously  em- 
ployed in  the  mention  you  make  of  poor  Mr. 
Savage." 

The  remarks  of  Johnson  on  the  alteration  and 
curtailment  made  by  Lord  Lyttelton  in  "  Liberty," 
are  too  just  not  to  produce  conviction,  and  in  this 


MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


edition,  as  well  as  most  others,  his  wish  to  see  it 
exhibited  as  itsl  author  left  it  is  realised. 

A  letter  which  the  Poet  wrote  to  his  friend  Mr. 
Ross  about  this  period  displays  the  affection  which 
he  bore  to  his  relations,  and  proves  his  readiness 
to  contribute  to  their  support.  The  tragedy  to 
which  he  alludes  was  "  Agamemnon." 

"dear  ROSS,  London,  Nov.  6,  1736. 

I  own  I  have  a  good  deal  of  assurance,  after 
asking  one  favour  of  y^ou,  never  to  answer  your 
letter  till  I  ask  another.  But  not  to  mince  the 
matter,  and  all  apologies  apart,  hearken  to  my 
request.— My  sisters  have  been  advised  by  their 
friends  to  set  up  at  Edinburgh  a  little  milliner's 
shop;  and  if  you  can  conveniently  advance  to 
them  twelve  pounds,  on  my  account,  it  will  be  a 
particular  favour.'  That  will  set  them  a-going, 
and  I  design  from  time  to  time  to  send  them 
goods  from  hence.  My  whole  account  I  will  pay 
you  when  you  come  up  here,  not  in  poetical  paper 
credit,  but  in  the  solid  money  of  this  dirty  world. 
I  will  not  draw  upon  you,  in  case  you  be  not  pre- 
pared to  defend  yourself;  but  if  j^our  purse  be 


deputy's  hands  to-morrow.  Petty*  came  here  two 
or  three  days  ago;  I  have  not  yet  seen  the  round 
man  of  God  to  be.  He  is  to  be  parsonified  a  few 
days  hence.  How  a  gown  and  cassock  will  be- 
come him ;  and  with  what  a  holy  leer  he  will  edify 
the  devout  females!  There  is  no  doubt  of  his 
having  a  call,  for  he  is  immediately  to  enter  upon 
a  tolerable  living.  God  grant  him  more,  and  as 
fat  as  himself  It  rejoices  me  to  see  some  one 
worthy,  honest,  excellent  man  raised,  at  least,  to 
independence.  Pray  make  my  compliments  to 
my  Lord  President.^  and  all  friends.  I  shall  be 
glad  to  hear  more  at  large  from  you.  Just  now 
I  am  with  the  Alderman,  who  wishes  you  all  hap- 
piness." 

His  sisters  and  his  forthcoming  tragedy  ap- 
pear still  to  have  divided  his  thoughts,  for  in  Fe- 
bruary he  thus  wrote  about  both  to  Mr.  Gavin 
Hamilton : 

I  lately  heard  from  my  sisters  at  Edinburgh, 
that  you  were  so  good  as  to  promise  to  advance 
to  them,  on  my  account,  a  trifle  of  money,  which 
I  proposed  to  allow  them  yearly.    The  sum  is 

-  .  -  r  sixteen  pounds  sterling,  and  which  I  would  have 

valiant,  please  to  inquire  for  Jean  or  Elizabeth  paid  them  eight  pounds  sterling  at  Martinmas 
Thomson,  at  the  Reverend  Mr.  Gusthart's;  and  and  the  other  eight  pounds  at  Whitsuntide  the 
if  this  letter  be  not  a  snfRf>ipnf 


if  this  letter  be  not  a  sufficient  testimony  of  the 
debt,  I  will  send  you  whatever  you  desire. 

"  It  is  late,  and  1  would  not  lose  this  post.  Like 
a  laconic  man  of  business,  therefore,  I  must  here 
stop  short;  though  I  have  several  things  to  im- 
part to  you,  and,  through  your  canal,  to  the  dear- 
est, truest,  heartiest  youth  that  treads  on  Scottish 
ground.  The  next  letter  I  write  you  shall  be 
washed  clean  from  business  in  the  Castalian  foun- 
tain. 

"  I  am  whipping  and  spurring  to  finish  a  tra- 
gedy for  you  this  winter,  but  am  still  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  goal,  which  makes  me  fear  being 


payment  to  bpgin  from  last  Martinmas.  So  that 
the  first  year  will  be  completed  at  Whitsunday 
next.  Your  domg  this  I  shall  look  upon  as  a 
particular  favour,  and  the  money  shall  be  paid 
here  at  your  order  as  you  please  to  direct.  Please, 
upon  receipt  of  this,  to  send  to  them  at  Mr.  Gust- 
hart's  and  to  advance  to  them  the  payment  for  last 
Martinmas,  which  place  to  my  account.  Had  1 
had  time  this  post,  I  would  have  written  to  them 
to  wait  upon  you.  1  have  a  tragedy,  entitled 
Agamemnon,  to  be  represented  here  about  three 
weeks  hence.  Please  to  let  me  know  how  many 
copies  I  shall  send  to  you,  and  you  shall  have 


_     — '        "  iiic  icai  uciug  p"jj^<-a  X  cuan  &cnu  lu  you,  ano  you  snail  nav< 

distanced.  Remember  me  to  all  friends,  and  above  them  in  full  time.    I  have  some  thoughts  of  print 


them  all  to  Mr.  Forbes.  Though  my  affection  to 
him  is  not  fanned  by  letters,  yet  is  it  as  high  as 
when  J,  was  his  brother  in  the  virtu,  and  played  at 
chess  with  him  in  a  post-chaise. 

I  am,  dear  Ross, 
Most  sincerely  and  affectionately  yours, 

James  Thomson." 

On  the  12th  of  the  foUowdng  January,  he  again 
wrote  to  Ross. 

*'  Having  been  entirely  in  the  country  of  late, 
finishing  my  play,  I  did  not  receive  yours  till  some 
days  ago.  It  was  kind  in  you  not  to  draw  rashly 
upon  me,  which  at  present  had  put  me  into  danger; 
but  very  soon,  that  is  to  say  about  two  months 
hence,  I  shall  have  a  golden  buckler,  and  you  may 
draw  boldly.  My  play  is  received  in  Drury  Lane, 
iflXkd  will  be  put  into  my  Lord  Chamberlain's  or  hia 


ing  it  for  myself,  but  if  I  do  not,  I  will  take  care 
you  shall  have  what  copies  of  it  you  demand.  If 
I  can  serve  you  in  any  thing  else  here,  I  shall  be 
very  glad." 

In  1736,  he  was  one  of  the  committee  of  mana- 
gers of  the  Society  for  the  Encouragement  of 
Learning,  his  colleagues  being  either  persons  of 
high  rank  or  of  considerable  literary  reputation. 

Thomson's  next  work  originated  in  gratitude. 
His  constant  and  generous  patron.  Lord  Chan- 
cellor Talbot,  died  in  February  1737,  and  soon 
afterwards,  the  beautiful  poem  to  his  memory  ap- 
peared.   Pieces  of  this  nature,  however  creditable 


"Petty,"  thus  spoken  of,  was  Dr.  Patrick  Murdoch,  tha 
"oily  man  of  God"  of  the  "Castle  of  Indolence,"  and  one  of 
Thomson's  biographers  and  editors, 
t  Duncan  Forbes. 


MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


the  feelings  may  be  which  inspired  them,  must 
possess  extraordinary  intrinsic  merit  to  create  m- 
terest  when  all  remembrance  of  the  individual 
whom  they  celebrate  has  passed  away.  This 
claim  is  possessed  by  the  article  in  question,  and 
the  same  reader  who  turns  from  the  cold  and  for- 
mal, though  elegant  versification  of  "  Liberty,"  if 
he  commence  the  tribute  to  Lord  Talbot,  will  be 
induced  to  go  on;  and  should  he  not  think  himself 
repaid  by  any  other  passage,  he  will  be  amply 
gratified  by  the  description  of  the  delicate  species 
of  patronage  which  it  is  fit  for  wealth  or  greatness 
to  bestow. 

"Let  learning,  arts,  let  universal  worth, 

Lament  a  patron  lost,  a  friend  and  judge. 

Unlike  the  sons  of  vanity,  that,  veil'd 

Beneath  the  patron's  prostituted  name, 

Dare  sacrifice  a  worthy  man  to  pride, 

Aad  flush  confusion  o'er  an  honest  cheek. 

When  he  conferr'd  a  grace,  it  seem'd  a  debt 

Which  he  to  merit,  to  the  public,  paid, 

And  to  the  great  all-bounteous  Source  of  Good. 

His  sympathising  heart  itself  received 

The  generous  obligation  he  bestow'd. 

This,  this  indeed,  is  patronising  worth. 

Their  kind  protector  him  the  Muses  own. 

But  scorn  with  noble  pride  the  boasted  aid 

Of  tasteless  Vanity's  insulting  hand. 

The  gracious  stream  that  cheers  the  lettered  world, 

Is  not  the  noisy  gift  of  summer's  noon. 

Whose  sudden  current,  from  the  naked  root, 

Washes  the  little  soil  which  yet  remained, 

And  only  more  dejects  the  blushing  flowers: 

No,  'tis  the  soft  descending  dews  at  eve, 

The  silent  treasures  of  the  vernal  year. 

Indulging  deep  their  stores,  the  still  night  long; 

Till,  with  returning  morn,  the  freshen'd  world 

Is  fragrance  all,  all  beauty,  joy,  and  song." 


•The  opportunity  is  also  taken  to  defend  Bishop 
Rundle,  his  early  patron  and  the  confidential 
friend  of  the  chancellor,  who  incurred  the  suspi- 
cion of  heresy,  and  it  is  not  too  much  to  say,  that 
whilst  this  piece  does  honour  to  the  virtues  of  his 
heart,  it  elevates  his  character  as  a  poet. 

His  motive  for  perpetuating  the  fame  of  Lord 
Talbot  was  wholly  disinterested:  it  was,  indeed,  a 
pure  offering  to  that  setting  sun  on  whose  rays 
depended  all  the  brightness  of  his  own  prospects 
With  the  chancellor  he  lost  the  situation  which 
tendered  him  independent;  and  though  Lord 
Hardwicke,  Talbot's  successor,  is  said  to  have  kept 
the  office  open  in  expectation  that  Thomson  would 
apply  for  it,  he  failed  to  do  so,  and  it  was  given  to 
another.  From  what  this  neglect  of  his  interests 
arose  must  be  left  to  conjecture.  It  is  said  that  he 
was  Hstless  and  indifferent:  but  he  may  perhaps 
have  fancied  that  his  eminence  was  sufficiently 
great  to  have  induced  the  new  chancellor  to  offer 
what  his  lordship  imagined  would  have  been 
sought,  and  possibly  the  Poet  was  deprived  of  the 
office  from  a  mistaken  pride  on  both  sides.  He 


might,  however,  without  meanness,  have  asked  to 
retain  what  he  already  possessed,  and  the  other 
might  have  had  the  urbanity  to  offer  to  continue 
that  which  it  was  ungenerous  to  take  away ;  but 
he  who,  trusting  to  the  merit  of  his  works,  suffers 
himself  to  believe  that  they  will  procure  him  that 
courtesy  from  rank  which  in  England  is  reserved 
for  those  possessed  of  wealth,  birth,  or  political  in- 
fluence, will  find  himself  fatally  mistaken,  and  like 
Thomson  will  have  cause  to  deplore  his  error. 

This  change  in  his  condition  did  not  however 
impair  his  energies  or  depress  his  spirits,  nor  did 
he  alter  his  manner  of  living,  trusting  probably  to 
the  sale  of  his  writings  to  supply  his  wants.  The 
loss  of  his  situation  as  Secretary  of  Briefs  renders 
it  probable  that  it  was  about  this  period  when  he 
was  arrested  for  debt,  and  was  rescued  from  a 
spunging  house  by  Gtuin,  the  well  known  actor. 
The  anecdote  is  highly  creditable  to  both  parties, 
and  is  deserving  of  being  recorded,  as  the  origin 
of  a  friendship  betweeen  two  distinguished  per- 
sons, which  ended  only  with  their  lives ;  and  be- 
cause it  contradicts  the  aphorism,  that  a  pecuniary 
obligation  is  generally  repaid  by  ingratitude. 

On  learning  that  Thomson  was  confined  for  a 
debt  of  about  seventy  pounds,  Gtuin  repaired  to 
the  house,  antt  having  inquired  for,  was  intro- 
duced to  him.  Thomson  was  a  good  deal  discon-, 
certed  at  seeing  Gtuin  in  such  a  place,  and  his  em- 
barrassment increased  when  Gtuin  told  him  he  was 
come  to  sup  with  him,  being  conscious  that  all  the 
money  he  was  possessed  of  would  scarce  procure 
a  good  one,  and  that  credit  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. His  anxiety  was  however  removed  upon 
Gtuin's  informing  him  that,  as  he  supposed  it 
would  have  been  inconvenient  to  have  had  the  sup- 
per dressed  in  the  place  they  were  in,  he  had  or- 
dered it  from  an  adjacent  tavern,  and  as  a  prelude 
half  a  dozen  of  claret  was  introduced.  Supper 
being  over,  Gtuin  said,  "  It  is  time  now,  Jemmy 
Thomson,  we  should  balance  accounts."  This 
not  a  little  astonished  the  poet,  who  imagined  he 
had  some  demand  upon  him ;  but  Gluin,  perceiving 
it,  continued,  "  Sir,  the  pleasure  I  have  had  in 
perusing  your  works,  I  can  not  estimate  at  less  than 
a  hundred  pounds,  and  I  insist  upon  taking  this 
opportunity  of  acquitting  myself  of  the  debt."  On 
saying  this,  he  put  down  a  note  of  that  value,  and 
hastily  took  his  leave,  without  waiting  for  a  reply. 

The  most  valuable  acquaintance  which  Thom- 
son ever  formed  was  with  Mr.,  afterwards  the  cele- 
brated Lord  Lyttelton,  whom  Pope  has  described 
as  being 


Still  true  to  virtue  and  as  warm  as  true, 

but  the  precise  time  or  manner  of  its  commence- 
ment is  no  where  mentioned.  Murdoch  says 
Lyttelton  presented  him  to  the  Prince  of  "Wales 
before  he  was  personally  known  to  him  j  and  John- 


MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


son  states  that  this  occurred  after  he  lost  his  situa- 
tion of  Secretary  of  Briefs,  which  was  early  in 
1737.  On  being  introduced,  his  Royal  Flighness 
inquired  into  the  state  of  his  affairs,  and  Thomson 
having  answered  that  "  they  were  in  a  more  poeti- 
cal posture  than  formerly,"  the  prince  granted  him 
a  pension  of  1001.  a  year,  but  of  which  he  lived  to 
be  deprived. 

In  1738  Agamemnon  appeared,  but  its  reception 
was  far  from  favourable;  and  a  ludicrous  story  is 
told  of  Thomson's  agony  at  witnessing  the  repre- 
sentation, on  the  first  night,  being  so  great,  as  to 
oblige  him  to  excuse  his  delay  in  meeting  the 
friends  with  whom  he  had  promised  to  sup,  saying 
that  his  wig  had  been  so  disordered  by  perspiration 
that  he  could  not  appear  until  he  had  submitted  to 
the  hands  of  the  hair-dresser.    It  is  said,  too,  that 
such  was  his  excitement  upon  the  occasion,  that 
he  audibly  accompanied  the  actors  in  their  recita- 
tion, until  a  friend  reminded  him  of  the  indiscre- 
tion.   Pope  was  present  at  its  appearance,  and  was 
honoured  by  the  audience  with  a  general  clap,  a 
mark  of  approbation  which,  though  not  uncommon 
in  other  countries,  is  rarely  evinced  by  an  English 
audience  tp  a  man  who  is  merely  a  poet.  Aga- 
memnon was  inscribed  to  the  Princess  of  Wales, 
in  a  dedication  which  is  good  because  it  is  short, 
and  free  from  the  fulsome  panegyrics  common  to 
such  addresses.    The  prologue  was  furnished  by 
Mallet;  the  epilogue,  which  from  not  being  as- 
signed to  any  other  author,  may  in  its  present  form 
be  considered  Thomson's  own,  is  remarkable  for 
being  altered  after  the  first  representation ;  and  in 
all  the  editions  of  the  play  a  note  occurs,  stating 
that  the  whole,  excepting  the  six  lines  with  which 
it  commences,  "  being  very  justly  disliked  by  the 
audience,  another  was  substituted  in  its  place." 
Whether  the  original  epilogue  was  written  by  him 
is  doubtful,  and  it  would  seem  from  the  substituted 
lines,  that  those  which  gave  place  to  it  were  ob- 
noxious from  their  indelicacy.    With  much  tact 
he  hails  their  rejection  as  an  indication  of  a  better 
taste: 

"  Thua  he  began :— And  you  approved  the  strain ; 
Till  the  next  couplet  sunk  to  light  and  vain. 
You  check'd  him  there.— To  you,  to  reason  just, 
He  owns  he  triumph'd  in  your  kind  disgust, 
Charm'd  by  your  frown,  by  your  displeasure  graced, 
He  hails  the  rising  virtue  of  your  taste;" 


and  he  concluded  with  congratulating  th'em  on  the 
improvement. 

Shortly  before  Agamemnon  was  produced.  Dr. 
Rundle  thus  wrote  to  Mrs.  Sandys,  whence  it  ap- 
pears that  that  lady  had  suggested  a  subject  for  a 
play  to  him,  which  he  once  intended  to  adopt. 

"My  friend  Thomson,  the  poet,  is  bringing 
another  untoward  heroine  on  the  stage,  and  has 
deferred  writing  on  the  subject  you  chose  for  him, 
though  he  had  the  whole  scheme  drawn  out  into 


acts  and  scenes,  proper  turns  of  passion  and  sen- 
timents  pointed  out  to  him,  and  the  distress  made 
as  touching  and  important,  as  new,  and  interest- 
ing, and  regular,  as  any  that  was  ever  introduced 
on  the  stage  at  Athens,  for  the  instruction  of  that 
polite  nation.    But,  perhaps  the  delicacy  of  the 
subject,  and  the  judgment  required  in  saying  bold 
truths,  whose  boldness  should  not  make  them  de- 
generate into  oflfensiveness,  deterred  him.  His 
present  story  is  the  death  of  Agamemnon.  An 
adulteress,  who  murders  her  husband,  is  but  an 
odd  example  to  be  presented  befor*e,  and  admonish 
the  beauties  of  Great  Britain,  However,  if  he  will 
be  advised,  it  shall  not  be  a  shocking,  though  it 
can  not  be  a  noble  story.    He  will  enrich  it  with 
a  profusion  of  worthy  sentiments  and  high  poetry, 
but  it  will  be  written  in  a  rough,  harsh  style,  and 
in  numbers  great,  but  careless.    He  wants  that 
neatness  and  simplicity  of  diction  which  is  sp  na- 
tural in  dialogue.    He  can  not  throw  the  light  of 
an  elegant  ease  on  his  thoughts,  which  will  make 
the  sublimest  turns  of  art  appear  the  genuine  un- 
premeditated dictates  of  the  heart  of  the  speaker. 
But  with  all  his  faults,  he  will  have  a  thousand 
masterly  strokes  of  a  great  genius  seen  in  all  he 
writes;  and  he  will  be  applauded  by  those  who 
most  censure  him." 

In  the  ensuing  year,  1739,  his  play  entitled  Ed- 
ward and  Eleanora  was  oflfered  to  the  stage,  but 
was  prohibited  from  being  represented.  To  un- 
derstand this  measure,  it  is  necessary  to  allude  to 
the  politics  of  the  period.  The  heir  apparent,  Fre- 
derick, Prince  of  Wales,  liveii  in  open  hostility  to 
his  father  George  the  Second  ;  his  house  was  the 
rendezvous  of  the  opposition,  and  as  the  advocate 
of  liberal  opinions  he  was  the  idol  of  the  whigs  and 
other  dicontented  persons.  The  plot  of  Edward 
and  Eleanora  is  derived  from  the  well  known  story 
of  Eleanor  of  Castile,  the  wife  of  King  Edward 
the  First,  having  preserved  her  husband's  life  in 
the  Holy  Land  by  sucking  the  poison  from  his 
wound.  As  Edward  was  then  heir  apparent  to 
the  crown,  he  stood  in  the  same  position  as  the 
Prince  of  Wales;  and  Thomson  availed  himself 
of  the  circumstance  to  introduce  some  passages 
calculated  to  strengthen  the  prince's  popularity  by 
encouraging  the  people  to  hope  for  his  accession. 
Of  these  the  most  striking  are:  • 

"  Edward,  return ;  lose  not  a  day,  an  hour, 
Before  this  city.   Though  your  cause  be  holy, 
Believe  me,  'tis  a  much  more  pious  office, 
To  save  your  father's  old  and  broken  years. 
His  mild  and  easy  temper,  from  the  snares 
Of  low,  corrupt,  insinuating  traitors: 
A  nobler  olRce  far !  on  the  firm  base 
Of  well  proportion'd  liberty,  to  build 
The  common  quiet,  happiness,  and  glory 
Of  king  and  people,  England's  rising  grandeur. 
To  you,  my  Prince,  this  task,  of  right,  belongs. 
Has  not  the  I'oyal  heir  a  juster  claim 


MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


XV 


To  share  his  father's  inmost  heart  and  counsels, 
Than  aliens  to  his  interest,  those,  who  make 
A  property,  a  market  of  his  honour  V 
"  Edward  has  great,  has  amiable  virtues ; 
That  virtue  chiefly  which  befits  a  prince- 
He  loves  the  people  he  must  one  day  rule ; 
With  fondness  loves  them,  with  a  noble  pride ; 
Esteems  their  good,  esteems  their  glory  his." 
"Amidst  his  many  virtues,  youthful  Edward 
Is  lofty,  warm,  and  absolute  of  temper; 
I  therefore  seek  to  moderate  his  heat, 
To  guide  his  fiery  virtues,  that,  misled 
By  dazzling  power  and  flattering  sycophants, 
Might  finish  what  his  father's  weaker  measures 
Have  tried  in  vain.    And  hence  I  here  attend  him. 
O  save  our  country,  Edward  !  save  a  nation. 
The  chosen  land,  the  last  retreat  of  freedom. 
Amidst  a  world  enslaved  !— Cast  back  thy  view, 
And  trace  from  farthest  times  her  old  renown : 
Think  of  the  blood  that,  to  maintain  her  rights. 
And  guard  her  sheltering  laws,  has  flow'd  in  battle, 
Or  on  the  patriot's  scaffold  :  think  what  cares. 
What  vigilance,  what  toils,  what  bright  contention, 
In  councils,  camps,  and  well  disputed  senates, 
It  cost  our  generous  ancestors,  to  raise 
A  matchless  plea  of  freedom :  whence  we  shine, 
Even  in  the  jealous  eye  of  hostile  nations. 
The  happiest  of  mankind. — Then  see  all  this. 
This  virtue,  wisdom,  toil,  and  blood  of  ages. 
Behold  it  ready  to  be  lost  for  ever. 
In  this  important,  this  decisive  hour. 
On  thee,  and  thee  alone,  our  weeping  country 
Turns  her  distressful  eye;  to  thee  she  calls. 
And  with  a  helpless  parent's  piercing  voice." 

Edward  is  made  to  say,  in  reply, 

"  O,  there  is  nothing,  which  for  thee,  my  country, 
I,  in  my  proper  person,  could  not  suffer !" 
Many  other  political  allusions  occur,  which  it  was 
impossible  not  to  understand,  and  when  under- 
stood not  to  apply  ;  hence  the  suppression  of  the 
piece  was  neither  surprising  nor  unreasonable.* 
The  remark  of  Johnson  that  it  was  difficult  to 
discover  why  the  play  was  not  allowed  to  be  acted, 
proves  that  he  never  read  Thomson's  works  with 
the  attention  which  was  incumbent  upon  his  biog- 
rapher. It  was,  however,  printed  with  a  dedica- 
tion to  the  Princess  of  Wales,  the  moderation  of 
which  is  its  chief  merit.    He  says, 

"  In  the  character  of  Eleanora  I  have  endea- 
voured to  represent,  however  faintly,  a  princess 
distinguished  for  all  the  virtues  that  render  great- 
ness amiable.    I  have  aimed,  particularly,  to  do 

'  Murdoch  says,  "  This  refusal  drew  after  it  another ;  and 
in  a  way  which,  as  it  is  related,  was  rather  ludicrous.  Mr. 
Paterson,  a  companion  of  Mr.  Thomson,  afterwards  his  de- 
puty and  then  his  successor  in  the  general-surveyorship,  used 
to  write  out  fair  copies  for  his  friend,  when  such  were  wanted 
for  the  press  or  for  the  stage.  This  gentlonan  lil5^ewise  court- 
ed the  tragic  muse ;  and  had  taken  for  his  subject  the  story  of 
Arminius  the  German  hero.  But  his  play,  guiltless  as  it  was, 
being  presented  for  a  license,  no  sooner  had  the  censor  cast  his 
eyes  on  the  hand-writing  in  which  he  had  seen  Edward  and 
,  Eleanora,  than  he  cried  out,  '  Away  with  it !'  and  the  author's 
profits  were  reduced  to  what  his  booliseller  could  afford  for  a 
tragedy  in  distress." 


justice  to  her  inviolable  affection  and  generous 
tenderness  for  a  prince,  who  was  the  darling  of  a 
great  and  free  people.  Their  descendants,  even 
now,  will  own  with  pleasure  how  properly  this 
address  is  made  to  your  Royal  Highness." 

The  loss  of  whatever  fame  and  profit  he  may^ 
have  anticipated  in  consequence  of  the  prohibition 
of  this  tragedy,  was  more  than  made  up  by  the 
sympathy  of  the  public.  To  the  latter  he  ap- 
peared in  a  light  which  never  fails  to  render  an 
Englishman  attractive,  that  of  a  sufferer  for  the 
sake  of  freedom,  and  an  injured  patriot !  Johnson 
states  that  he  endeavoured  to  repair  his  pecuniary 
loss  by  a  subscription,  but  he  says  that  he  can 
not  tell  its  success.  Upon  the  same  authority 
it  is  related,  that  "  when  the  pubhc  murmured  at 
the  unkind  treatment  of  Thomson,  one  of  the  mi- 
nisterial writers  remarked,  that  he  had  taken  a 
'  liberty'  which  was  not  agreeable  to  Britannia  in 
any  season." 

From  this  time  until  1745  Thomson  did  little 
excepting  that  about  the  year  1740  he  wrote  his 
"  Masque  of  Alfred,"  in  conjunction  with  his 
friend  Mallet.  This  was  composed  by  command 
of  the  Prince  of  Wales  for  the  entertainment  of 
his  household  at  his  summer  residence,  and  was 
performed  at  the  gardens  in  Clifden  on  the  1st  of 
August,  1740,  before  a  brilliant  audience,  consist- 
ing of  their  Royal  Highnesses,  the  Prince  and 
Princess  of  Wales  and  their  whole  suite.  This 
piece,  with  alterations  and  new  music,  was  some 
years  afterwards  acted  at  Covent  Garden.* 

Three  letters  which  Thomson  wrote  in  the  year 
1742,  when  he  was  residing  in  Kew  Lane,  have 
been  printed.  Two  of  them  are  addressed  to  Mrs. 
Robertson,  the  sister  of  Miss  Young,  to  whom  he 
was  warmly  attached,  and  whose  beauty  and  me- 
rits he  repeatedly  celebrated  under  the  name  of 
Amanda.  Those  ladies  had  gone  to  Bath  for 
their  health,  and  Thomson  laments  the  loss  of 
their  society  in  a  lively  style :  a  passage  in  one 
of  them,  in  yvhich  he  speaks  of  Mrs.  Robertson's 
child,  in  reference  to  Miss  Young,  is  worth  ex- 
tracting : 

"  I  can  not  help  telling  you  of  a  very  pleasing 
scene  I  lately  saw. — In  the  middle  of  a  green  field 
there  stands  a  peaceful  lowly  habitation;  into 


*  It  was  entirely  new  modelled  by  Mallet,  no  part  of  the 
first  being  retained  except  a  few  lines.  It  was  acted  at  Drury 
Lane,  and  published  in  8vo.  in  1751.  Though  excellently 
performed,  it  was  not  very  successful.  The  prologue  was 
written  by  the  Earl  of  Corke.  It  has  been  said,  that  Mallet 
procured  Alfred  to  be  performed  at  Drury  Lane,  by  insinu- 
ating to  Garrick,  that,  in  his  intended  Life  of  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough,  he  should,  by  an  ingenious  device,  find  a  niche 
for  the  Roscius  of  the  age.  "  My  dear  friend,"  said  Gar)  ick, 
"have  you  quite  left  off"  witing  for  the  stage?"  The  hint 
was  taken,  and  Alfred  was  produced. — BiograpLia  Bra 
matica. 


presented  it 

Hagley,  in  Worcestershire^ 
October  the  4th,  1747. 

'  MY  DEAR  SISTER, 

I  thought  you  had  known  me  better  than  to 


^^"i  MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 

Lyttclton,  whose  influence  obtained  it  for  him,  |  But  enough  of  this  melancholy  though  not  un- 
havmg  incurred  the  Prince's  displeasure.    West '  pleasing  strain 

rvtl!!f  tl"!^  Tr':'"  ""^I^'  ^"-1     "  '  ^^^^^^  ---^le  and  disinter- 

dividual,  and  who  were  similarly  favoured  with'ested  advice  to  Mr.  Bell,  as  you  will  see  bv  mv 
pensions  were  deprived  of  them  on  the  same  day  letter  to  him;  as  I  approve,  entirely,  of  his  marry 

to3   7I7  I    '^  7\   K  circumstances  have  hitherto 

tober,  174;,  he  wrote  to  his  sister,  Mrs.  Thomson,  been  so  variable  and  uncertain  in  this  fluctuating 

and,asi  is  the  last  to  his  family  which  has  been  world,  as  induce  to  keep  me  from  engngin  if 

preserved,!  will  be  read  with  interest.    Dr.  John-  such  a  state;  and  now  though  they  are  more 

TresenZ  k  '^'^  ^'^^  ^"'^  ^^^^^  ^e  glad  to 

Dresen  e  i  .  ^^^^^^  considerably  improved,  I  begin  to  think  my- 

self too  far  advanced  in  life  for  such  youthful  un- 
dertakings, not  to  mention  some  other  petty  rea- 
sons that  are  apt  to  startle  the  delicacy  of  difficult 
,  u  1  1  ,  bachelors.    I  am,  however,  not  a  Uttle  suspi- 

1  thought  you  had  known  me  better  than  to  cious,  that  was  I  to  pay  a  visit  to  Scotland  of 
interpret  my  silence  into  a  decay  of  affection,  which  I  have  some  thoughts  of  doina  soo^  T 
especially  as  your  behaviour  has  always  been  such  might  possibly  be  tempted  to  think  of  a  thin,  ^ot 
as  rather  to  mcrease  than  dimmish  it.  Do  not  easily  repaired  if  done  amiss.  I  have  afways 
imagine,  because  I  am  a  bad  correspondent,  that  been  of  opinion,  that  none  make  better  wives  than 
can  ever  prove  an  unkind  friend  and  brother,  the  ladies  of  Scotland ;  and  yet,  who  more  forsa- 
I  must  do  myself  the  justice  to  tell  you,  that  my  ken  than  they,  while  the  gentlemen  are  continual- 
affections  are  naturally  very  flxed  and  constant;  ly  running  abroad  all  the  world  over'^  Some  of 
and  If  I  had  ever  reason  of  complaint  against  them,  it  is  true,  are  wise  enough  to  return  for  a 
you,  of  which,  bytheby,Ihave  not  the  least  sha-  wife.  You  see  I  am  beginning  to  make  intel 
dow,  I  am  conscious  of  so  many  defects  m  my-  already  with  the  Scotch  ladies.  But  no  more  of 
self,  as  dispose  me  to  be  not  a  httle  charitable  and  this  infectious  subject.  ,  Pray  let  me  hear  from 
orgiving.  :  ^^^^ .        ^j^^^      ^  ^ 

It  gives  me  the  truest  heartfelt  satisfaction  to  lar  correspondent,  yet,  perhaps,  I  may  mend  in 
hear  you  have  a  good,  kind  husband,  and  are  in  that  respect.    Remember  me  k/ndly  to  youThus 
easy,  contented  circumstances;  but  were  they  band,  and  helieve  me  to  be 
otherwise,  that  would  only  awaken  and  heighten  Your  most  affectionate  brother 

my  tenderness  towards  you.    As  our  good  and  j^.^^^  Thomson 

tender-hearted  parents  did  not  live  to  receive  any  To  Mrs.  Thomson,  in  Lanark 
material  testimonies  of  that  highest  human  grati- 
tude I  owed  them,  than  which  nothing  could  have      It  was  during  this  visit  to  Hagley  that  he  was 
given  me  equal  pleasure  the  only  return  lean  met  by  Shenstone,  who  says,  if  a^et  r  did 
make  them  now  is,  by  kindness  to  those  they  left  20th  September  1747- 

behind  them.  Would  to  God  poor  Lizy  had  lived  "  As  I  was  returning  from  church  on  Sunday 
onger  to  have  been  a  farther  witness  of  the  last,  whom  should  I  meet  in  a  chai  e  wWi  two 
truth  ot  what  I  say;  and  that  I  might  have  had  horses  lengthways,  but  that  right  friendly  b  rd 
he  pleasure  of  seeing  once  more  a  sister,  who  so^  Mr.  Thomson?  I  complimented  him  upon 
truly  deserved  my  esteem  and  love.  But  she  is  \  arrival  in  this  country,  and  asked  him  to  accom 
happy,  while  we  must  toi  a  nttle  b^^^^^^^  Lyttelton  to  the  Leasowe"  wlih  he 

low:  let  us,  however,  do  it  cheerfully  and  grate-  !  said  he  would  with  abundance  of  pleasure  and  so 
fully,  supported  by  the  pleasing  hope  of  meeting !  we  parted  "  ' 
yet  agam  on  a  safer  shore  where  to  recollect  the  The  Castle  of  Indolence  and  Coriolanus  next 
storms  and  difficulties  of  life  will  not,  perhaps,  be '  occupied  his  attention,  and  the  former  which 
mconsisten  with  that  blissful  state.  "  You  did  had  been  in  progress  fo  nearly  f  ft  'ryir  1^ 
ngh  to  call  your  daughter  by  her  name;  for  you  ' was  originally  intended  to  consL  of  a  f^stan^^^^ 
must  needs  have  had  a  particular  tender  friend-  ridiculing  the  want  of  energy  in  himself  an  I  som^ 
ship  for  one  another,  endeared  as  you  were  by '  of  his  friends,  appeared  infbout  C  1748  and 
nature,  by  having  passed  the  affectionate  years^was  the  last  ^r^duction  of  his  pen  wl  id  he  lit  d 
of  your  youth  together,  and  by  that  great  softener  to  print.    The  sketch  of  himself  is  x t     li  i^ 

It  iTfn'"  ""'"^  ^''■'■^'"P-  ^^-"gh  he  says  all,  excepti,..  the  fi  "t 

It  was   n  my  power  to  ease  it  a  little,  1  account  line,  was  wmtten  by  a  friend,  who  is  a^s  rtod  to 
me  of  the  most  exquisite  pleasures  of  my  life,  have  been  Lord  Lyttelton 


MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


"  A  bard  here  dwelt,  more  fat  than  bard  beseems; 
Who,  void  of  envy,  guile,  and  lust  of  gain, 
On  virtue  still,  and  Nature's  pleasing  themes, 
Pour'd  forth  his  unpremeditated  strain ; 
The  v/orld  forsaking  with  a  calm  disdain; 
Here  laugh'd  he  careless  in  his  easy  seat ; 
Here  quaffM  encircled  with  the  joyous  train, 
Oft  moralizing  sage :  his  ditty  sweet 
He  loated  much  to  write,  ne  cared  to  repeat." 


Of  the  other  portraits  a  few  only  have  been 
identified.  The  sixty-sixth  stanza  alludes  to 
Lord  Lyttelton;  the  sixty-seventh  to  Mr.  Gluin; 
the  sixty-ninth  has  been  supposed  to  describe 
Dr.  Ayscough,  his  lordship's  brother-in-lav^r,  but 
it  was  clearly  a  picture  of  Dr.  Murdoch,  as  he 
applies  nearly  the  same  words  to  him,  in  a  letter 
printed  in  this  memoir.  Another  was,  he  says, 
intended  for  his  friend,  Mr.  Paterson,  his  deputy 
in  the  office  of  Surveyor  General  of  the  Leeward 
Islands. 

The  following  letter  is  without  a  date,  but  from 
his  stating  that  the  Castle  of  Indolence  would  be 
published  in  a  fortnight,  it  must  have  been  writ- 
ten about  April,  1748. 

"  Dear  Paterson, 

"  In  the  first  place,  and  previous  to  my  letter,  I 
must  recommend  to  your  favour  and  protection 
Mr.  James  Smith,  searcher  in  St.  Christopher's: 
and  I  beg  of  you,  as  occasion  shall  serve,  and  as 
you  find  he  merits  it,  to  advance  him  in  the  busi- 
ness of  the  customs.  He  is  warmly  recommend- 
ed to  me  by  Sargent,  who,  in  verity,  turns  out 
one  of  the  best  men  of  our  youthful  acquaintance, 
— honest,  honourable,  friendly,  and  generous.  If 
we  are  not  to  oblige  one  another,  life  becomes  a 
paltry,  selfish  affair, — a  pitiful  morsel  in  a  corner. 
Sargent  is  so  happily  married,  that  1  could  almost 
say, — the  same  case  happen  to  us  all. 

"That  I  have  not  answered  several  letters  of 
yours,  is  not  owing  to  the  want  of  friendship  and 
the  sincerest  regard  for  you;  but  you  know  me 
well  enough  to  account  for  my  silence,  without 
my  saying  any  more  upon  that  head ;  besides,  I 
have  very  little  to  say  that  is  worthy  to  be  trans- 
mitted over  the  great  ocean.  The  world  either 
futilises  so  much,  or  we  grow  so  dead  to  it,  that 
its  transactions  make  but  feeble  impressions  on 
us.  Retirement  and  nature  are  more  and  more 
my  passion  every  day,  and  now,  even  now,  the 
charming  time  comes  on:  Heaven  is  just  on  the 
point,  or  rather  in  the  very  act,  of  giving  earth  a 
green  gown.  The  voice  of  the  nightingale  is 
heard  in  our  lane. 

"  You  must  know  that  I  have  enlarged  my  ru- 
ral domain  much  to  the  same  dimensions  you  have 
done  yours.  The  two  fields  next  to  me,  from 
the  first  of  which  I  have  walled — no,  no — paled 
in  about  as  much  as  my  garden  consisted  of  be- 
28  2M 


fore,  so  that  the  walk  runs  round  the  hedge, 
where  you  may  figure  me  walking  any  time  of 
the  day,  and  sometimes  in  the  night.  I  imagine 
you  reclining  under  cedars,  and  there  enjoying 
more  magnificent  slumbers  than  are  known  to 
pale  climates  of  the  north;  slumbers  rendered 
awful  and  divine  by  the  solemn  stillness  and 
deep  fervours  of  the  torrid  noon.  At  other  times 
I  image  you  drinking  punch  in  groves  of  lime  or 
orange  trees,  gathering  pineapples  from  hedges, 
as  commonly  as  we  may  blackberries,  poetising 
under  lofty  laurels,  or  making  love  under  full 
spread  myrtles.  But,  to  lower  my  style  a  little  as 
I  am  such  a  genuine  lover  of  gardening,  why  do 
not  you  remember  me  in  that  instance,  and  send 
me  some  seeds  of  things  that  might  succeed  here 
during  the  summer,  though  they  can  not  perfect 
their  seed  sufficiently  in  this,  to  them,  unconge- 
nial climate  to  propagated  in  which  case  is  the 
caliloo,  which,  from  the  seed  it  bore  here,  came 
up  puny,  rickety,  and  good  for  nothing.  There 
are  other  things  certainly  with  you,  not  yet 
brought  over  hither,  that  might  flourish  here  in 
the  summer  time,  and  five  tolerably  well,  pro- 
vided they  be  sheltered  in  a  hospitable  stove,  or 
green-house,  during  the  winter.  You  will  give 
me  no  small  pleasure  by  sending  me,  from  time 
to  time,  some  of  these  seeds,  if  it  were  no  more 
but  to  ajpause  me  in  making  the  trial.  With  re- 
gard to  the  brother  gardeners,  you  ought  to  know 
i  that,  as  they  are  half  vegetables,  the  animal  part 
of  them  will  never  have  spirit  enough  to  consent 
:  to  the  transplanting  of  the  vegetables  into  distant, 
!  dangerous  cHmates.  They,  happily  for  them- 
j  selves,  have  no  other  idea  but  to  dig  on  here,  eat, 
'  drink,  sleep,  and  kiss  their  wives, 
i  "  As  to  more  important  business,  I  have  no- 
thing to  write  to  you.  You  know  best.  Be,  as 
I  you  always  must  be,  just  and  honest;  but  if  you 
are  unhappily,  romantic,  you  shall  come  home, 
without  money,  and  write  a  tragedy  on  yourself. 
!  Mr.  Lyttelton  told  me  that  the  Grenvilles  and  he 
had  strongly  recommended  the  person  the  gover- 
nor and  you  proposed  for  that  considerable  office, 
lately  fallen  vacant  in  your  department,  and  that 
there  was  good  hopes  of  succeeding.  He  told  me 
also  that  Mr.  Pitt  had  said  that  it  was  not  to  be 
expected  that  offices  such  as  that  is,  for  which 
the  greatest  interest  is  made  here  at  home,  could 
be  accorded  to  your  recommendation,  but  that  as 
to  the  middling  or  inferior  offices,  if  there  was  not 
some  particular  reason  to  the  contrary,  regard 
would  be  had  thereto.  This  is  all  that  can  be 
'•  reasonably  desired ;  and  if  you  are  not  infected 
with  a  certain  Creolian  distemper,  whereof  I  am 
persuaded  your  soul  will  utterly  resist  the  conta- 
gion, as  1  hope  your  body  will  that  of  the  natural 
ones,  there  are  few  men  so  capable  of  that  unpe- 
rishable  happiness,  that  peace  and  satisfaction  of 


XX 


MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


mind,  at  least,  that  proceeds  from  being  reasona- 
ble and  moderate  in  our  desires,  as  you.  These 
are  the  treasures  dug  from  an  inexhaustible  mine 
in  our  own  breasts,  which,  like  those  in  the  king- 
dom of  lieaven,  the  rust  of  time  can  not  corrupt, 
nor  thieves  break-through  and  steal.  I  must  learn 
to  work  this  mine  a  little  more,  being  struck  off 
from  a  certain  hundred  pounds  a  year  which  you 
know  I  had.  West,  Mallet,  and  I,  were  all  rout- 
ed in  one  day;  if  you  would  know  why — out  of 
resentment  to  our  friend  in  Argyll-street.  Yet  I 
have  hopes  given  me  of  having  it  restored  with 
interest  some  time  or  other.  Oh,  that  some  time 
or  other  is  a  great  deceiver. 

"  Coriolanus  has  not  yet  appeared  on  the  stage, 
from  the  little,  dirty  jealousy  of  TuUus*  towards 
him  who  alone  can  act  Coriolanus.t  Indeed,  the 
first  has  entirely  jockeyed  the  last  off  the  stage,  for 
this  season,  like  a  giant  in  his  wrath.  Let  us 
have  a  little  more  patience,  Paterson ;  nay,  let  us 
be  cheerful ;  at  last  all  will  be  well,  at  least  all  will 
be  over, — here  I  mean :  God  forbid  it  should  be  so 
hereafter !  But,  as  sure  as  there  is  a  God,  that 
will  not  be  so. 

"  Now  that  I  am  prating  of  myself,  know  that, 
after  fourteen  or  fifteen  years,  the  Castle  of  Indo- 
lence comes  abroad  in  a  fortnight.  It  will  certain- 
ly travel  as  far  as  Barbadoes.  You  have  an  apart- 
ment in  it  as  a  night  pensioner;  which,. you  rnay 
remember,  I  filled  up  for  you  during  our  delightful 
party  at  North  End.  Will  ever  these  days  return 
again'?  Do  not  you  remember  eating  the  raw  fish 
that  were  never  caught  1  All  our  friends  are  pret- 
ty much  in  statu  quo,  except  it  be  poor  JMr.  Lyttel- 
ton.  He  has  had  the  severest  trial  a  human  ten- 
der heart  can  have  ;t  but  the  old  physician,  Time, 
will  at  last  close  up  his  wounds,  though  there  must 
always  remain  an  inward  smarting.  Mitchell§  is 
in  the  house  for  Aberdeenshire,  and  has  spoke 
modestly  well ;  I  hope  he  will  be  something  else 
soon;  none  deserves  better:  true  friendship  and 
humanity  dwell  in  his  heart.  Gray  is  working 
hard  to  pass  his  accounts ;  I  spoke  to  him  about 
that  affair.  If  he  gave  you  any  trouble  about  it, 
even  that  of  dunning,  I  shall  think  strangely,  but 
I  dare  say  he  is  too  friendly  to  his  old  friends,  and 
you  are  among  the  oldest. 

"  Symmer  is  at  last  tired  of  gaiety,  and  is  going 
to  take  semi-country  house  at  Hammersmith.  1 
am  sorry  that  honest,  sensible  Warrender,  who  is 
in  town,  seems  to  be  stunted  in  church  preferment, 
He  ought  to  be  a  tall  cedar  in  the  house  of  the 
Lord.  If  he  is  not  so  at  last  it  will  add  more  fuel 
to  my  indignation,  that  burns  already  too  intense- 
ly, and  throbs  towai-ds  an  eruption.    Patrick  Mur- 


'  Garriclc.  t  Quin. 

I  Mrs.  Lyttelton  died  on  the  19th  of  January,  1746-7. 

i  Afterwards  Envoy  to  Berlin  and  a  Knight  of  the  Bath. 


doch  is  in  town,  tutor  to  Admiral  Vernon's  sou, 
and  is  in  good  hope  of  another  living  in  Suffolk, 
that  country  of  tranquilhty,  where  he  will  then 
burrow  himself  in  a  wife  and  be  happy.  Good- 
natured,  obliging  Miller,  is  as  usual.  Though  the 
Doctor*  increases  in  business  he  does  not  decrease 
in  spleen,  that  is  both  humane  and  agreeable,  like 
Jacques  in  the  play  ;  I  sometimes,  too,  have  a  touch 
of  it. 

"  But  I  must  break  off  this  chat  with  you  about 
your  friends,  which,  were  I  to  indulge  in,  would 
be  endless.  As  for  politics,  we  are,  1  believe,  on 
the  brink  of  a  peace.  The  French  are  vapouring 
at  present  in  the  siege  of  Maestricht,  at  the  same 
time  they  are  mortally  sick  in  their  marine,  and 
through  all  the  vitals  of  France.  It  is  a  pity  we 
can  not  continue  the  war  a  little  longer,  and  put 
their  agonizing  trade  quite  to  death.  This  siege, 
I  take  it,  they  mean  as  their  last  flourish  in  the 
war. 

"  May  your  health,  which  never  failed  you  yet, 
still  continue,  till  you  have  scraped  together  enough 
to  return  home  and  live  in  some  snug  corner,  as 
happy  as  the  corycium  senex,  in  Virgil's  fourth 
Georgic,  whom  I  recommend  both  to  you  and  my- 
self as  a  perfect  model  of  the  honest  happy  life. 
Believe  me  to  be  ever, 
Most  sincerely  and  affectionately  yours, 
James  Thomson." 

This  communication  discloses  the  reason  of 
"  Coriolanus"  being  delayed,  and  the  same  or  some 
other  cause  continuing  to  prevent  its  appearance, 
its  author  was  destined  never  to  witness  its  recep- 
tion. 

It  was  Thomson's  habit  to  walk  from  his  resi- 
dence in  Kew  Lane,  near  Richmond,  whenever 
the  weather  rendered  going  by  water  ineligible.  In 
one  of  these  journeys  from  London,  he  found  him- 
self, on  reaching  Hammersmith,  tired  and  over- 
heated, and  he  imprudently  took  a  boat  to  convey 
him  to  Kew.  The  walk  from  the  landing  place 
to  his  house  did  not  remove  the  chill  which  the  air 
on  the  water  produced,  and  the  next  day  he  found 
himself  in  a  high  fever,  a  state  which  his  pletho- 
ric habit  rendered  alarming.  His  disorder  yield- 
ed, however,  to  care  and  medicine,  and  he  was  soon 
out  of  danger ;  but  being  tempted  by  a  fine  eve- 
ning to  expose  himself  to  the  dew  before  he  was 
perfectly  restored,  a  relapse  took  place,  and  he  was 
speedily  beyond  the  powers  of  human  aid.  The 
moment  his  situation  became  known  in  town,  hia 
friends,  Mr.  Mitchell,  Mr,  Reid,  and  Dr.  Arm- 
strong hastened  to  him  at  midnight ;  but  their  pre- 
sence availed  nothing,  and  they  had  only  the  me- 
lancholy satisfaction  of  witnessing  his  last  mo- 
ments.   He  expired  on  the  27th  of  August,  1748, 


"  Dr,  Armstrong. 


MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


xxi 


having  wit'iin  a  few  days  completed  his  forty-eighth 
year.  Of  his  death-bed  no  particulars  are  record- 
ed. Mr.  Mitchell  and  Mr.  Lyttelton  charged  them- 
selves with  the  care  of  his  effects ;  and  on  the  25th 
of  October,  1748,  letters  of  administration  were 
granted  to  them  as  attorneys  of  Mary  Craig,  of 
Edinburgh,  formerly  Thomson,  wife  of  WiUiam 
Craig,  his  sister,  and  next  of  kin,  for  her  use. 

It  was  the  next  object  of  these  generous  friends 
to  bring  Thomson's  posthumous  tragedy  before 
the  public,  and  in  1749,  "  Coriolanus"  was  acted 
tor  the  benefit  of  his  relations.  The  Prologue, 
which  was  written  by  Mr.  Lyttelton,  and  was 
spoken  by  Cluin,  is  peculiarly  entitled  to  notice 
from  the  affecting  manner  in  which  the  writer 
speaks  of  the  author : 

"  I  come  not  here  your  candour  to  implore 

For  scenes,  whose  author  is,  alas !  no  more ; 

He  wants  no  advocate  his  cause  to  plead ; 

You  will  yourselves  be  patrons  of  the  dead. 

No  party  his  benevolence  confin'd, 

No  sect — alike  it  flow'd  to  all  mankind. 

He  loved  his  friends,  forgive  this  gushing  tear; 

Alas !  I  feel  I  am  no  actor  here, 

He  loved  his  friends  v^ith  such  a  warmth  of  heart, 

So  clear  of  interest,  so  devoid  of  art, 

Such  generous  friendship,  such  unshaken  zeal, 

No  words  can  speak  it,  but  our  tears  may  tell. 

Oh  candid  truth,  O  faith  without  a  stain, 

Oh  raanners  gently  firm,  and  nobly  plain, 

Oh  sympathizing  love  of  others'  bliss, 

Wliere  will  you  find  another  breast  like  his  1 

Such  was  the  Man— the  Poet  well  you  know 

Oft  has  he  touch'd  your  hearts  with  tender  woe : 

Oft  in  this  crowded  house,  with  just  applause 

You  heard  him  teach  fair  Virtue's  purest  laws; 

For  his  chaste  Muse  employ'd  her  heaven-taught  lyre 

None  but  the  noblest  passions  to  inspire, 

Not  one  immoral,  one  corrupted  thought. 

One  line,  which  dying  he  could  wish  to  blot. 

Oh,  may  to-night  your  favourable  doom 

Another  laurel  add  to  grace  his  tomb : 

Whilst  he,  superior  now  to  praise  or  blame, 

Hears  not  the  feeble  voice  of  human  fame. 

Yet  if  to  those,  whom  most  on  earth  he  loved, 

From  whom  his  pious  care  is  now  removed, 

With  whom  his  liberal  hand,  and  bounteous  heart, 

Shared  all  his  little  fortune  could  impart ; 

If  to  those  friends  your  kind  regard  shall  give 

What  they  no  longer  can  from  his  receive, 

That,  that,  even  now,  above  yon  starry  pole, 

May  touch  with  pleasure  his  immortal  soul." 

Truly  was  the  speaker  made  to  say  he  was  no 
actor  on  that  occasion,  and  the  feeling  which  he 
evinced,  in  reciting  these  verses,  gave  increased 
effect  to  their  touching  eloquence. 

Within  a  few  months  of  his  death,  his  old  pa- 
troness, the  Countess  of  Hertford,  stated  in  a  let- 
ter to  Lady  Luxborough,  that  Shenstone  had 
shown  her  his  poem  on  Autumn,  and  the  honour 
he  had  done  Thomson's  memory  in  it ;  adding 
that  he  told  her  he  purposed  erecting  an  urn  to 
him  in  Virgil's  Grove.  In  a  letter  to  Shenstone 
in  November,  1753,  that  lady,  then  Duchess  of 


Somerset,  requested  him  to  allow  Dodsley  to  add 
to  his  collection  his  poem  called  "  Damon's  Bower," 
addressed  to  William  Lyttelton,  Esq.,  and  offered 
to  lend  him  a  copy  in  case  he  had  lost  the  original. 
These  passages  prove  her  grace's  respect  for  his 
memory,  and  render  Johnson's  remark,  that  he 
had  displeased  her,  unlikely.  Shenstone  speaks 
feelingly  of  Thomson's  death  in  a  letter  written 
on  the  3d  of  September  following  : 

"  Poor  Mr.  Thomson,  Mr.  Pitt  tells  me,  is  dead. 
He  was  to  have  been  at  Hagley  this  week,  and 
then  I  should  probably  have  seen  him  here.  As 
it  is  I  will  erect  an  urn  in  Virgil's  Grove  to  his 
memory.  I  was  really  as  much  shocked  to  hear 
of  his  death,  as  if  I  had  known  and  loved  him 
for  a  number  of  years.  God  knows  I  lean  on  a 
very  few  friends,  and  if  they  drop  me,  I  become  a 
wretched  misanthrope." 

The  author  of  The  Seasons  is  thus  alluded  to  in 
the  poem  mentioned  by  the  Duchess  of  Somerset: 

"  Though  Thomson,  sweet  descriptive  hard ! 
Inspiring  Autumn  sung ; 
Yet  how  should  we  the  months  regard 
That  stopp'd  his  flowing  tongue  ? 

"  Ah  !  luckless  months,  of  all  the  rest. 
To  whose  hard  share  it  fell ! 
For  sure  he  was  the  gentlest  breast 
That  ever  sung  so  well. 

"  He !  he  is  gone,  whose  moral  strain 
Could  wit  and  mirth  refine : 
He !  he  is  gone,  whose  social  vein 
Surpass'd  the  power  of  wine. 

"  Fast  by  the  streams  he  deign'd  to  praise 
In  yon  sequester'd  grove. 
To  him  a  votive  urn  I  raise, 
To  him  and  friendly  Love. 

"  Yes,  there,  my  Friend  !  forlorn  and  sad, 
I  grave  your  Thomson's  name. 
And  there  his  lyre,  which  Fate  forbade 
To  sound  your  growing  fame. 

"There  shall  my  plaintive  song  recount 
Dark  themes  of  hopeless  woe. 
And  faster  than  the  dropping  fount 
I'll  teach  my  eyes  to  flow. 

"There  leaves,  in  spite  of  Autumn  green, 
Shall  shade  the  hallow'd  ground, 
And  Spring  will  there  again  be  seen 
To  call  forth  flowers  around. 

"  But  no  kind  suns  will  bid  me  share, 
Once  more,  his  social  hour ; 
Ah !  Spring !  thou  never  canst  repair 
This  loss  to  Damon's  bower." 

Thomson's  funeral  was  attended  by  Gtuin,  Mal- 
let, Mr.  Robertson,  the  brother-in-law  of  his 
Amanda,  and  another  friend,  probably  either  Mr. 
Lyttelton  or  Mr.  Mitchell.  He  was  buried  in. 
Richmond  Church,  under  a  plain  stone  without 
any  inscription,  and  his  works  formed  the  only 
monument  to  his  memory  until  the  erection  of  the 
one  in  Westminster  Abbey,  which  was  opened  to 


xxii 


MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


public  view  on  the  10th  of  May,  1762,  the  expense 
of  whicli  was  defrayed  by  an  edition  of  his  works 
printed  in  that  year  in  two  quarto  volumes,  and 
published  by  subscription.  It  is  situated  between 
those  of  Shakspeare  and  Rowe,  and  presents  a 
figure  of  Thomson  sitting,  leaning  his  left  arm  up- 
on a  pedestal,  and  holding  a  book  with  the  cap  of 
liberty  in  his  right  hand.  Upon  the  pedestal  is 
carved  a  bas-relief  of  "The  Seasons,"  to  which  a 
boy  points,  offering  him  a  laurel  crown  as  the  re- 
ward of  his  genius.  At  the  feet  of  the  figure  is  a 
magic  mask  and  ancient  harp.  The  whole  is  sup- 
ported by  a  projecting  pedestal;  and  on  a  pannel 
is  inscribed  his  name,  age,  and  the  date  of  his 
death,  with  the  lines  which  are  inserted  at  the 
commencement  of  this  Memoir,  taken  from  his 
Summer.  The  monument  was  designed  by  Adam, 
and  executed  by  Michael  and  Henry  Spang. 

Lord  Buchan  afterwards  placed  a  small  brass 
tablet  in  Richmond  Church  with  the  following  in- 
scription: 

In  the  earth,  below  this  tablet, 
are  the  remains  of 
JAMES  THOMSON, 
author  of  the  beautiful  poems,  entituled, 
"The  Seasons,"  the  "  Castle  of  Indolence,"  &c 
who  died  at  Richmond 
on  the  27th  of  August, 

and  was  buried 
on  the  29th  O.  S.  1748. 
The  Earl  of  Buchan, 
unwilUng  that 
so  good  a  man,  and  sweet  a  poet, 
should  be  without  a  memorial, 
has  denoted  the  place  of  his  interment, 
for  the  satisfaction  of  his  admirers, 
in  the  year  of  our  Lord, 
M.DCC.XCII. 


Beneath  this  inscription,  his  lordship  added  this 
beautiful  passage  from  Winter, 

"  Father  of  Light  and  life !  thou  Good  Supreme ! 
O  teach  me  what  is  good!  teach  me  thyself! 
Save  me  from  folly,  vanity,  and  vice, 
From  every  low  pursuit !  and  feed  my  soul 
With  knowledge,  conscious  peace,  and  virtue  pure  ; 
Sacred,  substantial,  never  fading  bliss !" 

By  the  sale  of  an  edition  of  his  works,  undertaken 
for  the  purpose  of  aiding  his  relations,  and  the 
profits  of  his  last  Tragedy,  a  sufficient  sum  was 
raised  to  liquidate  all  his  debts  and  to  leave  a  hand- 
some residue.* 


In  the  whole  range  of  British  poetry  Thomson's 
"  Seasons"  are,  perhaps,  the  earliest  read,  and 
most  generally  admired ;  hence  it  is  not  necessary 
to  say  much  on  the  peculiar  character  of  a  genius 
so  well  known  and  so  often  discussed.  He  was 
the  Poet  of  Nature,  and  his  chief  merit  consisted 
in  describing  her,  and  the  pleasure  aflJbrded  by  a 
contemplation  of  her  infinite  and  glorious  varieties. 
Studying  her  deeply,  his  mind  acquired  that  pla- 
cidity of  thought  and  feeling  which  an  abstraction 
from  public  life  is  sure  to  generate.  She  was  to 
him,  as  he  has  himself  said,  a  source  of  happiness 
of  which  fortune  could  not  deprive  him; — 

"  I  care  not,  fortune,  Avhat  you  me  deny ; 
You  can  not  rob  me  of  free  nature's  grace ; 
You  can  not  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky, 
Through  which  Aurora  shows  her  brightening  face ; 
You  can  not  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 
The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  stream  at  eve  : 
Let  health  my  nerves,  and  finer  fibres  leave ; 
Of  fancy,  reason,  virtue,  nought  can  me  bereave." 

His  pictures  of  scenery  and  of  rural  life  are  the 
productions  of  a  master,  and  render  him  the  Claude 
of  poet^.  The  Seasons  are  the  first  book  from 
which  we  are  taught  to  worship  the  goddess  to 
whose  service  the  bardof  Ednam  devoted  himself, 
and  who  is  there  that  has  reflected  on  the  magiii- 


•  A  con-espondent  in  the  European  Magazine,  for  1819,  has 
BlTorded  very  satisfactory  information  about  the  sums  which 
Thomson  obtained  for  several  of  his  works,  and  of  the  dates 
of  the  agreements  respecting  them,  derived  i'roni  an  appeal 
against  a  decision  of  the  Court  of  Chancery,  many  years 
eince,  on  a  question  of  literary  property. 

It  appears  Thomson  sold  Sophonisba,  a  Tragedy,  and 
Spring,  a  Poem,  to  Andrew  Millar,  l<5th  January,  1729,  for 
J371.  10s.   On  the  28th  of  July  m  the  same  year,  he  sold  to 

JohnMillan,  "Summer,"  "Winter."  "Autumn,"  "  Britan- 1  This,  I  believe,  is  the  truth." 


nia,"  Poem  to  Newton,  the  Hymn,  and  an  Essay  on  De- 
scriptive Poetry,  for  105?.  On  the  16th  of  June,  1738,  Andre  w 
Millar  purchased  these  Poems  of  John  Millan  at  the  original 
price.  On  the  13th  of  June,  1769,  Andrew  Millar's  executors 
sold  the  copyright  of  the  whole  by  Auction  to  fifteen  London 
booksellers,  for  the  sum  of  5051.  Soon  after  Davis,  the  Book- 
seller, sold  half  his  twelfth,  for  the  shares  were  unequal,-  to 
Becket  and  Dehondt,  not  of  the  original  list  of  purchasers,  for 
2U.  being  the  price  he  had  paid  for  that  pi-oportion. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  this  was  a  close  sale ;  and  Alexander 
Donaldson,  the  Edinburgh  Bookseller,  who  wished  to  attend 
was  not  admitted.  He  then  published  a  copy  of  "The  Sea- 
sons" at  Edinburgh,  stated  in  the  title  to  be  printed  in  1768, 
the  sale  of  which  was  said,  however,  to  have  begun  before  the 
auction  of  the  copyright  took  place. 

A  singular  anecdote  was  related  in  the  Edinburgh  Star, 
dated  from  Logan  House,  G.  D.  October,  1821,  and  signed 
"An  Old  Shepherd,"  which  tends  to  fix  the  authorship  of 
"The  Gentle  Shepherd,"  attributed  to  Allan  Ramsay  on' 
Thomson.  To  what  degree  of  credit  it  is  entitled  is  left  to  the 
reader  to  determine.  The  following  is  the  statement  on  the 
subject  which  was  copied  into  the  Gentleman's  Magazine, 
vol.  xci.  part  ii.  p.  351. 

"  About  thirty  years  ago,  there  was  a  respectable  old  man, 
of  the  name  of  John  Steel,  who  was  well  acquainted  with 
Allan  Ramsay;  and  he  told  John  Steel  himself,  that  when 
Mr.  Thomson,  the  author  of  "  The  Seasons,"  was  in  his  shop 
at  Edinburgh,  getting  himself  shaven,  Ramsay  was  repeating 
some  of  his  poems.  Mr.  Thomson  says  to  him,  '  I  have  some- 
thing  to  emit  to  the  world,  but  I  do  not  wish  to  father  it.' 
Ramsay  asked  what  he  would  give  him,  and  he  would  father 
it.  Mr.  Thomson  replied,  all  the  profit  that  arose  from  the 
publication.  '  A  bai-gain  be  it,'  said  Ramsay.  Mr.  Thomson 
delivered  him  the  manuscript.  So,  from  what  is  said  above, 
Mr.  Thomson,  the  author  of  'The  Seasons,'  is  the  autiior  of 
The  Gentle  Shepherd,'  and  Allan  Ramsay  is  the  father  of  it. 


MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON". 


xxiii 


licence  of  an  extended  landscape,  viewed  the  sun 
as  he  emerges  from  the  horizon,  or  witnessed  the 
setting  of  that  glorious  orb  when  he  leaves  the 
world  to  reflection  and  repose,  and  does  not  feel 
his  descriptions  rush  upon  the  mind,  and  heighten 
his  enjoyment 

It  has  been  said  that  the  style  of  that  work  is 
pompous,  arid  that  it  contains  many  faults.  The 
remark  is  partially  true.  His  style  is,  in  some 
places,  monotonous,  from  its  unvaried  elevation; 
but  to  him  Nature  was  a  subject  of  the  profoundest 
reverence,  and  he,  doubtless,  considered  that  she 
ought  to  be  spoken  of  with  solemnity;  though  it  is 
evident  from  one  of  his  verses,  which  is  often 
cited,  that  he  was  aware  simplicity  is  the  most  be- 
coming garb  of  majesty  and  beauty.  Another  ob- 
jection to  The  Seasons  is,  that  they  contain  fre- 
quent digressions,  and,  notwithstanding  that  it  is 
made  by  an  authority,  from  which  it  may  be  pre- 
sumptuous to  dissent,  the  justice  of  the  observation 
can  not,  perhaps,  be  established.  Every  one  who 
has  read  them  will  admit  that  the  History  of  C ale- 
don  and  AraeUa  and  of  Lavinia,  for  example,  have 
afforded  as  much  pleasure  as  any  other  parts,  and 
a  poem  descriptive  of  scenery,  storms,  and  sun- 
shine, requires  the  introduction  of  human  beings 
to  give  it  life  and  animation.  A  painter  is  not 
censured  for  adding  figures  to  a  landscape,  and  he 
is  only  required  to  render  them  graceful,  and  to 
make  them  harmonize  with  his  subject.  The 
characters  in  The  Seasons  are  all  in  keeping :  a 
gleaner  is  as  necessary  to  a  harvest  field  as  a  lover 
to  a  romance;  and  it  seems  hypercritical  to  say 
that  there  should  be  nothing  of  interest  in  the 
lives  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  villages  or  hamlets 
which  are  alluded  to. 

Another  test  of  the  soundness  of  this  criticism 
is,  to  inquire,  whether  that  work  does  not  owe  its 
chief  popularity  to  those  very  digressions.  Few 
persons  will  read  a  volume,  however  beautiful  the 
descriptions  which  it  contains,  unless  they  are  re- 
lieved by  incidents  of  human  life;  and  if  it  were 
possible  to  strip  The  Seasons  of  every  passage  not 
strictly  relevant,  they  would  lose  their  chief  attrac- 
tions, and  soon  be  thrown  aside. 

One  charm  of  poetry  is,  that  it  often  presents 
a  vivid  picture  of  the  idiosyncrasy  of  an  author's 
mind,  and  this  is  most  conspicuous  in  the  episodes 
to  the  immediate  subject  of  his  labours.  The  chain 
of  thought  which  led  him  astray  may  not  unfre- 
quently  be  discovered,  and  it  is  on  such  occasions, 
chiefly,  that  those  splendid  emanations  which  be- 
come aphorisms  to  future  ages  are  produced.  Ge- 
nius seems  then  to  cast  aside  all  the  fetters  which 
art  imposes,  and  individual  feeling  usurping  for 
the  moment  entire  dominion,  the  mistress  who  has 
cheered  his  hopes,  or  the  coquette  who  has  aban- 
doned him,  his  friend,  or  his  enemy,  as  either  may 
occur  to  his  imagination,  is  sure  to  be  commerao- 

2m3 


rated  in  words  glowing  with  the  fervor  of  inspira- 
ration.  Whilst  he  pursues  the  thread  of  his  tale, 
we  are  reminded  of  the  Poet  alone,  and  though  we 
may  admire  his  skill,  it  is  only  when  he  breaks 
upon  us  in  some  spontaneous  burst  of  passion  that 
we  sympathise  with  the  man,  and  are  excited  to 
kindred  enthusiasm. 

To  the  power  of  painting  scenery,  and  delinea- 
ting the  softer  and  more  pleasing  traits  of  charac- 
ter, Thomson's  genius  seems  to  have  been  confined. 
Truly  has  he  said  of  himself,  , 

"I  solitary  court 
The  inspiring  breeze,  and  meditate  the  book 
Of  Nature,  ever  open ;  aiming  ihence. 
Warm  from  the  heart  to  pour  the  moral  song 

but  he  was  incapable  of  describing  the  heart  when 
assailed  by  boisterous  passions,  and  his  representa- 
tions of  ambition,  patriotism,  or  revenge,  are  com- 
paratively feeble.  His  tragedies,  though  not  with- 
out merit  as  compositions,  are  declamatory,  cold, 
and  vapid.  His  heroes  and  heroines  relate  their 
woes  in  good  verse,  but  we  remain  unmoved,  and 
follow  them  to  their  fate  with  the  indifference  of 
stoics.  No  man  was  animated  by  a  stronger  or 
more  disinterested  love  of  public  freedom  than 
Thomson,  and  he  every  where  inculcates  patriotic 
sentiments;  but  his  "Liberty"  neither  stimulates 
our  patriotism,  nor  increases  our  veneration  for  his 
idol.  No  writer  has  said  more  on  these  subjects, 
and  when  he  lived,  it  was  the  fashion  to  pretend 
to  be  actuated  by  noble  and  generous  motives,  but 
it  may  be  doubted  if  any  poet  ever  produced  them 
less  in  his  own  time ;  and  the  idea  that  he,  or  any 
one  else,  could  excite  them  now  is  ridiculous. 
"  Liberty"  is,  therefore,  read  only  because  it  is 
one  of  his  works,  and  it  is  not  likely  that  it  will 
ever  become  popular. 

The  Castle  of  Indolence"  displays  greater  poeti- 
cal invention  than  any  other  of  his  pieces;  and, 
little  as  allegory  is  suited  to  the  existing  taste,  it 
must  still  be  read  with  pleasure.  Of  his  Odes  and 
minor  articles  there  is  little  that  need  be  said ;  and 
part  of  them  have  already  been  suflRciently  noticed. 
His  Hymn  is  destined  to  be  as  permanent  a  fa- 
vourite as  The  Seasons,  to  which,  indeed,  it  is  an 
appropriate  conclusion,  and,  like  every  other  pro- 
duction of  its  author,  it  displays  the  highest  ve- 
neration for  the  Deity. 

Thomson's  only  prose  work  is  an  Essay  on  De- 
scriptive Poetry,  which  was  advertised  as  a  sepa- 
rate production,  in  1730,  but  which  formed  tlai; 
Preface  to  the  second  edition  of  "  Winter,"  and  in 
this  edition  it  is  prefixed  to  The  Seasons.  That 
Essay  is  remarkable,  not  so  much  for  ingenuity  or 
original  conceptions  as  for  the  arguments  used  t  o 
show  that  poetry  ought  to  be  devoted  to  loftier  su]> 
jects  than  those  on  which  many  had  exercised 
I  their  talents.    It  was  his  especial  merit  that  he 


XXIV 


MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


founded  a  new  school  in  his  art,  and  disdaining 
to  follow  in  the  path  which  conducted  most  of  his 
contemporaries  to  fame,  he,  with  the  daring  of 
genius,  struck  out  a  course  for  himself. 

It  must  be  evident  from  the  letters  in  this  me- 
moir, that  Thomson  did  not  excel  in  correspon- 
dence; and  his  dislike  to  writing  letters,  which  was 
very  great,  may  have  been  either  the  cause  or  effect 
of  his  being  inferior  in  this  respect  to  other  poets 
of  the  last  century. 

Thomson's  character  was  in  every  respect  consis- 
tent with  what  his  writings  lead  us  to  expect.  He 
was  high-minded,  amiable,  generous,  and  humane. 
Equable  in  his  temper,  and  affable  in  his  deport- 
ment, he  was  rarely  ruffled  but  by  the  knowledge 
of  some  act  of  cruelty  or  injustice;  and  as  he  mag- 
nanimously forgave  the  petty  assaults  which  envy 
or  malignity  leveled  at  him,  and  stood  aloof  from 
the  poetical  warfare  which  raged  with  great  heat 
during  some  part  of  his  career,  he  was  soon,  as  if 
by  common  consent,  respected  by  all  the  bellige- 
rents. His  society  was  select  and  distinguished. 
Pope,  Hill,  Dr.  Armstrong,  the  Bishop  of  Derry, 
Mr.  afterwards  Sir  Andrew  Mitchell,  Mendez, 
Dr.  Dela  Cour,  Mallet,  Hammond  whom  he  eulo- 
gises in  "  The  Seasons,"  Cluin,  and  above  all  Mr. 
Lyttelton,  were  his  most  intimate,  friends.  With 
Pope  he  lived  on  terms  of  great  friendship;  and, 
according  to  Dr.  Johnson,  he  displayed  his  regard 
in  a  poetical  epistle  addressed  to  Thomson,  whilst 
he  was  in  Italy  in  1731,  but  of  which  Pope  "  aba- 
ted the  value  by  transplanting  some  of  the  lines 
into  his  Epistle  to  Arbuthnot."  Mr.  Robertson 
stated,  in  reply  to  Mr.  Park's  question,*  whether 
Pope  did  not  often  visit  Thomson,  "  Yes,  frequent- 
ly. Pope  has  sometimes  said,  '  Thomson,  I'll  walk 
to  the  end  of  your  garden,  and  then  set  off  to  the 
bottom  of  Kew  Foot  Lane,  and  back.  Pope  court- 
ed Thomson,  and  Thomson  was  always  admitted 
to  Pope,  whether  he  had  company  or  not." 

Next  to  poetry  he  was  fond  of  civil  and  natural 
history,  voyages  and  travels,  and  in  his  leisure 
hours  he  found  amusement  in  gardening.  Of  the 
line  arts,  music  was  his  chief  delight;  but  he  was 
an  admirer  of  painting  and  sculpture,  and  formed 
a  valuable  collection  of  prints  and  drawings  from 
the  antique. 

The  besetting  sin  of  Thomson's  character  was 
indolence,  and  of  this  he  was  himself  fully  aware, 
as  he  alludes  to  the  failing  in  himself  and  some 
of  his  friends,  in  the  "  Castle  of  Indolence."  He 
seldom  rose  before  noon,  and  his  time  for  compo- 
sition was  generally  about  midnight.  His  man- 
ners are  sometimes  represented  as  having  been 

*  In  October,  1791,  Thomas  Park,  Esq.  the  poet,  called  on 
Mr.  Robertson,  who  was  surgeon  to  the  Royal  Household  at 
Kew,  the  intimate  friend  of  Thomson,  with  the  view  of  gain- 
ing information  about  him.  Ho  committed  to  paper  all  he 
gleaned,  and  it  has  since  been  printed. 


coarse ;  but  his  zealous  defender.  Lord  Bucnan, 
asserts,  on  the  contrary,  that  Lord  Chatham.  Lord 
Temple,  Lord  Lyttelton,  Sir  Andrew  Mitchel, 
Dr.  Armstrong,  and  Dr.  Murdoch,  agreed  in  de- 
claring that  he  was  "  a  gentleman  at  all  points.'' 
His  intimate  friend,  Mr.  Robertson,  told  Mr. 
Park,  that  "  Thomson  was  neither  a  petit  maitre 
nor  a  boor ;  he  had  simplicity  without  rudeness, 
and  a  cultivated  manner  without  being  courtly;" 
and  this  may,  perhaps,  be  considered  the  most  ac- 
curate definition  of  his  deportment. 

Much  light  is  often  thrown  on  a  man's  charac- 
ter by  authenticated  anecdotes.  Of  Thomson, 
however,  very  few  are  remembered,  and  the  fol- 
lowing are  introduced  because  his  previous  biogra- 
phers have  thought  them  worthy  of  notice  rather 
than  from  any  particular  claims  which  they  pos- 
sess to  attention. 

It  is  said  that  he  was  so  careless  about  money, 
that  once,  when  paying  a  brewer  he  gave  him 
two  bank  notes  rolled  together  instead  of  one, 
and,  when  told  of  his  mistake,  he  appeared  per- 
fectly indifferent,  saying,  "he  had  enough  to  go 
on  without  it."  On  one  occasion  he  was  robbed 
of  his  watch  between  London  and  Richmond, 
and  when  Mr.  Robertson  expressed  regret  for  his 
loss,  he  replied,  "  Pshaw,  I  am  glad  they  took  it 
from  me,  it  was  never  good  for  any  thing."  Hav- 
ing invited  some  friends  to  dinner,  one  of  them 
informed  him  that  there  was  a  general  stipulation 
there  should  be  no  hard  drinking,  Thomson  ac- 
quiesced, only  requiring  that  each  man  should 
drink  his  bottle.  The  terms  were  accepted  un- 
conditionally, and,  when  the  cloth  was  removed, 
a  three  quart  bottle  was  set  before  each  of  his 
guests. 

In  person  Thomson  was  rather  stout  and  above 
the  middle  size ;  his  countenance  was  not  remark- 
able for  expression,  though  in  his  youth,  he  was 
considered  handsome,  but  in  conversation  his  face 
became  animated  and  his  eye  fiery  and  intellec- 
tual. Silent  in  mixed  company,  his  wit  and  viva- 
city seemed  reserved  for  his  friends,  and  in  their 
society  he  was  communicative,  playful,  and  enter- 
taining. Few  men  possessed  in  a  greater  degree 
the  art  of  creating  firm  and  affectionate  friend- 
ship. Those  with  whom  he  became  acquainted 
at  the  commencement  of  his  career  loved  him  till 
its  close,  and  the  individuals  who  had  given  to 
his  life  its  sweetest  enjoyments  watched  over  his 
death-bed,  and  became  the  guardians  of  his  fame, 
by  superintending  the  only  monuments  of  which 
genius  ought  to  be  ambitious,  a  complete  edition 
of  his  works,  and  a  tablet  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

It  has  been  remarked  that  the  poets  of  the  day 
did  not  commemorate  Thomson's  genius  by  ex- 
erting their  own  in  honour  of  his  memory;  and 
an  epigram  appeared  in  consequence.  There  is 
not,  however,  much  justice  in  the  remark.  Not 


MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


only  did  Collins,  Shenstone,  Lyttelton,  Mendez, 
and  others,  sing  his  praises  in  most  appropriate 
strains,  but  immediately  after  his  decease,  "  Mu- 
sidorus,  a  poem  sacred  to  his  memory,"  appeared; 
and  since  that  time  Burns,  Pye,  the  Honourable 
Mrs.  Boscawen,  &c.  have  imitated  their  exam- 
ple. That  lady  became  possessed  of  his  house 
near  Richmond,  and  evinced  her  respect  for  the 
Poet,  by  preservmg  every  memorial  of  him  which 
could  be  found. 

In  a  retired  part  of  the  gardens  she  replaced  the 
little  rural  seat  so  much  the  favourite  of  Thomson, 
and  hung  votive  tablets  or  inscriptions  round  it, 
in  honour  of  her  admired  poet,  whose  bust  on  a 
pediment  of  the  seat  on  entering  it,  had  the  fol- 
lowing sentence: 

-   "  Here  Thomson  sung 

The  Seasons,  and  their  change." 

Within  the  alcove  Mrs.  Boscawen  placed  the 
little  antique  table,  on  which  it  is  said  the  Poet 
penned  many  of  his  lines.  The  inside  was  further 
adorned  with  well  adapted  citations  from  other 
writers,  who  have  eulogized  his  talents;  and  in 
the  centre,  was  the  following  inscription: 

Within  this  pleasing  retirement, 
allured  by  the  music  of  the  nightingale, 
which  warbled  in  soft  unison 
to  the  melody  of  his  soul, 
in  unaffected  cheerfulness, 
and  genial,  though  simple  elegance, 
lived 

James  Thomson  ! 
Sensibly  alive  to  all  the  beauties  of  nature, 
ne  painted  their  images  as  they  rose  in  review ; 
and  poured  the  whole  profusion  of  them 
into  his  inimitable 
Seasons ! 
Warmed  with  intense  devotion 
to  the  Sovereign  of  the  Universe, 
its  flame  glowed  through  all  his  compositions. 
Animated  with  unbounded  benevolence, 
with  the  tenderest  social  sympathy, 
he  never  gave  one  moment's  pain 
to  any  of  his  fellow  creatures ; 

save,  only,  by  his  death, 
which  happened  at  this  place, 
on  the 
27thdayof  August,  1748. 


Thomson  was  never  married,  and  in  his  letter 
to  his  sister,  in  1747,  he  says  he  was  too  poor  to 
form  a  domestic  establishment.  The  only  woman 
to  whom  he  was  known  to  be  attached,  was  Miss 
Young,  daughter  of  Captain  Gilbert  Young,  of 
the  family  of  that  name,  in  Gulyhill,  in  Dumfries- 
shire. She  was  a  very  fine  young  woman  of  su- 
perior endowments,  and  married  Admiral  Camp- 
bell. Her  lover  has  celebrated  her  in  several 
poems  by  the  name  of  "  Amanda,"  and  so  deep 
was  his  passion,  that  his  friend  Mr.  Robertson, 
who  married  her  sister,  considers  that  his  disap- 
pointment in  obtaining  her  rendered  him  indiffer- 


ent to  life.    One,  if  not  the  only  impediment  to 
their  union,  was  his  straitened  circumstances. 

Thomson  was,  as  has  been  before  stated,  one  of 
nine  children.  His  only  brother  John  came  to 
London,  and  acted  as  his  amanuensis,  but  being 
attacked  by  consumption,  he  returned  to  Scotland, 
and  died  young.  Of  his  sisters,  only  three  are 
known  to  have  married.  Jean,  the  eldest,  was  the 
wife  of  Mr.  Robert  Thomson,  Master  of  the  Gram- 
mar School  at  Lanark,  with  whom  Boswell  says, 
in  July,  1777,  he  had  placed  two  of  his  nephews. 
She  was  then  an  old  woman,  but  having  retained 
her  memory,  gave  that  writer  many  particulars  of 
the  Poet,  together  with  the  letter  which  Johnson 
has  printed.  Her  son  Robert,  who  was  a  student 
of  medicine  in  Edinburgh,  died  in  his  father's  life- 
time at  Lanark ;  and  of  her  daughters,  Elizabeth 
was  born  before  1747,  and  Beatrix  married  Mr. 
Thomas  Prentice  of  Jerviswood. 

EUzabeth,  his  second  sister,  was  the  wife  of  the 
Rev.  Robert  Bell,  Minister  of  Strathaven  in  Clydes- 
dale, and  died  some  time  before  1747.  His  reply 
to  Mr.  Bell's  request  that  he  would  consent  to  her 
nuptials  was  addressed  to  her : 

MY  DEAR  SISTER, 

I  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Robert  Bell,  Minis- 
ter of  Strathaven,  in  which  he  asks  my  consent  to 
his  marriage  with  you.  Mr.  Gusthart  acquainted 
me  with  this  some  time  ago ;  to  whose  letter  I  have 
returned  an  answer,  which  he  tells  me  he  has 
showed  you  both.  I  entirely  agree  to  this  mar- 
riage, as  I  find  it  to  be  a  marriage  of  inclination, 
and  founded  upon  long  acquaintance  and  mutual 
esteem.  Your  behaviour  hitherto  has  been  such 
as  gives  me  very  great  satisfaction,  in  the  small 
assistance  I  have  been  able  to  afford  you.  Now 
you  are  going  to  enter  upon  a  new  state  of  life, 
charged  with  higher  cares  and  duties,  I  need  not 
advise  you  how  to  behave  in  it,  since  you  are  so 
near  Mr.  Gusthart,  who,  by  his  good  council  and 
friendly  assistance,  has  been  so  kind  to  you  all 
along ;  only  I  must  chiefly  recommend  to  you  to 
cultivate,  by  every  method,  that  union  of  hearts, 
that  agreement  and  sympathy  of  tempers,  in  which 
consists  the  true  happiness  of  the  marriage  state. 
The  economy  and  gentle  management  of  a  family 
is  a  woman's  natural  province,  and  from  that  her 
best  praise  arises.  You  will  apply  yourself  thereto 
as  it  becomes  a  good  and  virtuous  wife.  I  dare 
say  I  need  not  put  you  in  mind  of  having  a  just 
and  grateful  sense  of,  and  future  confidence  in,  the 
goodness  of  God,  who  has  been  to  you  a  'Father 
to  the  fatheriess.'  Though  you  will  hereafter  be 
more  immediately  under  the  protection  of  another, 
yet  you  may  always  depend  upon  the  sincere 
friendship,  and  tenderest  good  offices  of  your  most 
affectionate  brother, 

James  Thomson." 


MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


"  By  last  post  I  wrote  to  Jeany  about  the  affairs 
she  mentioned  to  me.  Remember  me  kindly  to  all 
friends." 

Mrs.  Bell  had  two  sons,  Dr.  James  Bell,  Minis- 
ter of  Coldstream,  who  published  a  volume  of  Ser- 
mons, and  Thomas  Bell,  who  died  a  Merchant  at 
Jamaica. 

Mary,  the  poet's  youngest  sister,  married  Mr. 
William  Craig,  Merchant  of  Edinburgh,  and  died 
on  the  11th  of  September,  1790,  the  day  on  which 
Lord  Buchan  celebrated  the  anniversary  of  the 
poet's  birth.  She  had  only  one  son,  James,  an  in- 
genious architect,  who  planned  the  new  Town  of 
Edinburgh,  and  died  in  that  city  on  the  23d  of 
June,  1795.  He  intended  to  erect  a  pillar  to  his 
nncle  in  the  village  of  Ednam,  and  wished  Dr. 
Beattie  to  write  an  appropriate  inscription.  The 
intention  was  not  carried  into  execution,  but  Beat- 
tie's  sensible  letter  in  reply  to  the  request,  in 
which  he  ridicules  inscriptions  in  Latin  to  an  Eng- 
lish poet,  arid  states  what  ought  to  be  said  on  these 
occasions,  might  have  been  read  with  advantage 
by  those  who  superintended  Burns's  monument. 
Lord  Buchan's  exuberant  zeal,  in  honour  of 
Thomson,  in  crowning  his  bust,  and  other  fool- 
eries, approaches  so  nearly  to  the  ridiculous,  that 
his  motive  scarcely  secures  him  from  being  laugh- 
ed at.  The  annual  commemoration  of  the  poet's 
birth  is  in  better  taste;  and  proves  the  generous 
pride  with  which 

"  Scotia,  with  exulting  tear, 

Proclaims  that  Thomson  was  her  son." 

Lord  Lyttelton  has  justly  said  of  Thomson's 
writings,  that  they  contain 

"  No  line  which  dying  he  could  wish  to  blot 

and,  considering  the  taste  of  the  age  in  which  he 
lived,  this  praise  is  perhaps  the  highest  which 


could  be  pronounced.  With  a  slight  alteration 
the  same  eulogy  may  be  passed  on  his  whole  Ufe; 
for  it  was  free  from  a  single  act  which  could  cre- 
ate remorse.  To  his  relations  he  was  liberal  and 
aflectionate ;  to  his  friends  faithful  and  devoted: 
viewing  all  mankind  with  beneficence  and  love, 
he  performed  with  exemplary  but  unostentatious 
piety  that  first  of  Christian  virtues,  to  teach  the 
world  to  reverence  the  Creator  in  his  works,  and 
to  learn  from  them  veneration  for  his  wisdom  and 
confidence  in  his  mercy.  Thus  the  character  of 
Thomson,  both  as  a  writer  and  a  man,  seems  al- 
most perfect;  and  whilst  the  admirer  of  his  genius 
may  point  to  his  poems  as  some  of  the  most  splen- 
did emanations  of  human  intellect,  those  who 
deem  it  more  important  to  inquire  how  talents  are 
applied  than  to  boast  of  their  extent,  may  proudly 
adduce  him  as  a  rare  example  of  the  application 
of  a  mind  of  the  highest  capacity  to  the  improve- 
ment of  the  taste  and  morals  of  society.  His 
poems  may  be  placed  in  the  hands  of  our  wives 
and  our  daughters  even  in  the  present  age,  when 
our  ears  are  more  delicate  than  our  consciences, 
without  first  subjecting  them  to  the  ordeal  of  a 
modern  expurgator.  Of  his  productions  no  "  Fa- 
mily Editions,"  which  mar,  if  they  do  not  destroy, 
the  natural  vigour  of  a  writer,  are  necessary.  By 
confining  himself  to  the  strict  rules  of  propriety, 
he  has  placed  his  fame  beyond  the  power  of  those 
relentless  censors  who  have  emasculated  Shak- 
speare,  our  national  bard,  and  Gibbon,  our  most 
eloquent  historian.  Secure  from  the  revolutions 
of  taste  or  time,  Thomson's  labours  are  destined 
to  descend  with  undiminished  admiration  to  the 
latest  posterity;  and  it  may  be  predicted  with  con- 
fidence, that  future  generations,  like  the  last  and 
the  present,  will  have  their  reverence  for  the  God 
of  Nature  excited,  and  their  earliest  attachment 
to  Nature  herself  strengthened,  by  the  Poet  who 
has  sung  her  in  all  her  "  Seasons," 


ADDENDA  TO  THE  MEMOIR  OF  THOMSON. 


Since  the  foregoing  Life  of  Thomson  was 
printed,  the  author  has  been  favoured  with  some 
of  the  Poet's  letters,  and  other  materials,  by  Mr. 
David  Laing,  of  Edinburgh,  who,  to  a  laudable 
zeal  in  collecting  information  about  the  history 
and  Uterature  of  his  country,  unites  the  greatest 
liberality,  by  placing  the  result  of  his  researches 
at  the  disposition  of  his  friends. 

The  Reverend  Thomas  Thomson,  the  Poet's 
father,  was  licensed  to  preach  on  the  17th  June, 
1691;  was  ordained  minister  of  Ednam,  12th  July, 
1692;  and  was  removed  to  Sudden,  or  Southdean, 
about  the  year  1701 ,  which  accounts  for  his  son's 
being  sent  to  school  at  Jedburgh.    The  exact 


time  of  his  death  has  not  been  ascertained,  but  it 
must  have  been  about  1720.* 

The  Poet  was  entered  a  student  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Edinburgh  in  1719,  but  his  attendance, 
as  was  often  the  case,  seems  to  have  been  irregu- 
lar, for  the  only  subsequent  notice  of  him  is  on 
the  27th  October,  1724,  when  he  performed  a 
prescribed  exercise,  being  a  Lecture  on  the  tenth 
section  of  the  119th  Psalm.  It  is  said  by  all  his 
biographers,  that  this  exercise  was  a  poetical  para- 
phrase of  the  104th  Psalm  ;t  that  the  powers  of 

*  Notices  of  the  Rev.  Tlaomas  Thomson  occur  in  "  Kirk- 
wood's  Plea  before  the  Kirk."  4to.  London.  1693. 
t  See  p.  iv.  of  the  Mei^joir. 


ADDENDA  TO  THE  MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


imagination  which  it  displayed,  though  compli- 
mented by  the  divinity  professor,  were  considered 
unsuited  to  the  sacred  office  for  which  he  was  de- 
signed ;  that  he  consequently  abandoned  his  in- 
tention of  entering  the  ministry;  and,  from  the 
approbation  which  Mr.  Auditor  Benson  expressed 
of  the  piece,  his  thoughts  were  directed  to  London. 

This  story,  though  not  without  some  foundation, 
inasmuch  as  he  wrote  a  paraphrase  of  the  Psalm 
in  question,  is  disproved  by  incontrovertible  facts. 
No  paraphrase  in  verse  of  a  Psalm  could  possibly 
have  been  admitted  as  an  exercise  at  the  Uniyer- 
sity;  and  the  subject  referred  to  was  a  prose  lec- 
ture, or  dissertation,  on  part  of  the  119th  Psalm; 
but  as  it  may  have  been  written  in  too  flowery  a 
style,  and  been  too  redundant  in  poetical  imagery, 
the  censure  said  to  have  been  pronounced  by  the 
divinity  professor  possibly  occurred.  That  this 
circumstance  did  not  alter  his  views  with  respect 
to  the  church  is  evident  from  his  saying,  in  some 
letters  from  London,  that  he  still  intended  to  get 
ordained,  .It  does  not  appear,  from  the  registers 
of  the  University,  that  he  ever  took  his  Master  of 
Art's  degree,  but  he  certainly  added  the  distinc- 
tion to  his  name  in  the  first  edition  of  "  Winter," 
and  the  omission  of  it  afterwards  probably  arose 
from  his  calUng  himself,  in  the  title  pages  of  his 
works,  Mr.  Thomson.  Among  his  contempora- 
ries at  the  University,  where  their  friendship 
commenced,  were  David  Malloch,  or  Mallet,  who 
contributed  several  pieces  to  the  "Edinburgh 
Miscellany,"  and  Patrick  Murdoch,  his  subse- 
quent biographer;  but  his  earhest,  and  one  of  the 
warmest  of  his  friends,  was  Dr.  Cranston,  to  whom 
all  the  following  letters,  as  well  as  some  of  those 
which  are  introduced  into  the  Memoir,  were  ad- 
dressed. 

The  annexed  letter  from  Thomson,  whilst  at 
the  University,  presents  a  favourable  idea  of  his 
pursuits  and  opinions  before  he  attained  his  ma- 
jority. 

SiR^  Edinburgh,  Dec.  11,  1720. 

1  received  yours,  wherein  you  acquaint  me  that 
mine  was  very  acceptable  to  you.  I  am  heartily 
glad  of  it;  and  to  waive  all  ceremony,  if  any  thing 
I  can  scribble  be  entertaining  to  you,  may  I  be 
damned  to  transcribe  dull  books  for  the  press  all 
my  life  if  I  do  not  write  abundantly.  I  fondly 
embrace  the  proposal  you  make  of  a  frequent  cor- 
respondence this  winter,  and  that  from  the  very 
same  principle  you  mention;  and  when  the  native 
bright  ideas  which  flow  from  your  good  humour 
have  the  ascendant  over  those  gloomy  ones  that  at 
tend  your  profession,  I  expect  you  will  not  be 
wanting. 

You  will  allege  that  I  have  the  advantage  over 
you,  being  in  town,  where  daily  happen  a  variety 
of  incidents.    In  the  first  place  you  must  know. 


though  I  hve  in  Edinburgh,  yet  I  am  little  con- 
versant in  the  beau  monde,  viz.  concerts,  balls,  as- 
semblies, &c.  where  beauty  shines  and  coxcombs 
admire  themselves.  If  nature  had  thrown  me  in 
a  more  soft  and  indolent  mould,  had  made  me  a 
Shapely  or  a  Sir  Fopling  Flutter,  if  fortune  had 
filled  my  pockets,  I  suppose  my  head  is  empty 
enough  as  it  is,  had  I  been  taught  to  cut  a  caper, 
to  hum  a  tune,  to  take  a  pinch,  and  lisp  nonsense 
with  all  the  grace  of  fashionable  insipidity,  then  I 
could — what  could  I  have  donel  hardly  write; 
but,  however,  I  might  have  made  a  shift  to  fill  up 
a  half  sheet  with  '  rat  me,'  '  damn  me,'  &c.  inter- 
spersed with  broken  characters  of  ladies  gliding 
over  my  fancy  like  a  passing  image  over  a  mirror. 
But  if  both  nature  and  fortune  had  been  indul- 
gent to  me,  and  made  a  rich,  finished  gentleman, 
yet  would  I  have  reckoned  it  a  piece  of  my  great- 
est happiness  to  be  acquainted  with  you,  and  you 
should  have  had  entertainment  if  it  was  within 
the  circle  of  wit  and  beauty  to  aflford  it;  but  alas! 
as  it  is  what  can  you  expect  from  the  Divinity 
hall  or  a  Tippeny  celH  It  must  be  owned  in- 
deed, that  here  in  Edinburgh,  to  us  humble  sons 
of  Tippeny,  if  beauty  were  as  propitious  as  wit 
sometimes,  we  would  have  no  reason  to  complain 
of  the  superior  fortune  of  the  fluttering  genera- 
tion; and  01  ye  foolish  women,  who  have  thus 
bewitched  youl  is  it  not  wit  that  immortalizes 
beauty,  that  heightens  it,  and  preserves  it  in  a 
fresh  eternal  bloom'?  And  did  ever  a  fop  either 
justly  praise  or  admire  youl  but  perhaps  what  I 
am  railing  at  is  well  ordered,  and  if  there  was  such 
a  familiar  intercourse  betwixt  wit  and  beauty  as  I 
would  have,  wit  would  degenerate  into  softness 
and  luxury,  and  lose  all  its  edge  and  keeni«sfe;  it 
would  dissolve  in  sighs  or  burst  in  nonsense.  Wit 
and  beauty  thus  joined  would  be,  as  Shakspeare 
has  it,  making  honey  a  sauce  to  sugar;  and  yet 
another  would  say  that  beauty,  divine  beauty! 
enlivens,  heightens,  and  refines  wit;  that  even  wit 
is  the  necessary  result  of  beauty,  which  puts  the 
spirits  in  that  harmonious  motion  that  produces  it, 
that  tunes  them  to  that  ecstasy,  and  makes  them 
dart  through  the  nerves,  and  sparkle  in  the  eyes! 
—-but  whither  am  I  rambling'?  What  I  am  going 
to  propose  is,  and  you  see  there  is  great  need  for 
it,  that  you  would  in  your  next  settle  our  corres- 
pondence into  some  order,  and  acquaint  me  on 
what  subject  you  would  have  me  write  to  you,  for 
on  news  of  any  kind  I  shall  soon  run  aground. 

You  write  to  me  that  Misjohn*  and  his  quad- 
ruped are  making  a  large  eccentrical  orbit,  toge- 


'  Thomson  alludes  in  most  of  his  letters  to  some  friend  by 
this  appellation,  and  the  Earl  of  Buchan  observes,  that  it  waa 
"  undoubtedly  the  Rev.  l^r.  J.  Wilson,  Minister  of  the  Parish 
of  Maxton,  in  Roxburghshire,  a  particular  friend  of  Dr.  Crao- 
ston  of  Ancrum,  and  of  Thomson." 


xxviii 


ADDENDA  TO  THE  MEMOIR  OP  JAMES  THOMSON. 


ther  with  two  or  tlirce  wallets  full  of  books,  which 
I  suppose  will  be  multiplied  into  several  more  of 
papers  before  they  return;  belike  they  may  have 
taken  a  trip  into  China,  and  then  we  shall  have 
his  travels.  There  is  one  thing  I  hear  storied, 
God  forbid  it  be  true !  that  his  horse  is  metamor- 
phosing into  an  ass;  and  by  the  last  accounts  T 
had  of  it,  its  lugs  are  shot  up  into  a  strange  length, 
and  the  cross  was  just  beginning  to  dawn  upon  its 
shoulders;  and,  besides,  as  it  one  day  was  saluting 
a  capful  of  oats,  wonderful  to  tell !  it  fell  a-bray- 
ing.  I  wish  Nanny  Noble  were  so  comfortably 
settled  as  you  hint.  Tell  Misjohn,  when  you  see 
him,  that  I  have  a  bundle  of  worthies  for  him,  if 
once  I  had  received  his  packet. 

There  are  some  come  from  London  here  lately, 
that  teach  natural  philosophy  by  way  of  shows 
by  the  beat  of  drum,  but  more  of  that  afterwards. 
I  designed  to  have  sent  you  a  manuscript  poem, 
but  I  have  no  time  till  next  week. 

Yours  heartily, 
,  James  Thomson. 

D^.  Cranston  appears  to  have  furnished  him 
with  letters  of  introduction,  to  which  he  alludes 
in  two  letters  written  within  the  fortnight  which 
preceded  his  departure  for  London.  The  observa- 
tion on  a  future  state,  which  occurs  in  the  second 
of  these  letters,  is  the  earliest  expression  of  the 
Poet's  rehgious  opinions  which  has  been  disco- 
vered; and  his  correspondence,  as  well  as  his 
works,  proved  that  they  never  varied. 


Edinburgh 


I  r^eived  yours  and  can  never  sufficiently  re- 
regard  for  my  welfare  that  you  show  in 


rece 

sent 

them.  You  are  so  modest  as  to  desire  me  to  cor- 
rect any  thing  I  see  amiss  in  your  letter  to  Mr. 
Elliot,  and  you  will  transcribe  it  again;  but  I  as- 
sure you  I  am  not  so  vain  as  to  attempt  it :  if  there 
Was  no  other  thing  to  bind  me  to  a  good  behaviour 
but  your  recommendation  and  character  of  me,  I 
could  go  great  lengths  of  mortification  to  answer 
them.  Your  letter  to  my  cousin,  I  do  not  doubt, 
will  be  considerably  useful  to  me,  if  I  can  find  him 
out.  I  remember  I  heard  that  Mr.  Colden's  letter 
was  very  serviceable  to  George  Brown.  I  do  not 
doubt  but  if  Mr.  Colden  was  advertised,  I  might 
have  one  too,  and  there  will  be  time  enough,  for 
our  ship  sails  not  this  fortnight,  yet  during  that 
time,  if  it  can  contribute  any  thing  to  your  diver- 
sion, you  shaH  hear  from  me  every  opportunity, 
and  when  1  go  to  London,  you  may  lay  your  ac- 
count of  paying  out  some  sixpences.  If  you  have 
leisure,  T  could  wish  to  hear  from  you  before  I  go 
away,  notwithstanding  your  apostolical  conclusion, 
which  I  believe  as  sincere,  and  will  be  as  effectual, 
as  ihe  best  of  them. 

1  am  yours,  J.  T 


TO  DOCTOR  CRANSTON,  AT  ANCRUM. 
DEAR  SIR, 

1  received  yours,  by  which  I  find  you  have  been 
as  much  concerned  as  Mr.  Golden  indifferent 
about  me;  he,  good  man,  recommends  me  to  God 
Almighty :  very  well ;  but  I  wish  he  had  exerted 
something  more  of  the  layman  on  that  .  .  .  for,  to 
be  deeply  serious,  the  ...  .  Father  of  mankind 
beholds  all  .  .  .  offspring  with  a  melting  eye  .  .  . 
needs  none  to  prompt  him  to  acts  of  goodness,  so 
that  I  can  not  conceive  for  what  purpose  people's 
prayers  for  one  another  are,  unless  it  be  to  stir  up 
humane  and  social  dispositions  in  themselves,  l 
have  gotten  several  recommendations,  and  am  pro- 
mised more  afterwards,  when  I  am  fixed  on  any 
particular  view,  which  would  make  them  more 
pointed  and  effectual;  I  shall  do  all  that  is  in  my 
power,  act,  hope,  and  so  either  make  something 
out,  or  be  buried  in  obscurity.  There  is,  and  I 
am  persuaded  of  it,  I  triumph  in  it,  another  life 
after  this,  which  depends  as  to  its  happiness  on 
our  virtue,  as  this  for  the  most  part  on  our  fortune. 
My  spirits  have  gotten  such  a  serious  turn  by 
these  reflections,  that  although  I  be  thinking  on 
Misjohn,  I  declare  I  shall  hardly  force  a  laugh 
before  we  part,  for  this  I  think  will  be  my  last 
letter  from  Edinburgh,  for  I  expect  to  sail  every 
day;  well,  since  I  was  speaking  of  that  merry  soul, 
1  hope  he  is  as  bright,  as  easy,  as  degage,  as  sus- 
ceptible of  an  intense  laugh  as  he  used  to  be ;  tell 
him  when  you  see  him  that  I  laugh  in  imagina- 
tion with  him,  ha!  ha!  ha!  Misjohn,  how  in  the 
name  of  wonder  dragged  you  so  much  good  hu- 
mour along  with  you  through  the  thorny  paths 
of  systems  and  school  divinity,  considering  the 
many  hardy  attempts  you  have  had  to  epitomize 

 and  so  forth — whenever  I  began  to 

rust  in  these    exercises,  the  doctor  cleared 

me — well,  may  wit,  humour,  and  everlasting  joy 
surround  you  both,  and  if  I  but  at  any  time  .  .  . 
kindle  up  the  laugh  from  London,  I  shall  be  sure 
to  ha  ...  .  returned  upon  ....  with  greater 
force.  Yours,  while  I  am 

James  Thomson 

If  you  have  the  opportunity  to  be  at  Maxton,  in 
Mr.  Wilson's,  there  you  will  find  a  treasure  of  a 
good  comrade,  called  Peter  Murdock,  who  will 
stay  there  these  eight  days. 

His  first  letter  to  Dr.  Cranston,  after  he  arrived 
in  London,  was  dated  on  the  3d  of  April,  1725. 
It  expresses  many  fears  for  his  success,  and  is  in-' 
teresting  from  the  account  of  tlic  impression  made 
upon  him  by  his  first  visit  to  the  theatres.  Amidst 
many  playful  remarks,  and  some  levity  in  his 
criticism  on  the  actors,  and  especially  on  the  ac- 
j  tresses,  there  is  an  anxiety  manifested  about  his 


ADDENDA  TO  THE  MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


future  career,  which  shows  that  the  state  of  his 
Tesources  and  the  uncertainty  of  his  plans  rendered 
his  mind  ill  at  ease, 

London,  April  3, 1725. 
DEAR  .SIR,  I  wish  you  joy  of  the  spring. 

I  had  yours  some  days  since,  the  only  letter  I 
received  since  I  came  from  Scotland.  I  was  almost 
out  of  humour  at  the  letter  I  wrote  for  to  Mr.  El- 
liott, since  it  so  curtailed  yours  to  me ;  I  went  and 
delivered  it ;  he  received  me  affably  enough,  and 
promised  me  his  assistance,  though  at  the  same 
time  he  told  me,  which  every  one  tells  me,  that  it 
will  be  prodigiously  difficult  to  succeed  in  the  bu- 
siness you  know  I  design.  However,  come  what 
will  come,  I  shall  make  an  effort,  and  leave  the 
rest  to  providence.  There  is,  I  am  persuaded,  a 
necessary  fixed  chain  of  things,  and  I  hope  my 
fortune,  whatever  it  be,  shall  be  linked  to  diligence 
and  honesty.  If  I  should  not  succeed,  in  your 
next  advise  me  what  I  should  do.  Succeed  or  not, 
I  firmly  resolve  to  pursue  divinity  as  the  only  thing 
now  I  am  fit  for.  Now  if  I  cannot  accomphsh 
the  design  on  which  I  came  up,  I  think  I  had 
best  make  interest  and  pass  my  trials  here,  so  that 
if  I  be  obliged  soon  to  return  to  Scotland  again,  I 
may  not  return  no  better  than  I  came  away :  and 
to  be  deeply  serious  with  you,  the  more  I  see  of 
the  vanity  and  wickedness  of  the  world  I  am  more 
inclined  to  that  sacred  office.  ,  I  was  going  to  bid 
you  suppress  that  rising  laugh,  but  I  check  myself 
severely  again  for  suffering  such  an  unbecoming 
thought  of  you  to  enter  into  my  mind — so  much 
for  business. 

The  playhouse  is  indeed  a  very  fine  entertain- 
ment, though  not  to  the  height  I  expected.  A 
tragedy,  I  think,  or  a  fine  character  in  a  comedy, 
gives  greater  pleasure  read  than  acted;  but  your 
fools  and  persons  of  a  very  whimsical  and  humor- 
ous  character  are  a  delicious  morsel  on  the  stage ; 
they  indeed  exercise  my  risible  faculty,  and  par- 
ticularly your  old  friend  Daniel,  in  Oroonoko,  di- 
verted me  infinitely ;  the  gravedigger  in  Hamlet, 
Beau  Clincher  and  his  brother,  in  the  Trip  to  the 
Jubilee,  pleased  me  extremely  too.  Mr.  Booth  has 
a  very  majestic  appearance,  a  full,  harmonious 
voice,  and  vastly  exceeds  them  all  in  acting  trage- 
dy. The  last  act  in  Cato  he  does  to  perfection, 
and  you  would  think  he  expired  with  the  '  Oh ! 
that  ends  it.'  Mr.  Wilks,  I  believe,  has  been  a 
very  fine  actor  for  the  fine  gentleman  and  the 
young  hero,  but  his  face  now  is  wrinkled,  his  voice 
broken;  and  age  forbids  the  youthful,  clear  Gibber; 
I  have  not  seen  much  of  his  action  yet.  Mills  and 
Johnstoun  are  pretty  good  actors.  Dicky  Norris, 
that  little  comical,  toothless  devil,  will  tura  his 
back,  and  crack  a  very  good  jest  yet :  there  are 
some  ©thers  of  them  execrable.  Mrs.  Oldfield  has 
9.  smiling  jolly  face,  acts  very  well  in  comedy,  but ' 


best  of  all  I  suppose  in  bed ;  she  turns  her  body, 
and  leers  with  her  eyes  most  bevvitchingly.  Mrs. 
Porter  excels  in  tragedy,  has  a  short  piercing 
voice,  and  enters  most"  into  her  character,  and  if 
she  did  not  act  well  she  could  not  be  endured,  be- 
ing more  disagreeable  in  her  appearance  than  any 
of  them.    Mrs.  Booth  acts  somethings  very  well, 
and/particularly  Ophelia's  madness  in  Hamlet  in- 
j  imitably ;  but  then  she  dances  so  deliciously,  has 
such  melting,  lascivious  motions,  airs,  and  postures, 
as,  indeed,  according  to  vvrhat  you  suspect,  almost 
,  throws  the  material  part  of  me  into  action  too; 
'indeed  the  women  are  generally  the  handsomest 
in  the  house,  and  better  actors  than  the  men,  but 
'  perhaps  their  sex  prejudices  me  in  their  favour. 
These  are  a  few  of  the  observations  I  have  made 
at  Drury  Lane  Theatre  hitherto,  to  which  I  have 
paid  five  visits,  but  have  not  been  at  the  New 
House  yet.    My  purse  will  not  keep  pace  with 
my  inclinations  in  that  matter,    O !  if  I  had  Mis- 
john  here,  to  see  some  of  their  top  fools,  he  would 
I  shakes  the  scenes  with  laughter.  Give  my  service 
j  to  him.    Tell  him  I  laugh  at  the  thoughts  of  him, 
and  -should  be  very  glad  to  hear  from  him.  You 
I  may  send  your  letters  to  my  mother  in  Edinburgh, 
[  in  a  line  enclosed,  desiring  her  to  send  them  to 
I  me,  which  I  have  directed  her  to  do,  frank.  How- 
j  ever,  you  may  send  the  next  directly  to  me,  to 
your  cousin's  care,  and  perhaps  I  shall  fall  upon 
:  a  more  expedite  way.    I  must  for  the  present  stof 
here,  and  subscribe  myself,        Yours  sincerely, 
James  Thomson. 

It  is  said*  that  Mr.  Forbes,  who  was  afterwards 
Lord  President  of  the  Court  of  Session,  was  Thom- 
son's earliest  patron  in  London.  This  statement 
is  established  by  a  letter  from  the  widow  of  that 
gentleman  to  Lord  Buchan,  in  reply  to  his  request 
that  she  would  furnish  him  with  any  anecdotes 
of  the  Poet: 

"  I  am  sorry  I  can  not  recollect  any  of  those  par- 
ticular characteristic  anecdotes  your  lordship  says 
I  told  you  of  in  the  year  84,  of  my  father  and  Mr. 
Thomson  the  poet;  all  the  information  I  can  give 
is,  that  they  were  intimate  friends,  my  father  hav- 
ing been  Mr.  Thomson's  first  acquaintance  and 
patron  on  his  coming  to  London,  and  the  former 
having  a  numerous  acquaintance  amongst  people 
of  the  first  rank,  and  also  amongst  the  Hteratifolk; 
he  did  not  fail  to  bring  Thomson  forward  as  much 
as  lay  in  his  power.  His  first  introductions  were 
to  the  Duke  of  Argyle,  the  "Earl  of  Burlington, 
and  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot,  Mr. 
Pope,  and  Mr.  Gay. 

"  I  remember,  previous  to  the  publication  of  his 
Seasons,  that  many  long  winter  evenings  the  tw3 

 ^  — —  _ 

*  Memoirs,  p.  v. 


XXX 


ADDENDA  TO  THE  MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


were  closeted,  as  I  suppose  correcting  for  the  press, 
and  I  used  to  see  loose  pages  of  the  manuscript 
lying  interlined  with  my  father's  hand,  who  always 
expressed  as  great  a  value  for  Mr.  Thomson's 
personal  merit  as  for  his  poetical  talents." 

Thomson's  next  letter  to  Cranston,  dated  from 
East  Barnet,  on  the  20th  of  July,  1725,  is  of  great 
value,  from  the  information  which  it  affords  of  his 
situation.  It  fixes  the  date  of  his  mother's  death  ; 
it  proves  when  he  was  a  tutor  in  Lord  Binning's 
family  and  it  shows  that  his  views  were  then 
strongly  fixed  upon  the  church. 

DEAR  DOCTOR,       East  Barnet,  July  20,  1725. 

I  CAN  NOT  imagine  the  meaning  of  this  long  si- 
lence, unless  my  last  letter  has  not  come  to  your 
hand,  which  was  written  two  or  three  months 
since.  I  would  have  seconded  it  before  now,  but 
one  thing  and  another,  particularly  the  severe  af- 
fliction of  my  mother's  death,  incapacitated  me  for 
entertaining  my  friend.  Now  I  am  pretty  much 
at  ease  in  the  country,  ten  miles  from  London, 
teaching  Lord  Binning's  son  to  read,  a  low  task, 
you  know,  not  so  suitable  to  my  temper,  but  I  must 
learn  that  necessary  lesson  of  suiting  my  mind 
and  temper  to  my  state.  I  hope  I  shall  not  pass 
my  time  here  without  improvement,  the  great  de- 
sign of  my  coming  hither,  and  then  in  due  time, 
I  resolve,  through  God's  assistance,  to  consummate 
my  original  study  of  divinity ;  for  you  know  the 
business  of  a  tutor  is  only  precarious  and  for  the 
present.  I  approve,  every  day  more  and  more,  of 
your  advice  to  your  brother  John,  as  to  the  direc- 
tion of  his  study ;  if  well  pursued  it  is  as  honour- 
able, useful,  and  certain  a  method  of  living  as  one, 
in  his  or  my  circumstances,  could  readily  fall  into 
 con- 
temptible notions  of  things  at  home,  and  ro- 
mantic ones  of  things  abroad ;  perhaps  I  was  too 
much  affected  that  way,  but  I  hope  in  the  issue  it 

shall  not  be  worse  for  me  

what  he  seemed  to  be  fond  of,  viz.  surgery.  It  is, 
as  you  can  not  but  know,  the  merest  drug  here  in 
the  world.  Scotland  is  really  fruitful  of  surgeons, 
they  come  here  like  flocks  of  vultures  every  day, 
and,  by  a  merciful  providential  kind  of  instinct, 
transport  themselves  to  foreign  countries.  The 
Change  is  quite  full  of  them,  they  peruse  the  ship- 
bills  and  meet  the  sea  captains.  Pray  let  John 
know  my  sentiments  in  this  matter,  because  through 
a  giddy  discontent  1  spoke  too  slightly  to  him  of 
the  study  which  he  has  now  so  happily  espoused  ! 
I  am  not  now  in  London,  so  can  not  acquaint  you  i 
with  any  thing  that  passes  there  within  my  nar- 
row observation.  Being  there  on  Sunday  last,  I 
lieard  that  every  thing  was  very  dead  both  with 


res{)ect  to  the  scribblers  of  politics  and  poetry.  An 
for  news  you  never  want  too  many  of  them,  they 
increase  proportionally  to  their  distance  from  their 
source,  like  rivers,  or,  since  I  am  in  the  way  of  si- 
miles, Uke  Discord,  as  she  

person  is  to  her  small  at  first,  but  in  a  short  time 
her  body  reaches  from  the  zenith  to  the  nadir,  and 
her  arms  from  one  pole  to  the  other,  which  is  the 
case  of  fame.  To  sound  as  fame  is,  when  great 
actions  make  a  great  noise.  So  news  are  a  noise 
commonly  about  nothing.  As  for  poetry,  she  is 
now  a  very  strumpet,  and  so  has  lost  all  her  life 
and  spirit,  or  rather  a  common  strumpet,  passes 
herself  Upon  the  world  for  the  chaste  heaven-bom 
virgin.  All  my  other  letters  from  this,  if  you  will 
favour  me  with  an  answer,  shall  smell  of  the  coun- 
try, I  need  not  tell  you,  I  have  a  most  affection- 
ate regard  for  you,  and  it  will  give  me  as  real  a  sa- 
tisfaction to  hear  from  you  as  any  man :  it  will  be 
a  great  pleasure  to  me  likewise  to  hear  of  Mr. 
Rickerton's  welfare,  who  deserves  encouragement 
as  much  as  any  preacher  in  Scotland.  Misjohn 
and  his  horse  also  would  make  a  very  good  para- 
graph :  give  my  service  to  them  both ;  to  Mrs.  and 
Miss  Cranston,  John,  &c.    Yours  sincerely, 

J.  Thomson. 
I  can  not  be  certain  whether  Sir  William  Ben- 
net  has  lost  post  or  not.  Your  country  news, 
though  they  may  seem  trifling,  yet  will  be  accept- 
able to  me.  My  brother  will  readily  wait  upon 
you,  who  is  just  now  setting  up  at  Kelso. 

The  letter  to  Dr.  Cranston  in  the  Memoir,*  to 
which  the  date  September  1726  is  assigned,  was 
evidently  the  next  communication  to  him,  and  must 
have  been  written  in  September  1725.  "  Winter" 
appeared  in  the  March  following,  that  is,  March 
1726,  instead  of  March  1726-7.t 

Notwithstanding  that  Thomson  himself  says 
that  the  idea  of  writing  "  Winter"  was  suggested 
by  another  poem  on  the  same  subject,*  yet  War- 
ton  states,  in  one  of  his  notes  on  Pope,  "  My 
friend  Mr.  William  Collins,  author  of  the  Persian 
Eclogues  and  Odes,  assured  me  that  Thomson  in- 
formed him  that  he  took  the  first  hint  and  idea  of 
writing  his  Seasons  from  the  titles  of  Pope's  four 
Pastorals."  Warton  adds,  in  another  place,  "  when 
Thomson  pubhshed  his  Winter  in  1726,  it  lay  a 
long  time  neglected,  till  Mr.  Spence  made  honour- 
able mention  of  it  in  his  Essay  on  the  Odyssey ; 
which,  becoming  a  popular  book,  made  the  poem 
universally  known.  Thomson  always  acknow- 
ledged tlie  use  of  this  recommendation  ;  and  from 
this  circumstance  an  intimacy  commenced  between 
the  critic  and  the  poet,  which  lasted  till  the  la- 
mented death  of  the  latter,  who  was  of  a  most 
amiable  and  benevolent  temper.    I  have  before  me 


•  Memoir,  p.  vii 


•  Memoir,  p.  v.  t  Ibid.  p.  vi,  X  Ibid.  p.  vi. 


ADDENDA  TO  THE  MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


a  letter  of  Mr.  Spence  to  Pitt,  earnestly  begging 
him  to  subscribe  to  the  quarto  edition  of  Thom- 
son's Seasons,  and  mentioning  a  design  which 
Thomson  had  formed  of  writing  a  descriptive  po- 
em on  Blenheim ;  a  subject  that  would  have  shone 
in  his  hands." 

A  letter  from  Thomson  to  Cranston  corrobo- 
rates the  statement  that  his  brother  John  came  to 
London,  but  that  being  attacked  by  a  consumption 
he  returned  for  the  benefit  of  his  native  air  *  It 
appears  that  he  arrived  in  London  before  1734,  re- 
turned earlv  in  August  1735,  and  died  in  Septem- 
ber following.  That  letter  is  of  interest,  not  only 
ftota  the  fraternal  kindness  which  it  evinces,  but 
from  the  notice  of  his  pecuniary  affairs  and  expec- 
tations, and  of  his  poem  of  "  Liberty,"  three  parts 
of  which  were  at  that  time  published.  His  ac- 
quaintance with  Mr.  Lyttelton  seems  to  have  been 
then  very  slight,  even  if  he  was  at  all  known  to 
hun. 


DEAR  SIR,  London,  August  the  1th,  1735 

The  bearer  hereof,  my  brother,  was  seized  last 
spring  with  a  severe  cold,  which  seems  to  have 
fallen  upon  his  lungs,  and  has  reduced  him  to  such 
a  low  condition,  tliat  his  physician  here  advises  him 
to  try  what  his  native  air  can  do,  as  the  only  re- 
maining means  of  recovery.  In  his  present  me- 
lancholy circumstances,  it  gives  me  no  small  satis- 
faction to  think  that  he  will  have  the  benefit  of 
your  directions :  and  for  me  to  spend  more  words 
in  recommending  him  to  your  care  were,  I  flatter 
myself,  a  superfluous  formality.  Your  old  ac- 
quaintance Anderson  attends  him:  and  besides 
what  is  necessary  to  defray  the  expenses  of  their 
journey,  I  have  only  given  my  brother  five  guineas; 
choosing  rather  to  remit  him  the  money  he  will 
afterwards  want,  which  shall  be  done  upon  the 
first  notice. 

My  brother's  illness  puts  me  in  mind  of  that 
which  afilicted  you  some  years  ago;  and  it  is  with 
the  sincerest  pleasure  that  I  reflect  on  your  re- 
covery: your  health  I  hope  is  perfectly  establish- 
ed ;  health  being  the  life  of  Ufe.  I  will  not  make 
you  the  compUments  which  I  justly  could  upon 
that  subject ;  the  sentiments  of  the  heart  are  ge- 
nerally plain,  and  mine  rejoices  in  your  welfare. 

Should  you  inquire  into  my  circumstances: 
They  blossomed  pretty  well  of  late,  the  Chancel- 
lor having  given  me  the  office  of  Secretary  of  the 
Briefs  under  him :  but  the  blight  of  an  idle  inquiry 
into  the  fees  and  offices  of  the  courts  of  justice, 
which  arose  of  late,  seems  to  threaten  its  destruc- 
tion. In  that  case  I  am  to  hope  amends :  to  be 
reduced,  however,  from  enjoyment  to  hope,  will  be 
but  an  awkward  affkir— awkward  or  not,  hope  and 
I  (I  hope)  shall  never  part.  Hope  is  the  breath 
in  the  nostrils  of  happiness,  when  that  goes  this 


dies.  But  then  one  ought  at  the  same  time  to  dis- 
tinguish betwixt  the  fair  star  of  hope,  and  tnat 
meteor,  court-expectation.  With  regard  to  the 
last,  I  subscribe  to  a  new  Beatitude  of  Pope's  or 
Swift's  I  think  it  is— Blessed  is  he  who  expecteth 
nothing,  for  he  shall  never  be  disappointed. 

You  will  see  by  the  three  first  parts  of  a  poem 
called  Liberty,  whichi  I  send  you,  that  I  still  at- 
tempt the  barren  but  delightful  mountain  of  Par- 
nassus. I  have  poured  into  it  several  of  those 
ideas  which  I  gathered  in  my  travels  and  particu- 
larly from  classic  ground.  It  is  to  consist  of  two 
parts  more,  which  I  design  to  pubUsh  next  winter. 
Not  quite  to  tantalize  you,  I  send  you  likewise 
some  of  the  best  things  that  have  been  printed  here 
of  late,  among  which  Mr.  Pope's  second  volume 
of  miscellanies  is  eminent,  and  in  it  his  Essay  on 
Man.  The  first  volume  of  his  Miscellany  Poenas 
was  printed  long  ago,  and  is  every  where.  His 
Letters  were  piratically  printed  by  the  infamous 
Curl.  Though  Mr.  Pope  be  much  concerned  at 
their  being  printed,  yet  are  they  full  of  wit,  hu- 
mour, good  sense,  and  what  is  best  of  all,  a  good 
heart.  One  Mr.  Lyttelton,  a  young  gentleman, 
and  member  of  parliament,  wrote  the  Persian  Let- 
ters. They  are  reckoned  prettily  done.  The  book 
on  the  Sacrament  is  writ  by  Hoadly,  Bishop  of 
Winchester.  All  bigots  roar  against  it,  conse- 
quently it  will  work  your  Misjohns.  I  wish  I 
could  send  you  more  entertainment  of  this  kind  ; 
but  a  new  gothic  night  seems  approaching,  the 
great  year,  the  millenium  of  dulness. 

Believe  me  most  affectionately  yours, 
J.  Thomson. 

Remember  me  kindly  to  friends,  and  direct  to 
me,  should  you  favour  me  with  a  letter,  at  the 
Liancaster  Coflfee  House,  Lancaster  Court,  in  the 
Strand,  London. 


Dr.  Cranston  informed  him  of  the  death  of  his 
brother,  in  a  letter  dated  on  the  33d  of  September, 
but  he  did  not  reply  to  it  until  the  20th  of  October, 
as  it  did  not  come  to  his  hands  sooner,  in  conse- 
quence of  being  on  a  visit  to  Mr.  Bubb  Dodington, 
to  whom  he  dedicated  his  "  Spring,"  at  Eastbury, 
in  Dorsetshire.  His  reflections  on  death  are  well 
expressed,  and  the  allusion  to  his  own  ideas  of 
a  fiiture  state  of  happiness,  that  it  consists  in  a 
progressive  increase  of  beatitude,  is  deserving  of 
attention.  This  letter  is  valuable  also,  because  it 
contains  some  fines  on  the  death  of  his  young 
friend,  Mr.  Talbot,*  which  were  intended  for  in- 
sertion in  "  Liberty,"  instead  of  those  which  occur. 

DEAR  SIR. 

Being  but  lately  returned  from  Mr.  Dodington  s 
seat,  in  Dorsetshire,  I  only  received  yours  of  Sep- 


*  Memoir,  p.  xxv. 


•  Memoir,  p.  x. 


2N 


ADDENDA  TO  THE  MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


tembcr  the  23d,  a  few  days  ago.  The  account  it  of  Minto,  since  he,  I  hear,  desires  it.  Very  likely 
brought  me  of  my  brother's  death,  I  was  pretty  |  he  took  it  amiss  that  my  brother  was  not  lodged 
much  prepared  against,  considering  the  almost  |  with  him,  but  my  aunt  of  Chesters  I  thought  more 
hopeless  condition  he  had  for  some  time  been  in.  proper  to  tend  and  soften  his  sickness,  she  bein<T 


What  you  mention  is  the  true  point  of  view 
wherein  to  place  the  death  of  relations  and  friends. 
They  then  are  past  our  regret :  the  living  are  to 


a  very  good  tender-hearted  woman.  Let  her  son 
Thomas  therefore  have  all  his  effects,  except  it  be 
the  aforesaid  jockey  coat.    I  shall  be  glad  besides 


be  lamented,  and  not  the  dead.  And  this  is  so  I  to  render  them  all  other  service, 
true  and  natural,  that  people  when  they  grieve  for  I  Please  to  let  me  know  to  whom  I  shall  pay  what 
the  death  of  those  they  love,  from  a  principle  of  is  due  upon  my  brother's  account.  Your  good- 
compassion  for  the  departed,  without  a  return  up-  ness  on  this  occasion  gives  me  no  new  sentiment 
on  themselves,  they  envisage  them  in  the  article  of  satisfaction;  it  is  what  I  have  been  long  ac- 
of  death,  and  under  the  pains  both  real  and  ima-  j  quainted  with.  If  you  would  still  add  to  your 
gined  thereof ;  that  is  to  say,  they  grieve  for  them  '  obligations,  lay  freely  your  commands  upon  me 
whilst  they  were  alive.  Death  is  a  limit  which  |  whenever  I  can  be  of  any  service  to  you. 
human  passions  ought  not,  but  with  great  caution  There  are  no  news  here.  The  king  is  expect- 
and  reverence  to  pass.  Nor,  indeed,  can  they  j  ed  this  week.  A  battle  likewise  is  by  some  ex- 
easily  pass  that  liihit ;  since  beyond  it  things  are ,  pected ;  we  hungered  and  thirsted  after 
not  clearly  and  distinctly  enough  perceived  for- j  Seckendorf  and  Belle-Isle.  But  the  French  and 
mally  to  excite  them.  This,  I  think,  we  may  be  |  Germans  seem  to  have  fought  enough  last  cam- 
sure  of,  that  a  future  state  must  be  better  than  ;  paign  in  Italy,  to  excuse  them  for  this.  The  gal- 
this;  and  so  on  through  the  never-ceasing  succes-  jlant  French  this  year  have  made  war  upon  the 
sion  of  future  states  ;  every  one  rising  upon  the  Germans,  I  beg  their  politeness's  pardon,  like  ver- 
last,  an  everlasting  new  display  of  infinite  good-  min— eat  them  up.  Hang  them  all.  If  they 
ness  !  But  hereby  hangs  a  system,  not  calculated  make  war  it  is  to  rob,  if  peace  to  cheat  one  ano- 
perhaps  for  the  meridian  where  you  live,  though  ther.    Such  are  the  noble  dispositions  of  mankind 


for  that  of  your  own  mind,  and  too  long  to  be  ex- 
plained in  a  letter.  I  will  conclude  these  thoughts 
by  giving  you  some  lines  of  a  copy  of  verses  I 
wrote  on  my  friend,  Mr.  Talbot's  death,  and  de- 
signed at  first  to  be  prefixed  to  Liberty,  but  after- 
wards reduced  to  those  you  see  stand  there.  Per- 
haps some  time  or  other  I  may  publish  the  whole. 

Be  then  the  startling  tear, 
Or  selfish,  or  mistaken,  wiped  away. 
By  death  the  good,  from  reptile  matter  raised, 
'  And  upward  soaring  to  superior  day, 
With  pity  hear  our  plaints,  with  pity  see 
Our  ignorance  of  tears ;  if  e'er  indeed, 
Amid  the  woes  of  life,  they  quench  their  joys. 
Wh^  should  we  cloud  a  friend's  exalted  state 
With  idle  grief,  tenaciously  prolonged 
Beyond  the  lovely  drops  that  frailty  sheds, 
Surprised  1    No,  rather  thence  less  fond  of  life, 
Yet  still  the  lot  enjoying  heaven  allows, 
Attend  we,  cheerful,  the  rejoining  hour, 
Children  of  nature !  let  us  not  reject, 
Fro  ward,  the  good  we  have  for  what  we  want. 
Since  all  by  turns  must  spread  the  sable  sail, 
Driven  to  the  coast  that  never  makes  return, 
But  where  we  happy  hope  to  meet  again ; 
teooner  or  later,  a  few  anxious  years. 
Still  fluttering  on  the  wijig,  not  much  imports. 
Eternal  Goodness  reigns :  be  this  our  stay ; 
A  subject  for  the  past  of  grateful  song, 
And  for  the  future  of  undrooping  hope. 

Every  thing,  it  seems,  is  a  subject  of  contention 
in  this  interested  world.  Let  his  effects  be  all 
given  to  his  cousin,  Thomas  Turnbull,  who  so 
kindly  attended  him  in  his  illness.  Only  his  great 
cDal,  jockey  coat,  I  mean,  may  be  given  to  David 


at  present.    But  before  1  fall  into  a  bad  humour  I 
will  take  my  leave  of  you,  being  always, 
My  dear  friend. 
Your  most  affectionate  humble  servant, 

James  Thomson. 

London,  Oct.  20th,  1735. 

Pray  remember  me  kindly  to  all  friends. 

To  the  remark,*  that  a  material  difference  ex- 
ists between  "  The  Seasons"  as  they  first  appear- 
ed and  as  they  now  stand,  it  ought  to  have  been 
added  that  Dr.  Bell,  Thomson's  nephew,  medi- 
tated a  variorum  edition  of  that  work.  In  a  letter 
to  Lord  Buchan,  in  June  1791,  he  says, 

"  In  the  improved  edition  of  Spring  are  added 
85  lines,  in  Summer  599,  in  Autumn  96,  and  in 
Winter  188,  making  a  total  of  968  Unes." 

In  another  letter  to  Lord  Buchan,  vsrritten  in 
September,  1791,  Dr.  Bell  observes : 

"  I  have  begun  to  collate  the  Seasons — the 
edition  1730  with  that  of  1744.  As  I  proceed  in 
the  work,  1  have  more  and  more  reason  to  think 
that  my  labour  will  not  be  unworthy  the  atten- 
tion of  the  public.  A  great  many  beautiful  pas- 
sages in  the  edition  of  1730  are  entirely  struck 
out  of  all  subsequent  editions,  and  the  other  alter- 
ations made  are  considerable,  far  more  than  I 
had  any  conception  of  previous  to  collating  them 
with  accuracy.  The  improvements  made  on  the 
edition  1744  will  be  taken  notice  of;  they  are 
highly  important." 


*  Memoir,  p.  viiL 


ADDENDA  TO  l  HE  MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  THOMSON. 


xxxiii 


Dr.  Bell  did  not  execute  his  design,  but  a  duo- 
decimo edition  of  the  Seasons  was  pubUshed  by 
Sibbald,  at  Edinburgh,  in  1789,  containing,  at 
the  end,  the  variations  between  the  last  and  pre- 
vious impressions. 

Johnson's  remark  on  the  alteration  and  curtail- 
ment made  by  Lord  Lyttelton  in  "  Liberty"  was 
too  hastily  repeated  in  the  Memoir,*  for  it  was 
afterwards  discovered  that  there  is  not  the  slight- 
est ground  for  it.  This  had  also  occurred  to  Dr. 
Bell,  who  says,  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Lord 
Buchan: 

"  I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand  what  Dr.  John- 
son means  by  saying,  in  his  Life  of  Thomson, 
that  Sir  George  Lyttelton  shortened  the  poem  of 
Liberty.  I  have  just  now  before  me  the  edition 
of  Liberty,  printed  by  Millar,  1735-1736,  and,  in- 
stead of  abridgments  after  this,  find  that  above 
two  dozen  of  lines  have  been  added,  twelve  to 
part  first,  ten  to  part  second,  and  one  to  part 
third.  Your  lordship  might,  perhaps,  be  able  to 
detect  whether  that  arch-hypercritic  be  right  or 
wrong.  I  suspect  he  is  in  a  mistake,  but  have  no 
good  reason  for  saying  so,  save  the  opinion  1 
have  of  the  presumption  and  arrogance  of  the 
man." 

An  edition  of  Milton's  "  Areopagitica"  was 
published  about  1740,  to  which  Thomson  wrote 
the  preface. 

The  "  Amanda"  of  Thomson  was  Miss  Eliza- 
beth Young,  who  married  Vice  Admiral  John 
Campbell;  and  the  late  Mr.  Coutts,  in  reply  to 
an  inquiry  of  Lord  Buchan  in  1792,  stated,  that 
the  late  Admiral  Campbell  was  his  "  most  inti- 
mate and  worthy  friend,"  adding,  "  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell was  certainly  the  Amanda  of  Thomson,  and 
he  wished  to  have  married  her,  but  his  want  of 
fortune  proved  a  bar  in  the  way  of  their  union."t 

There  is  reason  to  believe  that  a  fragment  of  a 
poem  was  found  amongst  Thomson's  papers,  as 
Dr.  Bell  remarks,  in  his  letter  to  Lord  Buchan, 
in  September,  1791: 

"  I  remember  to  have  heard  my  aunt,  Mrs. 
Thomson,  say,  that  the  outlines  of  a  fine  poem 
were  found  among  her  brother's  papers  after  his 
death.  If  this  was  the  case,  Mr.  Gray,  of  Rich- 
mond Hill,  got  possession  of  them.    The  heirs 


•  P.  xi. 

t  In  the  same  letter  Mr.  Coutts  thus  speaks  of  Thomson's 
intimate  friend,  Dr.  Armstrong:  "Mr.  Dundas  can  find  no- 
thing of  Dr.  Armstrong.  What  a  pity  almost  all  that  worthy 
man  and  elegant  judicious  poet's  works  have  been  lost,  or 
fallen  a  sacrifice  in  the  fire  to  his  delicacy  of  mind.  He  had 
so  correct  a  taste,  and  so  clear  a  judgment,  that  he  was  never 
pleased  in  the  morning  with  what  he  had  written  over 
night.  And  when  he  went  to  Germany,  in  the  army,  he 
packed  up  a  number  .of  things  in  a  portmanteau,  which  he 
left  in  careless  hands,  and  it  was  lost :  also  in  Germany,  upon 
some  alarm  from  the  enemy,  he  lost  another  portmanteau, 
which,  I  am  persuaded,  contained  many  valuable  things."  ' 


of  that  gentleman  will  be  able  to  ascertain  the 
fact;  and  to  put  it  in  my  power,  if  they  are  wor- 
thy of  Thomson's  character,  to  give  them  to  the 
public.  Your  lordship  has  taken  so  much  trouble 
in  this  little  plan  of  mine,  that  I  am  ashamed  to 
throw  out  this  hint." 

Elizabeth,  the  Poet's  second  sister,  who  married 
the  Reverend  Robert  Bell,*  was,  according  to  her 
son,  Dr.  Bell,  "  the  favourite  and  best  beloved  sis- 
ter of  Caledonia's  bard." 

An  original  picture  of  Thomson,  by  Slaughter, 
is  preserved  at  Dryburgh  Abbey,  the  seat  of  Lord 
Buchan.  It  belonged  to  the  Poet,  and  hung  in 
the  room  he  used  at  Slaughter's  CofFee-house. 
On  the  back  is  this  inscription,  in  his  Lordship's 
hand  writing: 

"  Procured  for  the  Earl  of  Buchan  by  his  friend, 
Richard  Cooper,  Esq.,  engraver.  Thomson  and 
his  friends.  Dr.  Anderson,  Peter  Murdoch,  &c. 
used  to  frequent  old  Slaughter's  Coffee-house, 
London,  and  his  portrait  was  painted  at  that  time 
by  Slaughter,  a  kinsman  of  old  Slaughter. 

Dec  3,  1812.  Buchan." 

His  Lordship's  seal  is  added.  This  portrait 
has  been  engraved. 

A  monument  to  Thomson  has  been  at  length 
erected  on  an  eminence,  about  half  way  between 
Kelso  and  Ednam,  but  the  only  admiration  it  is 
likely  to  excite  is  for  the  motives  of  those  to  whom 
it  owes  its  existence.  Taste  is  rarer  even  than 
money ;  and  it  is  lamentable  to  reflect  that,  how- 
ever calculated  the  monuments  in  this  country,  to 
departed  greatness,  may  be  to  exalt  the  fame  of 
the  deceased,  they  have  a  contrary  effect  upon 
the  reputation  of  the  person  who  superintended 
their  erection. 


PREFACE, 

BY  THOMSON,  PREFIXED  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION 
OF  WINTER,  1726. 

I  AM  neither  ignorant  nor  concerned  how  much 
one  may  suffer  in  the  opinion  of  several  persons 
of  great  gravity  and  character  by  the  study  and 
pursuit  of  poetry. 

Although  there  may  seem  to  be  sfitme  appearance 
of  reason  for  the  present  contempt  of  it,  as  man- 
aged by  the  most  part  of  our  modern  writers,  yet 
that  any  man  should,  seriously,  declare  against 
that  divine  art  is  really  amazing.  It  is  declaring 
against  the  most  charming  power  of  imagination, 
the  most  exalting  force  of  thought,  the  most  affect- 
ing  touch  of  sentiment;  in  a  word,  against  the  very 
soul  of  all  learning  and  politeness.    It  is  affronting 

'  *  Memoir,  p.  xxii. 


XXXIV 


PREFACE  TO  WINTER. 


the  universal  taste  of  mankind,  and  declaring 
against  what  has  charmed  the  listening  world  from 
Moses  down  to  Milton.  In  fine,  it  is  even  de- 
claring against  the  sublijncst  passages  of  the  in- 
spired writings  themselves,  and  what  seems  to  be 
the  peculiar  language  of  Heaven. 

The  truth  of  the  case  is  this:  these  weak-sighted 
gentlemen  can  not  bear  the  strong  light  of  poetry, 
and  the  finer  and  more  amusing  scene  of  things  it 
displays;  but  must  those,  therefore,  whom  Heaven 
has  blessed  with  the  discerning  eye,  shut  it  to  keep 
them  company 

It  is  pleasant  enough,  however,  to  observe,  fre- 
quently, in  these  enemies  of  poetry,  an  awkward 
imitation  of  it.  They  sometimes  have  their  little 
brightnesses,  when  the  opening  glooms  will  per- 
mit. Nay,  I  have  seen  their  heaviness,  on  some 
occasions,  deign  to  turn  friskish  and  witty,  in 
which  they  make  just  such  another  figure  as 
^ sop's  Ass,  when  he  began  to  fawn.  To  com- 
plete the  absurdity  they  would,  even  in  their  efforts 
against  poetry,  fain  be  poetical;  like  those  gentle- 
men that  reason  with  a  great  deal  of  zeal  and  se- 
verity against  reason. 

That  there  are  frequent  and  notorious  abuses 
of  poetry  is  as  true  as  that  the  best  things  are  most 
liable  to  that  misfortune;  but  is  there  no  end  of  that 
clamorous  argument  against  the  use  of  things  from 
the  abuse  of  them'?  And  yet  I  hope  that  no  man, 
who  has  the  least  sense  of  shame  in  him,  will  fall 
into  it  after  the  present  sulphureous  attacker  of  the 
stage. 

To  insist  no  further  on  this  head,  let  poetry 
once  more  be  restored  to  her  ancient  truth  and 
purity;  let  her  be  inspired  from  heaven;  and,  in 
return,  her  incense  ascend  thither:  let  her  exchange 
her  low,  venal,  trifling  subjects  for  such  as  are 
fair,  useful,  and  magnificent;  and  let  her  execute 
these  so  as  at  once  to  please,  instruct,  surprise,  and 
astonish;  and  then,  of  necessity,  the  most  invete- 
rate ignorance  and  prejudice  shall  be  struck  dumb, 
and  poets  yet  become  the  delight  and  wonder  of 
mankind. 

But  this  happy  period  is  not  to  be  expected  till 
some  long- wished  illustrious  man,  of  equal  power 
and  beneficence,  rise  on  the  wintry  world  of  let- 
ters; one  of  a  genuine  and  unbounded  greatness 
and  generosity  of  mind;  who,  far  above  all  the 
pomp  and  pride  of  fortune,  scorns  the  little,  ad- 
dressful  flatterer,  pierces  through  the  disguised  de- 
signing villain,  discountenances  all  the  reigning 
fopperies  of  a  tasteless  age,  and  who,  stretching 
his  views  into  late  futurity,  has  the  true  inter- 
est of  virtue,  .learning,  and  mankind  entirely  at 
heart,  A  character,  so  nobly  desirable !  that,  to 
an  honest  heart,  it  is  almost  incredible  so  few 
should  have  the  ambition  to  deserve  it. 

Nothing  can  have  a  better  influence  towards  the 
revival  of  poetry  than  the  choosing  of  great  and 


serious  subjects,  such  as  at  once  amuse  the  fancy, 
enlighten  the  head,  and  warm  the  heart.  These 
give  a  weight  and  dignity  to  the  poem,  nor  is  the 
pleasure,  I  should  say  rapture,  both  the  writer  and 
the  reader  feels,  unwarranted  by  reason,  or  fol- 
lowed by  repentant  disgust.  To  be  able  to  write 
on  a  dry,  barren  theme,  is  looked  upon  by  some 
as  the  sign  of  a  happy,  fruitful,  genius — fruitful 
indeed !  like  one  of  the  pendent  gardens  in  Cheap- 
side,  watered  every  morning  by  the  hand  of  the 
alderman  himself.  And  what  are  we  commonly 
entertained  with  on  these  occasions,  save  forced, 
unaflfecting  fancies,  little,  glittering  prettinesses, 
mixed  turns  of  wit  and  expression,  which  are  as 
widely  different  from  native  poetry  as  buffoonery 
is  from  the  perfection  of  human  thinking.  A 
genius  fired  with  the  charms  of  truth  and  nature 
is  tuned  to  a  sublimer  pitch,  and  scorns  to  asso- 
ciate with  such  subjects. 

I  can  not  more  emphatically  recommend  this 
poetical  ambition  than  by  the  four  following  lines 
from  Mr.  Hill's  poem,  called  The  Judgment  Day, 
which  is  so  singular  an  instance  of  it. 

For  me,  suffice  it  to  have  taught  my  muse 

The  tuneful  triflings  of  her  tribe  to  shun ; 

And  raised  her  warmth  such  heavenly  themes  to  choose, 

As,  in  past  ages,  the  best  garlands  won. 

I  know  no  subject  more  elevated,  more  amusing, 
more  ready  to  awake  the  poetical  enthusiasm,  the 
philosophical  reflection,  and  the  moral  sentiment 
than  the  works  of  Nature.  Where  can  we  meet 
with  such  variety,  such  beauty,  such  magnificence  1 
All  that  enlarges  and  transports  the  souH  What 
more  inspiring  than  a  calm^  wide  survey  of  theml 
In  every  dress  Nature  is  greatly  charming !  whether  I 
she  puts  on  the  crimson  robes  of  the  morning !  the 
strong  effulgence  of  noon!  the  sober  suit  of  the 
evening!  or  the  deep  sables  of  blackness  and  tem- 
pest !  How  gay  looks  the  Spring !  how  glorious  the 
Summer!  how  pleasing  the  Autumn!  and  how 
venerable  the  Winter ! — But  there  is  no  thinking 
of  these  things  without  breaking  out  into  poetry, 
which  is,  by  the  by,  a  plain  and  undeniable  argu- 
ment of  their  superior  excellence. 

For  this  reason  the  best,  both  ancient  and  mo- 
dern, poets  have  been  passionately  fond  of  retire- 
ment and  solitude.  The  wild  romantic  country 
was  their  delight.  And  they  seem  never  to  have 
been  more  happy  than  when  lost  in  unfrequented 
fields,  far  from  the  little  busy  world,  they  were  at 
leisure  to  meditate,  and  sing  the  works  of  Nature. 

The  Book  of  Job,  that  noble  and  ancient  poem, 
which  even  strikes  so  forcibly  through  a  mangling  . 
translation,  is  crowned  with  a  description  of  the 
grand  works  of  Nature,  and  that,  too,  from  the 
mouth  of  their  Almighty  Author. 

It  was  this  devotion  to  the  works  of  Nature,  that, 
in  his  Georgics,  inspired  the  rural  Virgil  to  write 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 


so  inimitably;  and  who  can  forbear  joining  with  1 
him  in  this  declaration  of  his,  which  has  been  the  I 
rapture  of  ages'?  -  ^ 

Me  vero  primum  dulces  ante  omnia  Musse, 
Quarum  sacra  fero  ingenti  perculsus  amore, 
Accipiant;  Ccelique  vias  et  sidera  mohstrent, 
Defectus  solis  varios,  lunasque  labores: 
TJnde  tremor  terris :  qua  vi  maria  alta  tumescant 
Obicibus  ruptis,  rursusque  in  seipsa  residant: 
Quid  tantum  oceano  properent  se  tingere  soles 
Hyberni :  vel  quae  tardis  mora  noctibus  obstat. 
Sin,  h.a.3  ne  possim  nature  accedere  partes, 
Frigidus  obstiterit  circum  prascordla  sanguis ; 
Rura  mihi  et  rigui  placeant  in  valibus  amnis 
Flumina  amem  silvasque  inglorius. 

Which  may  be  Englished  thus : 

Me  may  tlie  Muses,  my  supreme  delight! 
Whose  priest  I  am,  smit  with  immense  desire, 
Snatch  to  their  care ;  the  starry  tracts  disclose, 
The  sun's  distress,  the  labours  of  the  moon ; 
Whence  the  earth  quakes ;  and  by  what  force  the  deeips 
Heave  at  the  rocks,  then  on  themselves  reflow . 
Why  winter-suns  to  plunge  in  ocean  speed ;  / 
And  what  retards  the  lazy  summer-night. 
But,  lest  I  should  these  mystic  truths  attain, 
If  .he  cold  current  freezes  round  my  heart, 
The  country  me,  the  brooky  vales  may  please 
Mid  woods  and  streams  unknown. 

I  can  not  put  an  end  to  this  Preface  without 
taking  the  freedom  to  offer  my  most  sincere  and 
grateful  acknowledgments  to  all  those  gentlemen 
who  have  given  my  first  performance  so  favourable 
a  reception. 

It  is  with  the  best  pleasure,  and  a  rising  ambi- 
tion, that  I  reflect  on  the  honour  Mr.  Hill  has 
done  me  in  recommending  my  poem  to  the  world 
after  a  manner  so  pecuhar  to  himself,  than  whom 
none  approves  and  obliges  with  a  nobler  and  more 
tmreserving  promptitude  of  soul.  His  favours  are 
the  very  smiles  of  humanity,  graceful  and  easy, 
flowing  from  and  to  the  heart.  This  agreeable 
train  of  thought  awakens  naturally  in  my  mind 
all  the  other  parts  of  his  great  and  amiable  cha- 
racter, which  I  know  not  well  how  to  quit,  and  yet 
dare  not  here  pursue. 

Every  reader  who  has  a  heart  to  be  moved,  must 
feel  the  most  gentle  power  of  poetry  in  the  hues 
with  which  Mira  has  graced  my  poem. 

It  perhaps  might  be  reckoned  vanity  in  me,  to 
say  how  richly  I  value  the  approbation  of  a  gentle- 
man of  Mr.  Malloch's  fine  and  exact  taste,  so  just- 
ly dear  and  valuable  to  all  those  that  have  the  hap- 
piness of  knowing  him;  and  who,  to  say  no  more 
of  him,  will  abundantly  make  good  to  the  world 
the  early  promise  his  admired  piece  of  William 
and  Margaret  has  given. 

I  only  wish  my  description  of  the  various  ap- 
pearance of  Nature  in  Winter,  and,  as  I  purpose, 
in  the  other  Seasons,  may  have  the  good  fortune 
29  2  If  2 


3UCXV 

to  give  the  reader  some  of  that  true  pleasure  which 
they,  in  their  agreeable  succession,  are  always  sure 
to  inspire  into  my  heart. 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 

TO  MR.  THOMSON, 

DOUBTFUL  TO  WHAT  PATRON  HE  SHOULD  ADDRESS 
HIS  POEM  CALLED  WINTER. 

Some  peers,  perhaps,  have  skill  to  judge,  'tis  true; 
Yet  no  mean  prospect  bounds  the  Muse's  view. 
Firm  in  your  native  strength,  thus  nobly  shown, 
Slight  ^!uch  delusive  props,  and  stand  alone ; 
Fruitless  dependance  oft  has  found  too  late 
That  greatness  rarely  dwells  among  the  great. 
Patrons  are  Nature's  nobles,  not  the  state's, 
And  wit's  a  title  no  broad  seal  creates: 
E'en  kings,  from  whose  high  source  all  honours 
flow, 

Are  poor  in  power  when  they  would  souls  bestow 

Heedless  of  fortune  then  look  down  on  state, 
Balanced  within  by  reason's  conscious  weight: 
Divinely  proud  of  independent  will. 
Prince  of  your  passions,  live  their  sovereign  still. 
He  who  stoops  safe  beneath  a  patron's  shade 
Shines,  like  the  moon,  but  by  another's  aid ; 
Free  truth  should  open,  and  unbias'd  steer, 
Strong  as  heaven's  heat,  and  as  its  brightness  clear. 

O,  swell  not  then  the  bosoms  of  the  vain 
With  false  conceit  that  you  protection  gain; 
Poets,  like  you,  their  own  protectors  stand, 
Placed  above  aid  from  pride's  inferior  hand. 
Time,  that  devours  the  lord's  unlasting  name, 
Shall  lend  her  soundless  depth  to  float  your  fame. 

On  verse  like  yours  no  smiles  from  power  expect, 
Born  with  a  worth  that  doomed  you  to  neglect; 
Yet,  would  your  wit  be  noised,  reflect  no  more, 
Let  the  smooth  veil  of  flattery  silk  you  o'er; 
Aptly  attach'd  the  court's  soft  climate  try. 
Learn  your  pen's  duty  from  your  patron's  eye. 

■  Ductile  of  soul,  each  pliant  purpose  wind, 
'  And,  tracing  interest  close,  leave  doubt  behind : 

Then  shall  your  name  strike  loud  the  public  ear; 
'  For  through  good  fortune  virtue's  self  shines  clear. 

But,  in  defiance  of  our  taste  to  charm  I 

■  And  fancy's  force  with  judgment's  caution  arm ! 
!  Disturb,  with  busy  thought,  so  luU'd  an  age! 
I  And  plant  strong  meanings  o'er  the  peaceful  page ! 
I  Impregnate  sound  with  sense!  teach  nature  art! 

And  warm  e'en  Winter  till  it  thaws  the  heart! 
-  How  could  you  thus  your  country's  rules  transgress, 
,  Yet  think  of  patrons,  and  presume  success'? 

A.  Hill. 


xxxvi 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 


TO  MR.  THOMSON, 

ON  HIS  BLOOMING  WINTER. 

Oh  gaudy  summer,  veil  thy  blushing  head, 
Dull  is  thy  sun,  and  all  thy  beauties  dead; 
From  thy  short  nights,  and  noisy  mirthful  day, 
My  kindling  thoughts,  disdainful,  turn  away. 

Majestic  Winter  with  his  floods  appears, 
And  o'er  the  world  his  awful  terrors  rears : 
From  north  to  south  his  train  dispreading  slow, 
Blue  frost,  bleak  rain,  and  fleecy-footed  snow. 

In  thee,  sad  Winter,  I  a  kindred  find. 
Far  more  related  to  poor  human  kind ; 
To  thee  my  gently  drooping  head  I  bend, 
Thy  sigh  my  sister,  and  thy  tear  my  friend; 
On  thee  I  muse,  and  in  thy  hastening  sun, 
See  life  expiring  ere  'tis  well  begun. 

Thy  sickening  ray  and  venerable  gloom 
Shows  life's  last  scene,  the  solitary  tomb ; 
But  thou  art  safe,  so  shaded  by  the  bays. 
Immortal  in  the  noblest  poet's  praise ; 
From  time  and  death  he  will  thy  beauties  save; 
Oh  may  such  numbers  weep  o'er  Mira's  grave ! 
Secure  and  glorious  would  her  ashes  lie. 
Till  Nature  fade — and  all  the  Seasons  die. 

MiRA. 


TO  MR.  THOMSON, 

ON  HIS  PUBLISHING  THE  SECOND  EDITION  OP  HIS 
POEM,  CALLED  WINTER. 

Charm'd  and  instructed  by  thy  powerful  song, 
I  have,  unjust,  withheld  my  thanks  too  long; 
This  debt  of  gratitude  at  length  receive. 
Warmly  sincere,  'tis  all  thy  friend  can  give. 

Thy  worth  new  lights  the  poet's  darken'd  name. 
And  shows  it,  blazing,  in  the  brightest  fame. 
Through  all  thy  various  Winter  full  are  found, 
Magnificence  of  thought  and  pomp  of  sound. 
Clear  depth  of  sense,  expression's  heightening 
grace, 

And  goodness,  eminent  in  power  and  place! 


For  this,  the  wise,  the  knowing  few  commend 
With  zealous  joy— for  thou  art  virtue's  friend:  I 
Even  age  and  truth  severe,  in  reading  thee, 
That  Heaven  inspire's  the  muse,  convinced  agree. 

Thus  I  dare  sing  of  merit  faintly  known, 
Friendless— supported  by  itself  alone : 
For  those  whose  aided  will  could  lift  thee  high 
In  fortune,  see  not  with  discernment's  eye. 
Nor  place  nor  power  bestows  ^he  sight  refined, 
And  wealth  enlarges  not  the  narrow  mind. 

How  couldst  thou  think  of  such  and  write  so 
wein 

Or  hope  reward  by  daring  to  excel ! 
Unskilful  of  the  age !  untaught  to  gain 
Those  favours  which  the  fawning  base  obtain ! 
A  thousand  shameful  arts  to  thee  unknown, 
Falsehood  and  flattery  must  be  first  thy  own. 
If  thy  loved  country  lingers  in  thy  breast, 
Thou  must  drive  out  the  unprofitable  guest; 
Extinguish  each  bright  aim  that  kindles  there, 
And  centre  in  thyself  thy  every  care. 

But  hence  that  vileness — pleased  to  charm  man- 
kind. 

Cast  each  low  thought  of  interest  far  behind: 
Neglected  into  noble  scorn — away 
From  that  worn  path  where  vulgar  poets  stray; 
Inglorious  herd !  profuse  of  venal  lays ! 
And  by  the  pride  despised,  they  stoop  to  praise ! 
Thou,  careless  of  the  statesman's  smile  or  frown, 
Tread  that  straight  way  that  leads  to  fair  renown. 
By  virtue  guided,  and  by  glory  fired. 
And  by  reluctant  envy  slow  admired. 
Dare  to  do  well,  and  in  thy  boundless  mind 
Embrace  the  general  welfare  of  thy  kind; 
Enrich  them  with  the  treasures  of  thy  thought, 
What  Heaven  approves  and  what  the  Muse  has 
taught. 

Where  thy  power  fails,  unable  to  go  on. 
Ambitious,  greatly  will  the  good  undone. 
So  shall  thy  name,  through  ages,  brightening 
shine, 

And  distant  praise  from  worth  unborn  be  thine : 
So  shall  thou,  happy !  merit  Heaven's  regard, 
And  find  a  glorious,  though  a  late  reward. 

D.  Malloch. 


THE 

POETICAL  WORKS 

OF 

*  THE  SEASOIVS. 

Et  nunc  omnis  ager,  nunc  omnis  parturit  arbos, 

Nunc  frojjdent  silvae,  nunc  formosissimus  annus. —  Virg 

ARGUMENT. 

Trie  subiect  proposed.  Inscribed  to  the  Countess  of  Hertford.  The  Season  is  described  as  it  affects  the  various  parts  of 
Nature  ascendint'  from  the  lower  to  the  higher ;  with  digressions  arising  from  the  subject.  Its  influence  on  inanimate  Mat- 
ter, on  Vegetables,  on  brute  Animals,  and  last  on  Man ;  concluding  with  a  dissuasive  from  the  wild  and  irregular  passion  of 
Love,  opposed  to  that  of  a  pure  and  happy  kind. 


TO  THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE 
THE  COUNTESS  OF  HERTFORD. 


MADAM, 

I  HAVE  always  observed  that,  in  addresses  of 
this  nature,  the  general  taste  of  the  world  demands 
ingenious  turns  of  wit,  and  disguised  artful  peri- 
ods, instead  of  an  open  sincerity  of  sentiment  flow- 
ing in  a  plain  expression.  From  what  secret  im- 
patience of  the  justest  praise,  when  bestowed  on 
others,  this  often  proceeds,  rather  than  a  pretend- 
ed delicacy,  is  beyond  my  purpose  here  to  inquire. 
But  as  nothing  is  more  foreign  to  the  disposition 
of  a  soul  sincerely  pleased  with  the  contemplation 
of  what  is  beautiful,  and  excellent,  than  wit  and 
turn ;  I  have  too  much  respect  for  your  Ladyship's 
character,  either  to  touch  it  in  that  gay,  trifling 
manner,  or  venture  on  a  particular  detail  of  those 
truly  amiable  qualities  of  which  it  is  composed.  A 
mind  exalted,  pure,  and  elegant,  a  heart  overflow- 
ing with  humanity,  and  the  whole  train  of  virtues 
thence  derived,  that  give  a  pleasing  spirit  to  con- 
versation, an  engaging  simplicity  to  the  manners, 
and  form  the  life  to  harmony,  are  rather  to  be  felt, 
and  silently  admired,  than  expressed.  I  have  at- 
tempted, in  the  following  Poem,  to  paint  some  of 
the  most  tender  beauties  and  delicate  appearances 
of  nature ;  how  much  in  vain,  your  Ladyship's  taste 
will,  I  am  afraid,  but  too  soon  discover :  yet  would 
it  still  be  a  much  easier  task  to  find  expression  for 
all  that  variety  of  colour,  form,  and  fragrance, 
which  enrich  the  season  I  describe,  than  to  speak 
the  many  nameless  graces  and  native  riches  of  a 
mind  capable  so  much  at  once  to  relish  solitude, 


and  adorn  society.  To  whom  then  could  these 
sheets  be  more  properly  inscribed  than  to  you,  Ma- 
dam, whose  influence  in  the  world  can  give  them 
the  protection  they  want,  while  your  fine  imagi- 
nation, and  intimate  acquaintance  with  rural  na- 
ture, will  reconynend  them  with  the  greatest  ad- 
vantage to  your  favourable  notice  1  Happy  !  if  I 
hit  any  of  those  images,  and  correspondent  senti-> 
ments,  your  calm  evening  walks,  in  the  most  de- 
lightful retirement,  have  oft  inspired.  I  could  add 
too,  that  as  this  Poem  grew  up  under  your  encour- 
agement, it  has  therefore  a  natural  claim  to  your 
patronage.  Should  you  read  it  with  approbation, 
its  music  shall  not  droop ;  and  should  it  have  the 
good  fortune  to  deserve  your  smiles,  its  roses  shall 
not  wither.  But,  where  the  subject  is  so  tempting, 
lest  1  begin  my  Poem  before  the  Dedication  is  end- 
ed, I  here  break  short,  and  beg  leave  to  subscribe 
myself,  with  the  highest  respect, 
Madam, 

Your  most  obedient,  humble  servant, 
James  Thomson.  , 


SPRING. 

Come,  gentle  Spring !  ethereal  Mildness  I  come. 
And  from  the  bosom  of  yon  dropping  cloud, 
While  music  wakes  around,  veil'd  in  a  shower 
Of  shadowing  roses,  on  our  plains  descend. 

O  Hertford,  fitted  or  to  shine  in  courts 
With  unaffected  grace,  or  walk  the  plaia 
With  innocence  and  meditation  join'd 
In  soft  assemblage,  listen  to  my  song, 
Which  thy  own  Season  paints ;  when  Nature  all 
Is  blooming  and  benevolent,  like  thee. 


2 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


And  see  where  surly  Winter  passes  off, 
Far  to  the  north,  and  calls  his  ruffian  blasts: 
His  blasts  obey,  and  quit  the  howling  hill, 
The  shatter'd  forest,  and  the  ravaged  vale ; 
While  softer  gales  succeed,  at  whose  kind  touch, 
Dissolving  snows  in  livid  torrents  lost, 
The  mountains  lift  their  green  heads  to  the  sky. 

As  yet  the  trembling  year  is  unconfirm'd, 
And  Winter  oft  at  eve  resumes  the  breeze, 
Chills  the  pale  morn,  and  bids  his  driving  sleets 
Deform  the  day  delightless:  so  that  scarce 
The  bittern  knows  his  time,  with  bill  ingulf  d, 
To  shake  the  sounding  marsh;  or  from  the  shore 
The  plovers  when  to  scatter  o'er  the  heath, 
And  sing  their  wild  notes  to  the  listenmg  waste. 

At  last  from  Aries  rolls  the  bounteous  sun, 
And  the  bright  Bull  receives  him.  Then  no  more 
The  expansive  atmosphere  is  cramp'd  with  cold ; 
But,  full  of  life  and  vivifying  soul. 
Lifts  the  light  clouds  sublime,  and  spreads  them 
thin, 

Fleecy,  and  white,  o'er  all-surrounding  heaven. 

Forth  fly  the  tepid  airs:  and  unconfined, 
Unbinding  earth,  the  moving  softness  strays. 
Joyous,  the  impatient  husbandman  perceives 
Relenting  Nature,  and  his  lusty  steers 
Drives  from  their  stalls,  to  where  the  well  used 
plough 

Lies  in  the  furrow,  loosen'd  from  the  frost. 
There,  unrefusing,  to  the  harness'd  yoke 
They  lend  their  shoulders,  and  begin  their  toil, 
Cheer'd  by  the  simple  song  and  soaring  lark. 
Meanwhile  incumbent  o'er  the  shining  share 
The  master  leans,  removes  the  obstructing  clay, 
Winds  the  whole  work,  and  sidelong  lays  the 
glebe. 

While  through  the  neighbouring  fields  the 
sower  stalks, 
With  measured  steps,  and  liberal  throws  the  grain 
Into  the  fruitful  bosom  of  the  ground; 
The  harrow  follows  harsh,  and  shuts  the  scene. 

Be  gracious,  Heaven!  for  now  laborious  Man 
Has  done  his  part.    Ye  fostering  breezes,  blow! 
Ye  softening  dews,  ye  tender  showers,  descend! 
And  temper  all,  thou  world-reviving  sun. 
Into  the  perfect  year!  Nor  ye  who  live 
In  luxury  and  ease,  in  pomp  and  pride, 
Think  these  lost  themes  unworthy  of  your  ear: 
Such  themes  as  these  the  rural  Maro  sung 
To  wide-imperial  Rome,  in  the  full  height 
Of  elegance  and  taste,  by  Greece  refined. 

In  ancient  times  the  sacred  plough  employ'd 
The  kings  and  awful  fathers  of  mankind: 
And  some,  with  whom  compared  your  insect- 
tribes 

Are  but  the  beings  of  a  summer's  day, 
Have  held  the  scale  of  empire,  ruled  the  storm 
Of  mighty  war;  then,  with  unwearied  hand, 
Disdaining  little  delicacies  -eeized 


The  plough,  and  greatly  independent  lived. 

Ye  generous  Britons,  venerate  the  plough ! 
And  o'er  your  hills,  and  long  withdrawing  vales. 
Let  Autumn  spread  his  treasures  to  the  sun, 
Luxuriant  and  unbounded:  as  the  sea. 
Far  through  his  azure  turbulent  domain. 
Your  empire  owns,  and  from  a  thousand  shores 
Wafts  all  the  pomp  of  life  into  your  ports; 
So  with  superior  boon  may  your  rich  soil, 
Exuberant,  Nature's  better  blgssings  pour 
O'er  every  land,  the  naked  nations  clothe, 
And  be  the  exhaustless  granary  of  a  world ! 

Nor  only  through  the  lenient  air  this  change, 
Delicious,  breathes;  the  penetrative  sun, 
His  force  deep-darting  to  the  dark  retreat 
Of  vegetation,  sets  the  streaming  Power 
At  large,  to  wander  o'er  the  verdant  earth. 
In  various  hues ;  but  chiefly  thee,  gay  green! 
Thou  smiling  Nature's  universal  robe ! 
United  light  and  shade !  where  the  sight  dwells 
With  growing  strength,  and  ever-new  delight. 

From  the  moist  meadow  to  the  wither'd  hill, 
Led  by  the  breeze,  the  vivid  verdure  runs. 
And  swells,  and  deepens,  to  the  cherish'd  eye. 
The  hawthorn  whitens ;  and  the  juicy  groves 
Put  forth  their  buds,  unfolding  by  degrees, 
Ti]l  the  whole  leafy  forest  stands  display'd, 
In  full  luxuriance  to  the  sighing  gales ; 
Where  the  deer  rustle  through  the  twining  brake 
And  the  birds  sing  conceal'd.    At  once  array'd 
In  all  the  colours  of  the  flushing  year. 
By  Nature's  swift  and  secret  working  hand, 
The  garden  glows,  and  fills  the  liberal  air 
With  lavish  fragrance;  while  the  promised  fruit 
Lies  yet  a  little  embryo,  unperceived, 
Witnin  its  crimson  folds.    Now  from  the  town 
Buried  in  smoke,  and  sleep,  and  noisome  damps, 
Oft  let  me  wander  o'er  the  dewy  fields, 
Where  freshness  breathes,  and  dash  the  trembling 
drops. 

From  the  bent  bush,  as  through  the  verdant  maze 

Of  sweetbriar  hedges  I  pursue  my  walk ; 

Or  taste  the  smell  of  dairy;  or  ascend 

Some  eminence,  Augusta,  in  thy  plains, 

And  see  the  country,  far  diffused  around. 

One  boundless  blush,  one  white-empurpled  showca 

Of  mingled  blossoms;  where  the  raptured  eye 

Hurries  from  joy  to  joy,  and,  hid  beneath 

The  fair  profusion,  yellow  Autumn  spies. 

If,  brush 'd  from  Russian  wilds,  a  cutting  gale 
Rise  not,  and  scatter  from  his  humid  wings 
The  clammy  mildew;  or,  dry-blowing,  breathe 
Untimely  frost;  before  whose  baleful  blast 
The  full-blown  Spring  through  all  her  foliage 
shrinks, 

Joyless  and  dead,  a  wide-dejected  waste. 
For  oft,  engender'd  by  the  hazy  north. 
Myriads  on  myriads,  insect  armies  warp 
Keen  in  the  poison'd  breeze ;  and  wasteful  eat, 


SPRINu. 


8 


Through  buds  and  bark,  into  the  blacken'd  core, 

Their  eager  way.    A  feeble  race!  yet  oft 

The  sacred  sons  of  vengeance;  on  whose  course 

Corrosive  Famine  waits,  and  kills  the  year. 

To  check  this  plague,  the  skilful  farmer  chaff 

And  blazing  straw  before  his  orchard  burns; 

Till,  all  involved  in  smoke,  the  latent  foe 

From  every  cranny  suffocated  falls: 

Or  scatters  o'er  the  blooms  the  pungent  dust 

Of  pepper,  fatal  to  the  frosty  tribe: 

Or,  when  the  enverfom'd  leaf  begins  to  curl, 

With  sprinkled  water  drowns  them  in  their  nest; 

jSTor,  while  they  pick  them  up  with  busy  bill, 

The  little  trooping  birds  unwisely  scares. 

Be  patient,  swains;  these  cruel  seeming  winds 
Blow  not  in  vain.  Far  hence  they  keep  repress'd 
Those  deepening  clouds  on  clouds,  surcharged 
with  rain. 

That  o'er  the  vast  Atlantic  hither  borne. 
In  endless  train,  would  quench  the  summer-blaze. 
And,  cheerless,  drown  the  crude  unripen'd  year. 
The  north-east  spends  his  rage;  he  now  shut 
up 

Within  his  iron  cave,  the  effusive  south 
Warms  the  wide  air,  and  o'er  the  void  of  Heaven 
Breathes  the  big  clouds  with  vernal  showers  dis- 
tent. 

At  first  a  dusky  wreath  they  seem  to  rise, 
Scarce  staining  ether ;  but  by  swift  degrees. 
In  heaps  on  heaps,  the  doubling  vapour  sails 
Along  the  loaded  skies,  and  mingling  deep 
Sits  on  the  horizon  round  a  settled  gloom: 
Not  such  as  wintry-storms  on  mortals  shed. 
Oppressing  life;  but  lovely,  gentle,  kind. 
And  full  of  every  hope  and  every  joy. 
The  wish  of  Nature.    Gradual  sinks  the  breeze 
Into  a  perfect  calm;  that  not  a  breath 
Is  heard  to  quiver  through  the  closing  woods, 
Or  rustling  turn  the  many-twinkling  leaves 
Of  aspin  tall.    Th'  uncurling  floods,  diffused 
In  glassy  breadth,  seem  through  delusive  lapse 
Forgetful  of  their  course.    'Tis  silence  all 
And  pleasing  expectation.    Herds  and  flocks 
Drop  the  dry  sprig,  and  mute-imploring  eye 
The  falling  verdure.    Hush'd  in  short  suspense, 
The  plumy  people  streak  their  wings  with  oil, 
To  throw  the  lucid  ftioisture  trickling  off: 
And  wait  the  approaching  sign  to  strike,  at  once, 
Into  the  general  choir.    E'en  mountains,  vales. 
And  forests,  seem,  impatient,  to  demand 
The  promised  sweetness.    Man  superior  walks 
A  mid  the  glad  creation,  musing  praise. 
And  looking  lively  gratitude.    At  last, 
The  clouds  consign  their  treasures  to  the  fields; 
And,  softly  shaking  on  the  dimpled  pool 
Prelusive  drops,  let  all  their  moisture  flow, 
In  large  effusion,  o'er  the  freshen'd  world. 
The  stealing  shower  is  scarce  to  patter  heard, 
By  such  as  wander  through  the  forest  walks. 


Beneath  the  umbrageous  multitude  of  leaves. 
But  who  can  hold  the  shade,  while  Heaven  de- 
scends 

In  universal  bounty,  shedding  herbs, 
And  fruits,  and  flowers,  on  Nature's  ample  lapl 
Swift  fancy  fired  anticipates  their  growth; 
And,  while  the  milky  nutriment  distils. 
Beholds  the  kindling  country  colour  round. 

Thus  all  day  long  the  full-distended  clouds 
Indulge  their  genial  stores,  and  well-shower'd 
earth 

Is  deep  enrich'd  with  vegetable  life ; 
Till^  in  the  western  sky,  the  downward  sun 
Looks  out,  effulgent,  from  amidst  the  flush 
Of  broken  clouds,  gay-shifling  to  his  beam. 
The  rapid  radiance  instantaneous  strilies 
The  illumined  mountain,  through  the  forest 
streams, 

Shakes  on  the  floods,  and  in  the  yellow  mist, 
Far  smoking  o'er  the  interminable  plain, 
In  twinkling  myriads  lights  the  dewy  gems. 
Moist,  bright,  and  green,  the  landscape^ laughs 
around. 

Full  swell  the  woods;  their  every  music  wakes, 
Mix'd  in  wild  concert  with  the  warbling  brooks 
Increased,  the  distant  bleatings  of  the  hills. 
And  hollow  lows  responsive  from  the  vales. 
Whence  blending  all  the  sweeten'd  zephyr  spidngs. 
Meantime,  refracted  from  yon  eastern  cloud, 
Bestriding  earth,  the  grand  ethereal  bow 
Shoots  up  immense ;  and  every  hue  unfolds, 
In  fair  proportion,  running  from  the  red 
To  where  the  violet  fades  into  the  sky. 
Here,  awful  Newton,  the  dissolving  clouds 
Form,  fronting  on  the  sun,  thy  showery  prism; 
And  to  the  sage  instructed  eye  unfold 
The  various  twine  of  hght,  by  thee  disclosed 
From  the  white  mingling  maze.    Not  so  the  boy; 
He  wondering  views  the  bright  enchantment  bend, 
Delightful  o'er  the  radiant  fields,  and  runs 
To  catch  the  faUing  glory ;  but  amazed 
Beholds  the  amusive  arch  before  him  fly, 
Then  vanish  quite  away.    Still  night  succeeds, 
A  softened  shade,  and  saturated  earth 
Awaits  the  morning  beam,  to  give  to  light, 
Raised  through  ten  thousand  different  plastic 
tubes. 

The  balmy  treasures  of  the  former  day. 

Then  spring  the  living  herbs,  profusely  wild, 
O'er  all  the  deep  green  earth,  beyond  the  power 
Of  botanist  to  number  up  their  tribes : 
Whether  he  steals  along  the  lonely  dale, 
In  silent  search;  or  through  the  forest,  rank 
With  what  the  dull  incurious  weeds  account. 
Bursts  his  blind  way;  or  climbs  the  mountain 
rock. 

Fired  by  the  nodding  verdure  of  its  brqw. 
With  such  a  liberal  hand  has  nature  flung 
Their  seeds  abroad  blown  them  about  in  winds, 


4 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Innuincrous  mix'd  them  with  the  nursing  mouldj 
The  moistening  current,  and  prolific  rain. 

But  who  their  virtues  can  declare  1  wlio  pierce, 
With  vision  pure,  into  these  secret  stores 
Of  health,  and  .life,  and  joy?  the  food  of  Man, 
While  yet  he  lived  in  innocence,  and  told 
A  length  of  golden  years;  unflesh'd  in  blood, 
A  stranger  to  the  savage  arts  of  life, 
Death,  rapine,  carnage,  surfeit,  and  disease; 
The  lord,  and  not  the  tyrant,  of  the  world. 

The  first  f^esh  dawn  then  waked  the  gladden'd 
race 

Of  uncorrupted  Man,  nor  blush'd  to  see 
The  sluggard  sleep  beneath  its  sacred  beam; 
For  their  light  slumbers  gently  fumed  away; 
And  up  they  rose  as  vigorous  as  the  sun. 
Or  to  the  culture  of  the  willing  glebe, 
Or  to  the  cheerful  tendance  of  the  flock. 
Meantime  the  song  went  round;  and  dance  and 
sport. 

Wisdom  and  friendly  talk,  successive,  stole 
Their  hours  away:  while  in  the  rosy  vale 
Love  breath'd  his  infant  sighs,  from  anguish,  free, 
And  full  replete  with  bliss ;  save  the  sweet  pain, 
That  inly  thrilling,  but  exalts  it  more. 
Not  yet  injurious  act,  nor  surly  deed. 
Was  known  among  those  happy  sons  of  Heaven; 
For  reason  and  benevolence  were  law. 
Harmonious  Nature  too  look'd  smiling  on. 
Clear  shone  the  skies,  cool'd  with  eternal  gales, 
And  balmy  spirit  all.    The  youthful  sun 
Shot  his  best  rays,  and  still  the  gracious  clouds 
Dropp'd  fatness  down ;  as  o'er  the  swelling  mead 
The  herds  and  flocks,  commixing,  play'd  secure. 
This  when,  emergent  from  the  gloomy  wood. 
The  glaring  lion  saw,  his  horrid  heart 
Was  meeken'd,  and  he  join'd  his  sullen  joy; 
For  music  held  the  whole  in  perfect  peace : 
Soft  sigh'd  the  flute;  the  tender  voice  was  heard. 
Warbling  the  varied  heart;  the  woodlands  round 
Applied  their  choir;  and  winds  and  waters  flow'd 
In  consonance.    Such  were  those  prime  of  days. 
But  now  those  white  unblemish'd  manners, 
whence 

The  fabUng  poets  took  their  golden  age, 

Are  found  no  more  amid  these  iron  times. 

These  dregs  of  life !  now  the  distemper'd  mind 

Has  lost  that  concord  of  harmonious  powers, 

Which  forms  the  soul  of  happiness ;  and  all 

Is  oflf  the  poise  within :  the  passions  all 

Have  burst  their  bounds;  and  reason  half  extinct, 

Or  impotent,  or  else  approving,  sees 

The  foul  disorder.    Senseless,  and  deform'd, 

(JJonvulsive  anger  storms  at  large ;  or  pale, 

And  silent,  settles  into  fell  revenge. 

Ba!?e  envy  withers  at  another's  joy, 

And  hates  that  excellence  it  can  not  reach. 

Desponding  fear,  of  feeble  fancies  full, 

Weak  and  unmanly,  loosens  every  power. 


E'en  love  itself  is  hiltorncss  of  soid, 
A  pensive.  ;ijia;iii,sli  piiiiiin- id  ilu;  heart; 
Or,  sunk  to  sordid  interest,  thela  no  more 
That  noble  wish,  that  never  doy'd  desire. 
Which,  selfish  joy  disdaining,  seeks  alone 
To  bless  the  dearer  object  of  its  flame. 
Hope  sickens  with  extravagance ;  and  grief. 
Of  life  impatient,  into  madness  swells; 
Or  in  dead  silence  wastes  the  weeping  hours. 

These,  and  a  thousand  mixt  emotions  more, 
From  ever  changing  views  of  good  and  ill, 
Form'd  infinitely  various,  vex  the  mind 
With  endless  storm:  whence,  deeply  rankling,  grows 
The  partial  thought,  a  listless  unconcern, 
Cold,  and  averting  from  our  neighbour's  good ; 
Then  dark  disgust,  and  hatred,  winding  wiles, 
Coward  deceit,  and  ruflian  violence : 
At  last,  extinct  each  social  feeling,  fell 
And  joyless  inhumanity  pervades 
And  petrifies  the  heart.    Nature  disturb'd 
Is  deem'd  vindictive,  to  have  chang'd  her  course. 

Hence,  in  old  dusky  time,  a  deluge  came  : 
When  the  deep-cleft  disparting  orb,  that  arch'd 
The  central  waters  round,  impetuous  rush'd. 
With  universal  burst,  into  the  gulf, 
And  o'er  the  high  piled  hills  of  fractured  earth 
Wide  dash'd  the  waves,  in  undulation  vast ; 
Till,  from  the  centre  to  the  streaming  clouds, 
A  shoreless  ocean  tumbled  round  the  globe. 

The  Seasons  since  have,  with  severer  sway, 
Oppress'd  a  broken  world :  the  Winter  keen 
Shook  forth  his  waste  of  snows :  and  Summer  shot 
His  pestilential  heats.    Great  Spring,  before, 
Green'd  all  the  year;  and  fruits  and  blossoms 
blush'd, 

In  social  sweetness,  on  the  selfsame  bough. 
Pure  was  the  temperate  air;  an  even  calm 
Perpetual  reign'd,  save  what  the  zephyrs  bland 
Breathed  o'er  the  blue  expanse :  for  then  nor  storms 
Were  taught  to  blow,  nor  hurricanes  to  rage ; 
Sound  slept  the  waters ;  no  sulphureous  glooms 
Swell'd  in  the  sky,  and  sent  the  lightning  forth; 
While  sickly  damps  and  cold  autumnal  fogs 
Hung  not,  relaxing,  on  the  springs  of  life. 
But  now,  of  turbid  elements  the  sport. 
From  clear  to  cloudy  tost,  from  hot  to  cold, 
And  dry  to  moist,  with  inwafd-eating  change, 
Our  drooping  days  are  dwindled  down  to  nought 
Their  period  finish'd  ere  'tis  well  begun. 

And  yet  the  wholesome  herb  neglected  dies ; 
Though  with  the  pure  exhilarating  soul 
Of  nutriment  and  health,  and  vital  powers, 
Beyond  the  search  of  art,  'tis  copious  blest. 
For,  with  hot  ravin  fired,  ensanguined  man 
Is  now  become  the  lion  of  the  plain. 
And  worse.   The  wolf,  who  from  the  nightly  fold 
Fierce  drags  the  bleating  prey,  ne'er  drunk  her 
milk. 

Nor  wore  her  warming  fleece :  nor  has  the  steer. 


SPRING. 


At  whose  strong  chest  the  deadly  tiger  hangs, 
E'er  plough'd  for  him.  They  too  aretemper'd  high 
With  hunger  stung  and  wild  necessity ; 
Kor  lodges  pity  in  their  shaggy  breast. 
But  man,  whom  Nature  form'd  of  milder  clay, 
With  every  kind  emotion  in  his  heart, 
And  taught  alone  to  weep ;  while  from  her  lap 
She  pours  ten  thousand  delicacies,  herbs, 
And  fruits,  as  numerous  as  the  drops  of  rain 
Or  beams  that  gave  them  birth :  shall  he,  fair  form ! 
Who  wears  sweet  smiles,  and  looks  erect  on  Hea- 


E'er  stoop  to  mingle  with  the  prowling  herd, 
And  dip  his  tongue  in  gore  1  The  beast  of  prey, 
Blood-stain'd,  deserves  to  bleed:  but  you,  ye  flocks, 
What  have  you  done;  ye  peaceful  people,  what,  ' 
To  merit  death  ?  you,  who  have  given  us  milk  ' 
In  luscious  streams,  and  lent  us  your  own  coat 
Against  the  Winter's  cold  1  and  the  plain  ox, 
That  harmless,  honest,  guileless  animal, 
In  what  has  he  offended  1  he,  whose  toil. 
Patient  and  ever  ready,  clothes  the  land ' 
With  all  the  pomp  of  harvest ;  shall  he  bleed. 
And  struggling  groan  beneath  the  cruel  hand's 
E'en  of  the  clown  he  feeds  1  and  that,  perhaps, 
To  swell  the  riot  of  the  autumnal  feast, 
Won  by  his  labour  1    Thus  the  feeling  heart 
Would  tenderly  suggest :  but  'tis  enough, 
In  this  late  age,  adventurous,  to  have  touch'd 
Light  on  the  numbers  of  the  Samian  sage. 
High  Heaven  forbids  the  bold  presumptuous  strain 
Whose  wisest  will  has  fixed  us  in  a  state 
That  must  not  yet  to  pure  perfection  rise. 

Now  when  the  first  foul  torrent  of  the  brooks, 
Swell'd  with  the  vernal  rains,  is  ebb'd  away. 
And,  whitening,  down  their  mossy- tinctured  stream 
Descend  the  billowy  foam :  now  is  the  time, 
While  yet  the  dark-brown  water  aids  the  guile, 
To  tempt  the  trout.    The  well-dissembled  fly,  ' 
The  rod  fine-tapering  with  elastic  spring, 
Snatch'd  from  the  hoary  steed  the  floating  line, 
And  all  thy  slender  watry  stores  prepare. 
But  let  not  on  thy  hook  the  tortured  worm 
Convulsive,  twist  in  agonizing  folds ; 
Which,  by  rapacious  hunger  swallow'd  deep, 
aives,  as  you  tear  it  from  the  bleeding  breast 
3f  the  weak  helpless  uncomplaining  wretch, 
riarsh  pain  and  horror  to  the  tender  hand. 

When  with  his  lively  ray  the  potent  sun 
ias  pierced  the  streams,  and  roused  the  finny-race 
Then,  issuing  cheerful,  to  thy  sport  repair; 
yhief  should  the  western  breezes  curling  play, 
ind  light  o'er  ether  bear  the  shadowy  clouds,' 
ligh  to  their  fount,  this  day,  amid  the  hills,  ' 
Lnd  woodlands  warbling  round,  trace  up  the 
brooks ; 

'he  next,  pursue  their  rocky-channei'd  maze, 
)own  to  the  river,  in  whose  ample  wave 
'heir  little  naiads  love  to  sport  at  large. 


Just     the  dubious  point,  where  with  the  pool 
Is  mix'd  the  trembling  stream,  or  where  it  boils 
Around  the  stone,  or  from  the  hollow'd  bank 
Reverted  plays  in  undulating  flow. 
There  throw,  nice-judging,  the  delusive  fly ; 
And  as  you  lead  it  round  in  artful  curve, 
With  eye  attentive  mark  the  springing  game. 
Straight  as  above  the  surface  of  the  flood 
They  wanton  rise,  or  urged  by  hunger  leap, 
Then  fix,  with  gentle  twitch,  the  baxbed  hook: 
Some  lightly  tossing  to  the  grassy  bank. 
And  to  the  shelving  shore  slow  dragging  some, 
With  various  hand  proportion'd  to  their  force.' 
If  yet  too  young,  and  easily  deceived, 
A  worthless  prey  scarce  bends  your  phant  rod 
Him,  piteous  of  his  youth  and  the  short  space 
He  has  enjoy'd  the  vital  light  of  Heaven, 
Soft  disengage,  and  back  into  the  stream' 
The  speckled  captive  throw.  But  should  you  lure 
From  his  dark  haunt,  beneath  the  tangled  roots 
Of  pendant  trees,  the  monarch  of  the  brook, 
Behoves  you  then  to  ply  your  finest  art. 
Long  time  he,  following  cautious,  scans  the  fly; 
And  oft  attempts  to  seize  it,  but  as  oft  ' 
The  dimpled  water  speaks  his  jealous  fear. 
At  last,  while  haply  o'er  the  shaded  sun 
Passes  a  cloud,  he  desperate  takes  the  death, 
With  su|len  plunge.    At  once  he  darts  along, 
Deep-struck,  and  runs  out  all  the  lengthened  line; 
Then  seeks  the  farthest  ooze,  the  sheltering  weed' 
The  cavern'd  bank,  his  old  secure  abode 
And  flies  aloft,  and  flounces  round  the  pool. 
Indignant  of  the  guile.    With  yielding  hand, 
That  feels  him  still,  yet  to  his  furious  course' 
Gives  way,  you,  now  retiring,  following  now 
Across  the  stream,  exhaust  his  idle  rage  : 
Till  floating  broad  upon  his  breathless  side, 
And  to  his  fate  abandon'd,  to  the  shore  ' 
You  gaily  drag  your  unresisting  prize. 

Thus  pass  the  temperate  hours;  but  when  the 
sun 

Shakes  from  his  noon-day  throne  the  scattering 
clouds. 

Even  shooting  listless  langour  through  the  deeps; 
Then  seek  the  bank  where  flowering  elders  crowc^ 
Where  scatter'd  wild  the  lily  of  the  vale 
Its  balmy  essence  breathes,  where  cow.slips  hang 
The  dewy  head,  where  purple  violets  lurk, 
With  all  the  lowly  children  of  the  shade : ' 
Or  lie  reclined  beneath  yon  spreading  ash. 
Hung  o'er  the  steep;  whence,  borne  on  liquid 
wing, 

The  sounding  culver  shoot;  or  where  the  hawk 
High,  in  the  beetling  cliff,  his  eyry  builds. 
There  let  the  classic  page  thy  fancy  lead 
Through  rural  scenes;  such  as  the  Mantuaro 
swain 

Paints  in  the  matchless  harmony  of  song. 
Or  catch  thyself  the  landscape,  gliding  swifi 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Athwart  imagination's  vivid  eye : 
Or  by  the  vocal  woods  and  waters  luU'd, 
And  lost  in  lonely  musing,  in  the  dream, 
Confused,  of  careless  solitude,  where  mix 
Ten  thousand  wandering  images  of  things, 
Soothe  every  gust  of  passion  into  peace; 
All  but  the  swellings  of  the  soften'd  heart, 
That  waken,  not  disturb,  the  tranquil  mind. 

Behold  yon  breathing  prospect  bids  the  Muse 
Throw  all  her  beauty  forth.    But  who  can  paint 
Like  Nature'?    Can  imagination  boast. 
Amid  its  gay  creation,  hues  like  hers  1 
Or  can  it  mix  them  with  that  matchless  skill, 
And  lose  them  in  each  other,  as  appears 
In  every  bud  that  blows  1    If  fancy  then 
Unequal  fails  beneath  the  pleasing  task, 
Ah,  what  shall  language  do'?    Ah,  where  find 
words 

Tinged  with  so  many  colours ;  and  whose  power. 
To  life  approaching,  may  perfume  my  lays 
With  that  fine  oil,  those  aromatic  gales. 
That  inexhaustive  flow  continual  round  1 

Yet,  though  successless,  will  the  toil  delight. 
Come  then,  ye  virgins  and  ye  youths,  whose  hearts 
Have  felt  the,  raptures  of  refining  love; 
And  thou,  Amanda,  come,  pride  of  my  song ! 
Form'd  by  the  Graces,  loveliness  itself! 
Come  with  those  downcast  eyes,  sedate  and  sweet, 
Those  looks  demure,  that  deeply  pierce  the  soul, 
Where,  with  the  light  of  thoughtful  reason  raix'd, 
Shines  lively  fancy  and  the  feeUng  heart: 
Oh  come !  and  while  the  rosy-footed  May 
Steals  blushing  on,  together  let  us  tread 
The  morning  dews,  and  gather  in  their  prime 
Fresh-blooming  flowers,  to  grace  thy  braided  hair. 
And  thy  loved  bosom  that  improves  their  sweets. 

See,  where  the  winding  vale  its  lavish  stores, 
Irriguous,  spreads.    See,  how  the  lily  drinks 
The  latent  rill,  scarce  oozing  through  the  grass, 
Of  growth  luxuriant;  or  the  humid  bank, 
In  fair  profusion,  decks.    Long  let  us  walk. 
Where  the  breeze  blows  from  yon  extended  field 
Of  blossom'd  beans.    Arabia  can  not  boast 
A  fuller  gale  of  joy,  than,  liberal,  thence 
Breathes  through  the  sense,  and  takes  the  ravished 
soul. 

Nor  is  the  mead  unworthy  of  thy  foot. 
Full  of  fresh  verdure,  and  unnumber'd  flowers. 
The  negligence  of  Nature,  wide,  and  wild; 
Where,  undisguised  by  mimic  Art,  she  spreads 
Unbounded  beauty  to  the  roving  eye. 
Here  their  delicious  task  the  fervent  bees, 
In  swarming  millions,  tend:  around,  athwart, 
Through  the  soft  air,  the  busy  nations  fly, 
Cling  to  the  bud,  and,  with  inserted  tube, 
Suck  its  j)ure  essence,  its  ethereal  soul; 
And  oft,  with  bolder  wing,  they  soaring  dare 
The  purple  heath,  or  where  the  wild  thyme  grows. 
And  yellow  load  them  with  the  luscious  spoil. 


At  length  the  finish'd  garden  to  the  view 
Its  vistas  opens,  and  its  alleys  green. 
Snatch'd  through  the  verdant  maze,  the  hurrietf 
eye 

Distracted  wanders;  now  the  bowery  walk 

Of  covert  close,  where  scarce  a  speck  of  day 

Falls  on  the  lengthen'd  gloom,  protracted  sweep,?; 

Now.  meets  the  bending  sky ;  the  river  now 

Dimpling  along,  the  breezy  rufl3.ed  lake, 

The  forest  darkening  round,  the  gUttering  spire, 

The  ethereal  mountain,  and  the  distant  main. 

But  why  so  far  excursive '?  when  at  hand. 

Along  these  blushing  borders,  bright  with  dew, 

And  in  yon  mingled  wilderness  of  flowers, 

Fair-handed  spring  unbosoms  every  grace; 

Throws  out  the  snowdrop  and  the  crocus  fir.st; 

The  daisy,  primrose,  violet  darkly  blue, 

And  polyanthus  of  unnumber'd  dyes ; 

The  yellow  wall-flower,  stain'd  with  iron  brown ; 

And  lavish  stock  that  scents  the  garden  round: 

From  the  soft  wing  of  vernal  breezes  shed. 

Anemones;  auriculas,  enriched 

With  shining  meal  o'er  all  their  velvet  leaves ; 

And  full  ranunculas,  of  glowing  red. 

Then  comes  the  tulip-race,  where  Beauty  plays 

Her  idle  freaks ;  from  family  diffused 

To  family,  as  flies  the  father-dust. 

The  varied  colours  run;  and,  while  they  break 

On  the  charm'd  eye,  the  exulting  florist  marks, 

With  secret  pride,  the  wonders  of  his  hand. 

No  gradual  bloom  is  wanting;  from  the  bud, 

Firstborn  of  Spring,  to  Summer's  musky  tribes: 

Nor  hyacinths,  of  purest  virgin  white. 

Low-bent,  and  blushing  inward;  nor  jonquils, 

Of  potent  fragrance ;  nor  Narcissus  fair, 

As  o'er  the  fabled  fountain  hanging  still; 

Nor  broad  carnations,  nor  gay-spotted  pinks; 

Nor,  shower'd  from  every  bush,  the  damask-rofjjp 

Inflnite  numbers,  delicacies,  smells. 

With  hues  on  hues  expression  can  not  paint. 

The  breath  of  Nature,  and  her  endless  bloom. 

Hail,  Source  of  Being!  Universal  Soul 
Of  Heaven  and  earth !  Essential  Presence,  hail ! 
To  Thee  I  bend  the  knee ;  to  Thee  my  thoughts. 
Continual,  climb;  who,  with  a  master-hand, 
Hast  the  great  whole  into  perfection  touched. 
By  Thee  the  various  vegetative  tribes. 
Wrapt  in  a  filmy  net,  and  clad  with  leaves, 
Draw  the  live  ether,  and  imbibe  the  deV : 
By  Thee  disposed  into  congenial  soils. 
Stands  each  attractive  plant,  and  sucks,  and  swells 
The  juicy  tide;  a  twining  mass  of  tubes. 
At  Thy  command  the  vernal  sun  awakes 
The  torpid  sap,  detruded  to  the  root 
By  wintry  winds;  that  now  in  fluent  dance, 
And  lively  fermentation,  mounting,  spreads 
All  this  innumerous-colour'd  scene  of  things. 

As  rising  from  the  vegetable  world 
My  theme  ascends,  with  equal  wing  ascend, 


SPRING. 


7 


My  panting  Muse;  and  hark,  how  loud  the  woods 
Invite  you  foith  in  all  your  gayest  trim. 
Lend  me  ypur  song,  ye  nightingales !  oh,  pour 
The  mazy-running  soul  of  melody 
Into  my  varied  verse !  while  I  deduce, 
From  the  first  note  the  hollow  cuckoo  sings, 
The  symphony  of  Spring,  and  touch  a  theme 
Unknown  to  fame, — the  passion  of  the  groves. 

When  first  the  soul  of  love  is  sent  abroad, 
Warm  through  the  vital  air,  and  on  the  heart 
Harmonious  seizes,  the  gay  troops  begin, 
In  gallant  thought,  to  plume  the  painted  wing; 
And  try  again  the  long-forgotten  strain, 
At  first  faint-warbled.    But  no  sooner  grows 
The  soft  infusion  prevalent,  and  wide, 
Than,  all  alive,  at  once  their  joy  o'erflows 
In  music  unconfined.    Up-springs  the  lark. 
Shrill- voiced,  and  loud,  the  messenger  of  morn; 
Ere  yet  the  shadows  fly,  he  mounted  sings 
Amid  the  dawning  clouds,  and  from  their  haunts 
Calls  up  the  tuneful  nations.    Every  copse 
Deep-tangled,  tree  irregular,  and  bush 
Bending  with  dewy  moisture,  o'er  the  heads 
Of  the  coy  quiristers  that  lodge  within, 
Are  prodigal  of  harmony.    The  thrush 
And  wood-lark,  o'er  the  kind-contending  throng 
Superior  heard,  run  through  the  sweetest  length 
Of  notes;  when  listening  Philomela  deigns 
To  let  them  joy,  and  purposes,  in  thought 
Elate,  to  make  her  night  excel  their  day. 
The  black- bird  whistles  from  the  thorny  brake; 
The  mellow  bullfinch  answers  from  the  grove : 
Nor  are  the  Unnets,  o'er  the  flowering  furze 
'  Pour'd  out  profusely,  silent,    Join'd  to  these 
Innumerous  songsters,  in  the  freshening  shade 
Of  new-sprung  leaves,  their  modulations  mix 
Mellifluous.    The  jay,  the  rook,  the  daw. 
And  each  harsh  pipe,  discordant  heard  alone. 
Aid  the  full  concert :  while  the  stoqk-dove  breathes 
A  melancholy  murmur  through  the  whole. 

'Tis  love  creates  their  melody,  and  all 
This  waste  of  music  is  the  voice  of  love ; 
That  even  to  birds,  and  beasts,  the  tender  arts 
Of  pleasing  teaches.    Hence  the  glossy  kind 
Try  every  winning  way  inventive  love 
Can  dictate,  and  in  courtship  to  their  mates 
Pour  forth  their  little  souls.    First,  wide  around, 
With  distant  awe,  in  airy  rings  they  rove. 
Endeavouring  by  a  thousand  tricks  to  catch 
The  cunning,  conscious,  half-averted  glance 
Of  the  regardless  charmer.    Should  she  seem 
Softening  the  least  approvance  to  bestow. 
Their  colours  burnish,  and  by  hope  inspired. 
They  brisk  advance ;  then,  on  a  sudden  struck, 
Retire  disorder'd;  then  again  approach; 
In  fond  rotation  spread  the  spotted  wing. 
And  shiver  every  feather  with  desire. 

Connubial  leagues  agreed,  to  the  deep  woods 
They  haste  away,  all  as  their  fancy  leads, 

20 


Pleasure,  or  food,  or  secret  safety  prompts ; 
That  Nature's  great  command  may  be  obey'd: 
Nor  all  the  sweet  sensations  they  perceive 
Indulged  in  vain.    Some  to  the  holly-hedge 
Nestling  repair,  and  to  the  thicket  some ; 
Some  to  the  rude  protection  of  the  thorn 
Commit  their  feeble  ofispring.    The  cleft  tree 
Offers  its  kind  concealment  to  a  few. 
Their  food  its  insects,  and  its  moss  their  nests. 
Others  apart  far  in  the  grassy  dale. 
Or  roughening  waste,  their  humble  texture  weave. 
But  most  in  woodland  solitudes  delight. 
In  unfrequented  glooms,  or  shaggy  banks, 
Steep,  and  divided  by  a  babbling  brook. 
Whose  murmurs  sooth  them  all  the  live-long  day. 
When  by  kind  duty  fix'd.    Among  the  roots 
Of  hazel,  pendent  o'er  the  plaintive  stream, 
They  frame  the  first  foundation  of  their  d-omes ; 
Dry  sprigs  of  trees,  in  artful  fabric  laid, 
And  bound  with  clay  together.    Now  'tis  nought 
But  restless  hurry  through  the  busy  air. 
Beat  by  unnumber'd  wings.   The  swallow  sweeps 
The  slimy  pool,  to  build  his  hanging  house 
Intent.    And  often,  from  the  careless  back 
Of  herds  and  flocks,  a  thousand  tugging4)ills 
Pluck  hair  and  wool;  and  oft,  when  unobserved, 
Steal  from  the  barn  a  straw :  till  soft  and  warm, 
Clean  and  complete,  their  habitation  grows. 

As  thus  the  patient  dam  assiduous  sits, 
Not  to  be  tempted  from  her  tender  task. 
Or  by  sharp  hunger,  or  by  smooth  delight. 
Though  the  whole  loosen'd  Spring  around  her 
blows. 

Her  sympathizing  lover  takes  his  stand 

High  on  the  opponent  bank,  and  ceaseless  sings 

The  tedious  time  away;  or  else  supplies 

Her  place  a  moment,  while  she  sudden  flits 

To  pick  the  scanty  meal.    The  appointed  time 

With  pious  toil  fulfill'd,  the  callow  young, 

Warm'd  and  expanded  into  perfect  life, 

Their  brittle  bondage  break,  and  come  to  light, 

A  helpless  family,  demanding  food 

With  constant  clamor:  O  what  passions  then, 

What  melting  sentiments  of  kindly  care, 

On  the  new  parents  seize  !    Away  they  fly 

Affectionate  and  undesiring,  bear 

The  most  delicious  morsel  to  their  young ; 

Which  equally  distributed,  again 

The  search  begins.    Even  so  a  gentle  pair 

By  f(^rtune  sunk,  but  form'd  of  generous  mould, 

And  charm'd  with  cares  beyond  the  vulgar  breast, 

In  some  lone  cot  amid  the  distant  woods, 

Sustain'd  alone  by  providential  Heaven, 

Oft,  as  they  weeping  eye  their  infant  train, 

Check  their  own  appetites,  and  give  them  all. 

Nor  toil  alone  they  scorn:  exalting  love, 
By  the  great  Father  of  the  Spring  inspired, 
Gives  instant  courage  to  the  fearful  race, 
And  to  the  simple  art.    With  stealthy  wing, 


8 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Should  some  rude  foot  their  woody  haunts  molest, 
Amid  a  neighbouring  bush  they  silent  drop, 
And  whirring  thence  as  if  alarm'd,  deceive 
The  unfeeling  schoolboy.  Hence,  around  the  head 
Of  wandering  swain,the  white- wing'd  plover  wheels 
Her  sounding  flight,  and  then  directly  on 
In  long  excursion  skims  the  level  lawn, 
To  tempt  him  from  her  nest.  The  wild-duck,  hence, 
O'er  the  rough  moss,  and  o'er  the  trackless  waste 
The  heath-hen  flutters,  pious  fraud!  to  lead 
The  hot  pursuing  spaniel  far  astray. 

Be  not  the  muse  ashamed,  here  to  bemoan 
Her  brothers  of  the  grove,  by  tyrant  Man 
•  Inhuman  caught,  and  in  the  narrow  cage 
From  liberty  confined,  and  boundless  air. 
Dull  are  the  pretty  slaves,  their  plumage  dull, 
Ragged,  and  all  its  brightening  lustre  lost; 
Nor  is  that  sprightly  wildness  in  their  notes, 
"Which,  clear  and  vigorous,  warbles  from  the  beach 
O  then  ye  friends  of  love  and  love-taught  song. 
Spare  the  soft  tribes,  this  barbarous  art  forbear; 
If  on  your  bosom  innocence  can  win. 
Music  engage,  or  piety  persuade. 

But  let  not  chief  the  nightingale  lament 
Her  ruin'd  care  too  delicately  framed 
To  brook  the  harsh  confinement  of  the  cage. 
Oft  when,  returning  with  her  loaded  bill, 
The  astonish'd  mother  finds  a  vacant  nest. 
By  the  hard  hand  of  unrelenting  clowns 
Robbed,  to  the  ground  the  vain  provision  falls; 
Her  pinions  ruffle,  and  low-drooping  scarce 
Can  bear  the  mourner  to  the  poplar  shade; 
Where,  all  abandoned  to  despair,  she  sings 
Her  sorrows  through  the  night;  and,  on  the  bough. 
Sole-sitting,  still  at  every  dying  fall 
Takes  up  again  her  lamentable  strain 
Of  winding  wo;  till,  wide  around,  the  woods 
Sigh  to  her  song,  and  with  her  wail  resound. 

But  now  the  feather'd  youth  their  former  bounds, 
Ardent,  disdain ;  and,  weighing  oft  their  wings, 
Demand  the  free  possession  of  the  sky : 
This  one  glad  office  more,  and  then  dissolves 
Parental  love  at  once,  now  needless  grown. 
Unlavish  wisdom  never  works  in  vain. 
'Tis  on  some  evening,  sunny,  grateful,  mild, 
When  nought  but  balm  is  breathing  through  the 
woods, 

With  yellow  lustre  bright,  that  the  new  tribes 
Visit  the  spacious  heavens,  and  look  abroad 
On  Nature's  common,  far  as  they  can  see, 
Or  wing,  their  range  and  pasture.  O'er  the  boughs 
Dancing  about,  still  at  the  giddy  verge 
Their  resolution  fails;  their  pinions  still. 
In  loose  libration  stretched,  to  trust  the  void 
Trembling  refuse :  till  down  before  them  fly 
The  parent  guides,  and  chide,  exhort,  command, 
Or  push  them  ofl;    The  surging  air  receives 
Its  plumy  burden ;  and  their  self-taught  wings 
Winnow  the  waving  eleirtent.    On  ground 


Alighted,  bolder  up  again  they  lead, 
Farther  and  farther  on,  the  lengthening  flight; 
Till  vanish'd  every  fear,  and  every  power 
Roused  into  life  and  action,  light  in  air 
The  acquitted  parent?  see  tlicir  soaring  race 
And  once  rejoicing  never  know  them  more. 

High  from  the  summit  of  a  craggy  cliflf* 
Hung  o'er  the  deep,  such  as  amazing  frowns 
On  utmost  Kilda's*  shore,  whose  lonely  race 
Resign  the  setting  sun  to  Indian  worlds. 
The  royal  eagle  draws  his  vigorous  young, 
Strong-pounced,  and  ardent  with  paternal  fire. 
Now  fit  to  raise  a  kingdom  of  their  own. 
He  drives  them  from  his  fort,  the  towering  seat, 
For  ages,  of  his  empire;  which,  in  peace, 
Unstained  he  holds,  while  many  a  league  to  sea 
He  wings  his  course,  and  preys  in  distant  isles. 

Should  I  my  steps  turn  to  the  rural  seat, 
Whose  lofty  elms,  and  venerable  oaks. 
Invite  the  rook,  who  high  amid  the  boughs 
In  early  Spring,  his  airy  city  builds, 
And  ceaseless  caws  amusive;  there,  well  pleased, 
I  might  the  various  polity  survey 
Of  the  mix'd  household  kind.    The  careful  hen 
Calls  all  her  chirping  family  around, 
Fed  and  defended  by  the  fearless  cock; 
Whose  breast  with  ardour  flames,  as  on  he  walks, 
Graceful,  and  crows  defiance.    In  the  pond. 
The  finely  checker'd  duck,  before  her  train. 
Rows  garrulous.    The  stately-sailing  swan 
Gives  out  his  snowy  plumage  to  the  gale ; 
And,  arching  proud  his  neck,  with  oary  feet 
Bears  forward  fierce,  and  guards  his  osier-isle, 
Protective  of  his  young.    The  turkey  nigh. 
Loud-threatening,  reddens;  while  the  peacock 
spreads 

His  every-colour'd  glory  to  the  sun, 
And  swims  in  radiant  majesty  along. 
O'er  the  whole  homely  scene,  the  cooing  dove 
Flies  thick  in  amorous  chase,  and  wanton  rolls 
The  glancing  eye,  and  turns  the  changeful  neck. 

While  thus  the  gentle  tenants  of  the  shade 
Indulge  their  purer  loves,  the  rougher  world 
Of  brutes,  below,  rush  furious  into  flame. 
And  fierce  desire.    Through  all  his  lusty  veins 
The  bull,  deep-scorch'd,  the  raging  passion  feels. 
Of  pasture  sick,  and  negligent  of  food. 
Scarce  seen,  he  wades  among  the  yellow  broom. 
While  o'er  his  ample  sides  the  rambling  spray 
Luxuriant  shoot ;  or  through  the  mazy  wood 
Dejected  wanders,  nor  the  inticing  bud 
Crops,  though  it  presses  on  his  careless  sense. 
And  oft,  in  jealous  maddening  fancy  wrapt, 
He  seeks  the  fight ;  and,  idly-butting,  feigns 
His  rival  gored  in  every  knotty  trunk. 
Him  should  he  meet,  the  bellowing  war  begins 
Their  eyes  flash  fury;  to  the  hoUow'd  earth, 

•  The  farthest  of  the  western  islands  of  Scotland. 


SPRING. 


9 


"Whence  the  sand  flies,  they  mutter  bloody  deeds, 
And  groaning  deep,  the  impetuous  battle  mix : 
While  the  fair  heifer,  balmy-breathing,  near. 
Stands  kindling  up  their  rage.    The  trembling 
steed. 

With  this  hot  impulse  seized  in  every  nerve, 
Nor  heeds  the  rein,  nor  hears  the  sounding  thong ; 
Blovi^s  are  not  felt ;  but  tossing  high  his  head, 
And  by  the  well-known  joy  to  distant  plains 
Attracted  strong,  all  wild  he  bursts  away ; 
O'er  rocks,  and  woods,  and  craggy  mountains  flies; 
And,  neighing,  on  the  aerial  summit  takes 
The  exciting  gale;  then,  steep-descending,  cleaves 
The  headlong  torrents  foaming  down  the  hills, 
E'en  where  the  madness  of  the  straiten'd  stream 
Turns  in  black  eddies  round  :  such  is  the  force 
With  which  his  frantic  heart  and  sinews  swell. 

Nor  undelighted  by  the  boundless  Spring 
Are  the  broad  monsters  of  the  foaming  deep  : 
From  the  deep  ooze  and  gelid  cavern  roused, 
They  flounce  and  tumble  in  unwieldy  joy. 
Dire  were  the  strain,  and  dissonant  to  sing 
The  cruel  raptures  of  the  savage  kind : 
How  by  this  flame  their  native  wrath  sublimed, 
They  roam,  amid  the  fury  of  their  heart, 
The  far-resounding  waste  in  fiercer  bands. 
And  growl  their  horrid  loves.  But  this  the  theme 
I  sing,  enraptured,  to  the  British  Fair, 
Forbids,  and  leads  me  to  the  mountain-brow, 
Where  sits  the  shepherd  on  the  grassy  turf, 
InhaUng,  healthful,  the  descending  sun. 
Around  him  feeds  his  many-bleating  flock, 
Of  various  cadence;  and  his  sportive  lambs. 
This  way  and  that  convolved,  in  friskful  glee. 
Their  frolics  play.    And  now  the  sprightly  ^ce 
Invites  them  forth ;  when  swift,  the  signal  given. 
They  start  away,  and  sweep  the  massy  mound 
That  runs  around  the  hill;  the  rampart  once 
Of  iron  war,  in  ancient  barbarous  times, 
When  disunited  Britain  ever  bled. 
Lost  in  eternal  broil:  ere  yet  she  grew 
To  this  deep-laid  indissoluble  state, 
Where  Wealth  and  Commerce  lift  their  golden 
heads ; 

And  o'er  our  labours,  Liberty  and  Law, 
Impartial,  watch ;  the  wonder  of  a  world ! 

What  is  this  mighty  breath,  ye  sages,  say. 
That,  in  a  powerful  language,  felt,  not  heard. 
Instructs  the  fowls  of  Heaven  ;  and  through  their 
breast 

These  arts  of  love  diflfuses  1    What,  but  God  1 
Inspiring  God  !  who  boundless  Spirit  all, 
And  unremitting  Energy,  pervades, 
Adjusts,  sustains,  and  agitates  the  whole. 
He  ceaseless  works  alone  ;  and  yet  alone 
Seems  not  to  work :  with  such  perfection  framed 
In  this  complex  stupendous  scheme  of  things. 
But,  though  conceal'd,  to  every  purer  eye 
rhe  informing  Author  in  his  works  appears  : 


Chief,  lovely  Spring,  in  thee,  and  thy  soft  scenes, 
The  Smiling  God  is  seen ;  while  water,  earth, 
And  air  attest  his  bounty  ;  which  exalts 
The  brute  creation  to  this  finer  thought. 
And  annual  melts  their  undesigning  hearts 
Profusely  thus  in  tenderness  and  joy. 

Still  let  my  song  a  nobler  note  assume, 
And  sing  the  infusive  force  of  Spring  on  man ; 
When  heaven  and  earth,  as  if  contending,  vie 
To  raise  his  being,  and  serene  his  soul. 
Can  he  forbear  to  join  the  general  smile 
Of  nature '?    Can  fierce  passions  vex  his  breast. 
While  every  gale  is  peace,  and  every  grove 
Is  melody  1  hence  !  from  the  bounteous  walks 
Of  flowing  Spring,  ye  sordid  sons  of  earth. 
Hard,  and  unfeeling  of  another's  woe ; 
Or  only  lavish  to  yourselves  ;  away  ! 
But  come,  ye  generous  minds,  in  whose  wide 
thought. 

Of  all  his  works,  creative  Bounty  burns 
With  warmest  beam ;  and  on  your  open  front 
And  liberal  eye,  sits,  from  his  dark  retreat 
Inviting  modest  Want.    Nor,  till  invoked. 
Can  restless  goodness  wait :  your  active  search 
Leaves  no  cold  wintry  corner  unexplored 
Like  silent-working  Heaven,  surprising  oft 
The  lonely  heart  with  unexpected  good. 
For  you  the  roving  spirit  of  the  wind 
Blows  Spring  abroad ;  for  you  the  teeming  clouds 
Descend  in  gladsome  plenty  o'er  the  world  ; 
And  the  sun  sheds  his  kindest  rays  for  you. 
Ye  flower  of  human  race !  in  these  green  days, 
Reviving  Sickness  Hfts  her  languid  head  ; 
Life  flows  afresh ;  and  young-eyed  Health  exalts 
The  whole  creation  round.    Contentment  walks 
The  sunny  glade,  and  feels  an  inward  bliss 
Spring  o'er  his  mind,  beyond  the  power  of  kings 
To  purchase.    Pure  serenity  apace 
Induces  thought,  and  contepiplation  still. 
By  swift  degrees  the  love  of  Nature  works, 
And  warms  the  bosom ;  till  at  last  sublimed 
To  rapture,  and  enthusiastic  heat. 
We  feel  the  present  Deity,  and  taste 
The  joy  of  God  to  see  a  happy  world ! 

These  are  the  sacred  feelings  of  thy  heart, 
Thy  heart  inform'd  by  reason's  purer  ray, 
O  Lyttelton,  the  friend !  thy  passions  thus 
And  meditations  vary,  as  at  large, 
Courting  the  Muse,  through  Hagley  Park  thou 
stray 'st ; 

The  British  Tempe !  there  along  the  dale. 
With  woods  o'erhung,  and  shagg'd  with  moassy 
rocks. 

Whence  on  each  hand  the  gushing  waters  play, 
And  down  the  rough  cascade  white-dashing  fall, 
Or  gleam  in  lengthened  vista  through  the  trees, 
You  silent  steal ;  or  sit  beneath  the  shade 
Of  solemn  oaks,  that  tuft  the  swelling  mounts 
Thrown  graceful  round  by  Nature's  careless  hand, 


xO 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


And  pensive  listen  to  the  various  voice 
Of  rural  peace :  the  herds,  the  flocks,  the  birds, 
The  hollow-whispering  breeze,  the  plaint  of  rills, 
That,  purling  down  amid  the  twisted  roots 
Which  creep  around,  their  dewy  murmurs  shake 
On  the  soothed  ear.    From  these  abstracted  oft, 
You  wander  through  the  philosophic  world ; 
Where  in  bright  train  continual  wonders  rise, 
Or  to  the  curious  or  the  pious  eye. 
And  oft,  conducted  by  historic  truth. 
You  tread  the  long  extent  of  backward  time : 
Planning,  with  warm  benevolence  of  mind, 
And  honest  zeal  unwarp'd  by  party  rage, 
Britannia's  weal ;  how  from  the  venal  gulf 
To  raise  her  virtue,  and  her  arts  revive. 
Or,  turning  thence  thy  view,  these  graver  thoughts 
The  Muses  charm :  while,  with  sure  taste  refined, 
You  draw  the  inspiring  breath  of  ancient  song ; 
Till  nobly  rises,  emulous,  thy  own. 
Perhaps  thy  loved  Lucinda  shares  thy  walk. 
With  soul  to  thine  attuned.    Then  Nature  all 
Wears  to  the  lover's  eye  a  look  of  love ; 
And  all  the  tumult  of  a  guilty  world, 
Tost  by  ungenerous  passions,  sinks  away. 
The  tender  heart  is  animated  peace ; 
And  as  it  pours  its  copious  treasures  forth. 
In  varied  converse,  softening  every  theme. 
You,  frequent-pausing,  turn,  and  from  her  eyes, 
Where  meeken'd  sense,  and  amiable  grace, 
And  lively  sweetness  dwell,  enraptured,  drink 
That  nameless  spirit  of  ethereal  joy, 
Unutterable  happiness !  which  love, 
Alone,  bestows,  and  on  a  favour'd  few. 
Meantime  you  gain  the  height,  from  whose  fair 
brow 

The  bursting  prospect  spreads  immense  around : 

And  snatch'do'er  hill  and  dale,  and  wood  and  lawn, 

And  verdant  field,  and  darkening  heath  between. 

And  villages  embosom'd  soft  in  trees, 

And  spiry  towns  by  surging  columns  mark'd 

Of  household  smoke,  your  eye  excursive  roams : 

Wide-stretching  from  the  hall,  in  whose  kind  haunt 

The  Hospitable  Genius  lingers  still. 

To  where  the  broken  landscape,  by  degrees, 

Ascending,  roughens  into  rigid  hills  ; 

O'er  which  the  Cambrian  mountains,  like  far  clouds 

That  skirt  the  blue  horizon,  dusky  rise. 

Flush'd  by  the  spirit  of  the  genial  year. 
Now  from  the  virgin's  cheek  a  fresher  bloom 
Shoots,  less  and  less,  the  live  carnation  round ; 
Her  lips  blush  deeper  sweets ;  she  breathes  of  youth ; 
The  shining  moisture  swells  into  her  eyes. 
In  brighter  flow ;  her  wishing  bosom  heaves, 
With  palpitations  wild ;  kind  tumults  seize 
Her  veins,  and  all  yer  yielding  soul  is  love. 
From  the  keen  gaze  her  lover  turns  away 
Full  of  the  dear  ecstatic  power,  and  sick 
With  sighing  languishment.    Ah  then,  ye  fair ! 
Be  greatly  cautious  of  your  sliding  hearts : 


Dare  not  the  infectious  sigh ;  the  pleading  look, 
Down-cast  and  low,  in  meek  submission  dress'd, 
But  full  of  guile.    Let  not  the  fervent  tongue, 
Prompt  to  deceive,  with  adulation  smooth, 
Gain  on  your  purposed  will.    Nor  in  the  bower, 
Where  woodbines  flaunt,  and  roses  shed  a  couch. 
While  Evening  draws  her  crimson  curtains  round 
Trust  your  soft  minutes  with  betraying  Man. 

And  let  the  aspiring  youth  beware  of  love. 
Of  the  smooth  glance  beware ;  for  'tis  too  late, 
When  on  his  heart  the  torrent-softness  pours ; 
Then  wisdom  prostrate  lies,  and  fading  fame 
Dissolves  in  air  away ;  while  the  fond  soul, 
Wrapp'd  in  gay  visions  of  unreal  bliss, 
Still  paints  the  illusive  form ;  the  kindling  grace ; 
The  enticing  smile ;  the  modest-seeming  eye. 
Beneath  whose  beauteous  beams,  belying  Heaven, 
Lurk  searchless  cunning,  cruelty,  and  death : 
And  still  false- warbling  in  his  cheated  ear, 
Her  siren  voice,  enchanting,  draws  him  on 
To  guileful  shores,  and  meads  of  fatal  joy. 

E'en  present,  in  the  very  lap  of  love 
Inglorious  laid ;  while  music  flows  around, 
Perfumes,  and  oils,  and  wine,  and  wanton  hours. 
Amid  the  roses  fierce  Repentance  rears 
Her  snaky  crest :  a  quick  returning  pang 
Shoots  through  the  conscious  heart ;  where  honour 
still. 

And  great  design,  against  the  oppressive  load 
Of  luxury,  by  fits,  impatient  heave. 

But  absent,  what  fantastic  woes,  aroused. 
Rage  in  each  thought,  by  restless  musing  fed, 
Chill  the  warm  cheek,  and  blast  the  bloom  of  Kfel 
Neglected  fortune  flies;  and  sliding  swift. 
Prone  into  ruin  fall  his  scorn'd  affairs. 
'Tis  nought  but  gloom  around:  the  darken'd  sun 
Loses  his  light.    The  rosy-bosom'd  Spring 
To  weeping  fancy  pines;  and  yon  bright  arch, 
Contracted,  bends  into  a  dusky  vault. 
All  Nature  fades  extinct :  and  she  alone, 
Heard,  felt,  and  seen,  possesses  every  thought, 
Fills  every  sense,  and  pants  in  every  vein. 
Books  are  but  formal  dulness,  tedious  friends; 
And  sad  amid  the  social  band^he  sits, 
Lonely,  and  unattentive.    From  his  tongue 
The  unfinish'd  period  falls ;  while  borne  away 
On  swelling  thought,  his  wafted  spirit  flies 
To  the  vain  bosom  of  his  distant  fair; 
And  leaves  the  semblance  of  a  lover,  fix'd 
In  melancholy  site,  with  head  declined, 
And  love-dejected  eyes.    Sudden  he  starts, 
Shook  from  his  tender  trance,  and  restless  runs 
To  gUmmering  shades,  and  sympathetic  glooms; 
Where  the  dun  umbrage  o'er  the  falling  stream, 
Romantic,  hangs;  there  through  the  pensive  dusk 
Strays,  in  heart-thrilling  meditation  lost, 
Indulging  all  to  love:  or  on  the  bank 
Thrown,  amid  drooping  lilies,  swells  the  breeze 
With  sighs  unceasing,  and  the  brook  with  teara 


SPRING. 


11 


Thus  in  soft  anguish  he  consumes  the  day, 
Nor  quits  his  deep  retirement,  till  the  Moon 
Peeps  through  the  chambers  of  the  fleecy  east, 
Enlightened  by  degrees,  and  in  her  train 
Leads  on  the  gentle  Hours;  then  forth  he  walks, 
Beneath  the  trembUng  languish  of  her  beam. 
With  soften'd  soul,  and  woos  the  bird  of  eve 
To  mingle  woes  with  his:  or,  while  the  world 
And  all  the  sons  of  Care  lie  hush'd  in  sleep. 
Associates  with  the  midnight  shadows  drear; 
And,  sighing  to  the  lonely  taper,  pours 
His  idly-tortured  heart  into  the  page. 
Meant  for  the  moving  messenger  of  love; 
Where  rapture  burns  on  rapture,  every  line 
With  rising  frenzy  fired.    But  if  on  bed 
Delirious  flung,  sleep  from  his  pillow  flies. 
All  night  he  tosses,  nor  the  balmy  power 
In  any  posture  finds ;  till  the  gray  Morn 
Lifts  her  pale  lustre  on  the  paler  wretch, 
Exanimate  by  love :  and  then  perhaps 
Exhausted  Nature  sinks  a  while  to  rest. 
Still  interrupted  by  distracted  dreams. 
That  o'er  the  sick  imagination  rise, 
And  in  black  colours  paint  the  mimic  scene. 

Oft  with  the  enchantress  of  his  soul  he  talks ;  ^ 
Sometimes  in  crowds  distress'd;  or  if  retired 
To  secret  winding  flower-enwoven  bowers, 
Far  from  the  dull  impertinence  of  Man, 
Just  as  he,  credulous,  his  endless  cares 
Begins  to  lose  in  blind  oblivious  love, 
Snatch'd  from  her  yielded  hand,  he  knows  not 
how. 

Through  forests  huge,  and  long  untravel'd  heaths 
With  desolation  brovvn,  he  wanders  waste. 
In  night  and  tempest  wrapp'd :  or  shrinks  aghast, 
Back,  from  the  bending  precipice;  or  wades 
The  turbid  stream  below,  and  strives  to  reach 
The  farther  shore;  where  succourless,  and  sad. 
She  with  extended  arms  his  aid  implores; 
But  strives  in  vain ;  borne  by  the  outrageous  flood 
To  distance  down,  he  rides  the  ridgy  wave. 
Or  whelm'd  beneath  the  boiling  eddy  sinks. 

These  are  the  charming  agonies  of  love. 
Whose  misery  delights.    But  through  the  heart 
Should  jealousy  its  venom  once  diffuse, 
'Tis  then  dehghtful  misery  no  more, 
But  agony  unmix'd  incessant  gall, 
Corroding  every  thought,  and  blasting  all 
Love's  paradise.    Ye  fairy  prospects,  then, 
Ye  beds  of  roses,  and  ye  bowers  of  joj^, 
Farewell !  ye  gleamings  of  departed  peace, 
Shine  out  your  last !  the  yellow-tinging  plague 
Internal  vision  taints,  and  in  a  night 
Of  livid  gloom  imagination  wraps. 
Ah  then !  instead  of  love-enliven'd  cheeks, 
Of  sunny  features,  and  of  ardent  eyes 
With  flowing  rapture  bright,  dark  looks  succeed, 
Suflfused  and  glaring  with  untenderfire; 
A  clouded  aspect,  and  a  burning  cheek, 

2o2 


Where  the  whole  poison'd  soul,  malignant,  sits, 
And  frightens  love  away.    Ten  thousand  fears 
Invented  wild,  ten  thousand  frantic  views 
Of  horrid  rivals,  hanging  on  the  charms 
For  which  he  melts  his  fondness,  eat  him  up 
With  fervent  anguish,  and  consuming  rage. 
In  vain  reproaches  lend  their  idle  aid. 
Deceitful  pride,  and  resolution  frail. 
Giving  false  peace  a  moment.    Fancy  pours. 
Afresh,  her  beauties  on  his  busy  thought. 
Her  first  endearments  twining  round  the  soul, 
With  all  the  witchcrafl;  of  ensnaring  love. 
Straight  the  fierce  storm  involves  his  mind  anew, 
Flames  through  the  nerves,  and  boils  along  the 
veins ; 

While  anxious  doubt  distracts  the  tortured  heart: 
For  e'en  the  sad  assurance  of  his  fears 
Were  ease  to  what  he  feels.    Thus  the  warm 
youth. 

Whom  love  deludes  into  his  thorny  wilds. 
Through  flowery  tempting  paths,  or  leads  a  life 
Of  fever'd  rapture  or  of  cruel  care ; 
His  brightest  aims  extinguish'd  all,  and  all 
IJis  lively  moments  running  down  to  waste. 

But  happy  they !  the  happiest  of  their  kind ! 
Whom  gentler  stars  unite,  and  in  one  fate 
Their  hearts,  their  fortunes,  and  their  beings  blend. 
'Tis  not  the  coarser  tie  of  human  laws. 
Unnatural  oft  and  foreign  to  the  mind. 
That  binds  their  peace,  but  harmony  itself, 
Attuning  all  their  passions  into  love ; 
Where  friendship  full-exerts  her  softest  power, 
Perfect  esteem  enliven'd  by  desire 
Ineflfable,  and  sympathy  of  soul ; 
Thought  meeting  thought,  and  will  preventing  will, 
With  boundless  confidence  :  for  nought  but  love 
Can  answer  love,  and  render  bhss  secure. 
Xet  him,  ungenerous,  who,  alone  intent 
To  bless  himself,  from  sordid  parents  buys 
The  loathing  virgin,  in  eternal  care. 
Well-merited,  consume  his  nights  and  days  : 
Let  barbarous  nations,  whose  inhuman  love 
Is  wild  desire,  fierce  as  the  suns  they  feel ; 
Let  eastern  tyrants,  from  the  light  of  Heaveii, 
Seclude  their  bosom-slaves,  meanly  possess'd 
Of  a  mere  lifeless,  violated  form : 
While  those  whom  love  cements  in  holy  faith, 
And  equal  transport,  free  as  Nature  hve. 
Disdaining  fear.    What  is  the  world  to  them, 
Its  pomp,  its  pleasure,  and  its  nonsense  all  % 
Who  in  each  other  clasp  whatever  fair 
High  fancy  forms,  and  lavish  hearts  can  wish , 
Something  than  beauty  dearer,  should  they  look 
Or  on  the  mind,  or  mind-illumin'd  face ; 
Truth,  goodness,  honour,  harmony,  and  love, 
The  richest  bounty  of  indulgent  Heaven. 
Meantime  a  smihng  offspring  rises  round, 
And  mingles  both  their  graces.    By  degrees, 
The  human  blossom  blows  :  and  every  day, 


12 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Soft  as  it  rolls  along,  shows  some  new  charm, 
The  father's  lustre,  and  the  mother's  bloom. 
Then  infant  reason  grows  apace,  and  calls 
For  the  kind  hand  of  an  assiduous  care. 
Delightful  task !  to  rear  the  tender  thought, 
To  teach  the  young  idea  how  to  shoot, 
To  pour  the  fresh  instruction  o'er  the  mind. 
To  breathe  the  enlivening  spirit,  and  to  fix 
The  generous-  purpose  in  the  glowing  breast. 
Oh,  speak  the  joy  !  ye,  whom  the  sudden  tear 
Surprises  often,  while  you  look  around, 
And  nothing  strikes  your  eye  but  sights  of  bliss, 
All  various  Nature  pressing  on  the  heart :  ■ 
An  elegant  sufficiency,  content, 
Retirement,  rural  quiet,  friendship,  books, 


Ease  and  alternate  labour,  useful  life, 
Progressive  virtue,  and  approving  Heaven ! 
These  are  the  matchless  joys  of  virtuous  love ; 
And  thus  their  moments  fly.    The  Seasons 
thus, 

As  ceaseless  round  a  jarring  world  they  roll. 
Still  find  them  happy ;  and  consenting  Spring 
Sheds  her  own  rosy  garland  on  their  heads : 
Till  evening  comes  at  last,  serene  and  mild ; 
When  after  the  long  vernal  day  of  life, 
Enamour'd  more,  as  more  remembrance  swells 
With  many  a  proof  of  recollected  love. 
Together  down  they  sink  in  social  sleep ; 
Together  freed,  their  gentle  spirits  fly 
To  scenes  where  love  and  bliss  immortal  reign 


Jam  clarus  occultum  Andromedae  pater 
Ostendit  ignem:  jam  Procyon  furit, 
Et  Stella  vesanl  Leonis, 
Sole  dies  referente  slccos. 
Jam  pastor  umbras  cum  grege  languido, 
Rivumque  fessus  quserit,  et  horridi 
Dumeta  Sylvani :  caretque 
Ripa  vagfe  taciturna  ventis.— fibr. 


TO  THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE 
MR.  DODINGTON, 

ONE  OF  THE  LORDS  OP  HIS  MAJESTY'S  TREASURY, 
ETC. 


ARGUMENT. 

^  proposed.   Invocation.   Address  to  Mr.  Dodington.   An  introductory  reflection  on  the  motion  of  the  Hea- 

venly  Bodies;  whence  the  succession  of  the  Seasons.  As  the  face  of  Nature  in  this  season  is  almost  uniform  the  pro™ 
of  the  poem  is  a  description  ol  a  Summer  s  Day.  The  Dawn.  Sunrising.  Hymn  to  the  Sun.  Forenoon  '  SummeM^ 
sects  described.  Haymaking.  Sheepshearing.  Noonday.  A  Woodland  Retreat.  Group  ofHerds  and  Flocks  A  Solemn 
Grove :  how  it  affects  a  contemplative  mind.  A  Cataract,  and  rude  scene.  View  of  Summer  in  the  torrid  Sne  StoZ 
of  thunder  and  lightning.  A  Tale.  The  storm  over.  A  serene  afternoon.  Bathing.  Hour  of  Walking  SnsitiS 
the  prospect  of  a  ridi,  well  cultivated  Country ;  which  introduces  a  panegyric  on  Great  Britain.  Sunset  Evening  Sli 
Summer  Meteors.   A  Comet.  The  whole  concluding  with  the  praise  of  Philosophy.  -i^venmg.  wigiu. 

fluous  in  itself,  for  what  reader  need  be  told  of 
those  great  abilities  in  the  management  of  public 
affairs,  and  those  amiable  accomplishments  in  pri- 
vate life,  which  you  so  eminently  possess.  The 
general  voice  is  loud  in  the  praise  of  so  many  vir- 
tues, though  posterity  alone  will  do  them  justice. 
But  may  you,  Sir,  live  long  to  illustrate  your  own 
fame  by  your  own  actions,  and  by  them  be  trans- 
mitted to  future  times  as  the  British  Maecenas ! 

Your  example  has  recommended  poetry  with 
the  greatest  grace  to  the  admiration  of  those  who 
are  engaged  in  the  highest  and  most  active  scenes 
of  life:  and  this,  though  confessedly  the  least 
considerable  of  those  exalted  qualities  that  dignify 
your  character,  must  be  particularly  pleasing  to 
one  whose  only  hope  of  being  introduced  to  your 
regard  is  through  the  recommendation  of  an  art 
in  which  you  are  a  master.  But  I  forget  what  I 
have  been  declaring  above;  and  must,  therefore, 
turn  my  eyes  to  the  following  sheets.  I  am  not  ig- 
norant that,  when  offered  to  your  perusal,  they  are 
put  into  the  hands  of  one  of  the  finest  and,  con- 


SlR, 

It  is  not  my  purpose,  in  this  address,  to  run 
into  the  common  tract  of  dedicators,  and  attempt  a 
panegyric  which  would  prove  ungrateful  to  you, 
too  arduous  for  me,  and  superfluous  with  regard 
to  the  world.  To  you  it  would  prove  ungrateful, 
since  there  is  a  certain  generous  delicacy  in  men 
of  the  most  distinguished  merit,  disposing  them 
to  avoid  those  praises  they  so  powerfully  attract. 
And  when  I  consider  that  a  character  in  which 
the  virtues,  the  graces,  and  the  muses  join  their 
influence  as  much  exceeds  the  expression  of  the 
most  elegant  and  judicious  pen,  as  the  finished 
beauty  does  the  representation  of  the  pencil,  I 
have  the  best  reasons  for  declining  such  an  ardu- 
ous undertaking.    As,  indeed,  it  would  be  super- 


SUMMER. 


13 


sequently,  the  most  indulgent  judges  of  the  age: 
but,  as  there  is  no  mediocrity  in  poetry,  so  there 
should  be  no  Umits  to  its  ambition.  I  venture  di- 
rectly on  the  trial  of  my  fame.  If  what  I  here 
present  you  has  any  merit  to  gain  your  approba- 
tion, I  am  not  afraid  of  its  success;  and  if  it  fails 
of  your  notice,  I  give  it  up  to  its  just  fate.  This 
advantage,  at  least,  I  secure  to  myself,  an  occasion 
of  thus  publicly  declaring  that  I  am,  with  the 
profoundest  veneration, 

Sir,  your  most  devoted. 

Humble  servant, 
James  Thomson. 


SUMMER. 

From  brightening  fields  of  ether  fair  disclosed, 
Child  of  the  Sun,  refulgent  Summer  comes, 
In  pride  of  youth,  and  felt  through  Nature's  depth: 
He  comes  attended  by  the  sultry  Hours, 
And  ever  fanning  breezes,  on  his  way ; 
While,  from  his  ardent  look,  the  turning  Spring 
Averts  her  blushful  face;  and  earth,  and  skies, 
All-smiling,  to  his  hot  dominion  leaves. 

Hence,  let  me  haste  into  the  mid-wood  shade, 
Where  scarce  a  sunbeam  wanders  through  the 
gloom: 

And  on  the  dark  green  grass,  beside  the  brink 
Of  haunte'd  stream,  that  by  the  roots  of  oak 
Rolls  o'er  the  rocky  channel,  lie  at  large. 
And  sing  the  glories  of  the  circling  year. 

Come,  Inspiration !  from  thy  hermit-seat, 
By  mortal  seldom  found:  may  Fancy  dare, 
From  thy  fix'd  serious  eye,  and  raptured  glance 
Shot  on  surrounding  Heaven,  to  steal  one  look 
Creative  of  the  Poet,  every  power 
Exalting  to  an  ecstasy  of  soul. 

And  thou,  my  youthful  Muse's  early  friend, 
In  whom  the  human  graces  all  unite: 
Pure  light  of  mind,  and  tenderness  of  heart ; 
Genius,  and  wisdom;  the  gay  social  sense, 
By  decency  chastised ;  goodness  and  wit, 
In  seldom-meeting  harmony  combined; 
Unblemish'd  honour,  and  an  active  zeal 
For  Britain's  glory,  liberty,  and  Man: 
O  Dodington!  attend  my  rural  song. 
Stoop  to  my  theme,  inspirit  every  line, 
And  teach  me  to  deserve  thy  just  applause. 

With  what  an  awful  world-revolving  power 
Were  first  the  unwieldy  planets  launch'd  along 
The  illimitable  void!  thus  to  remain. 
Amid  the  flux  of  many  thousand  years. 
That  oft  has  swept  the  toiling  race  of  men, 
And  all  their  labour'd  monuments  away, 
Firm,  unremitting,  matchless,  in  their  course ; 
To  the  kind-temper'd  change  of  night  and  day, 
And  of  the  seasons  ever  stealing  round, 
D 


Minutely  faithful :  such  the  All-perfect  hand ! 
That  poised,  impels,  and  rules  the  steady  whole. 
When  now  no  more  the  alternate  Twins  are 
fired. 

And  Cancer  reddens  with  the  solar  blaze. 
Short  is  the  doubtful  empire  of  the  night; 
And  soon,  observant  of  approaching  day. 
The  meek-eyed  morn  appears,  mother  of  dews, 
At  first  faint-gleaming  in  the  dappled  east: 
Till  far  o'er  ether  spreads  the  widening  glow 
And,  from  before  the  lustre  of  her  face. 
White  break  the  clouds  away.    With  quicken'd 
step. 

Brown  Night  retires:  young  Day  pours  in  apace, 
And  opens  all  the  lawny  prospect  wide. 
The  dripping  rock,  the  mountain's  misty  top 
Swell  on  the  sight,  and  brighten  with  the  dawn. 
Blue,  through  the  dusk,  the  smoking  currents  shine; 
And  from  the  bladed  field  the  fearful  hare 
Limps,  awkward:  while  along  the  forest- glade 
The  wild  deer  trip,  and  often  turning  gaze 
At  early  passenger.    Music  awakes 
The  native  voice  of  undissembled  joy ; 
And  thick  around  the  woodland  hymns  arise. 
Roused  by  the  cock,  the  soon-clad  shepherd  leaves 
His  mossy  cottage,  where  with  Peace  he  dwells ; 
And  from  the  crowded  fold,  in  order,  drives 
His  flock,  to  taste  the  verdure  of  the  morn. 

Falsely  luxurious !  will  not  Man  awake ; 
And,  springing  from  the  bed  of  sloth,  enjoy 
The  cool,  the  fragrant,  and  the  silent  hour, 
To  meditation  due  and  sacred  songl 
For  is  there  ought  in  sleep  can  charm  the  wisel 
To  lie  in  dead  oblivion,  losing  half 
The  fleeting  moments  of  too  short  a  life; 
Total  extinction  of  the  enlightened  soul' 
Or  else  to  feverish  vanity  alive, 
iWilder'd,  and  tossing  through  distemper'd  dreams  t 
Who  would  in  such  a  gloomy  state  remain 
Longer  than  Nature  craves;  when  every  Muse 
And  every  blooming  pleasure  wait  without. 
To  bless  the  wildly-devious  morning  walkf 

But  yonder  comes  the  powerful  King  of  Day, 
Rejoicing  in  the  east.    The  lessening  cloud, 
The  kindling  azure,  and  the  mountain's  brow 
Illumed  with  fluid  gold,  his  near  approach 
Betoken  glad.    Lo!  now,  apparent  all, 
Aslant  the  dew-bright  earth,  and  colour'd  air. 
He  looks  in  boundless  majesty  abroad; 
And  sheds  the  shining  day,  that  burnish'd  plays 
On  rocks,  and  hills,  and  towers,  and  wandering 
streams. 

High  gleaming  from  afar.   Prime  cheerer,  Light! 
Of  all  material  beings  first  and  best ! 
Efflux  divine!    Nature's  resplendent  robe! 
Without  whose  vesting  beauty  all  were  wrapt 
In  unessential  gloom;  and  thou,  O  Sun! 
Soul  of  surrounding  worlds!  in  whom  best  seen 
Shines  out  thy  Maker!  may  I  sing  of  theel 


14 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


'Tis  by  thy  secret,  strong,  attractive  force, 
As  with  a  chain  indissoluble  bound, 
Thy  system  rolls  entire:  from  the  far  bourne 
Of  utmost  Saturn,  wheeling  wide  his  round 
Of  thirty  years,  to  Mercury,  whose  disk 
Can  scarce  be  caught  by  philosophic  eye, 
Lost  in  the  near  eftulgence  of  thy  blaze. 

Informer  of  the  planetary  train ! 
Without  whose  quickening  glance  their  cumbrous 
orbs 

Were  brute  unlovely  mass,  inert  and  dead, 
And  not,  as  now,  the  green  abodes  of  life  1 
How  many  forms  of  being  wait  on  thee ! 
Inhaling  spirit;  from  the  unfetter'd  mind. 
By  thee  sublimed,  down  to  the  daily  race. 
The  mixing  myri^ads  of  thy  setting  beam. 

The  vegetable  world  is  also  thine, 
Parent  of  Seasons'?  who  the  pomp  precede 
That  waits  thy  throne,  as  through  thy  vast  domain. 
Annual,  along  the  bright  ecliptic  road. 
In  vsrorld-rejoicing  state,  it  moves  sublime. 
Meantime,  the  expecting  nations,  circled  gay 
With  all  the  various  tribes  of  foodful  earth, 
Implore  thy  bounty,  or  send  grateful  up 
A  common  hymn :  while,  round  thy  beaming  car. 
High-seen,  the  Seasons  lead,  in  sprightly  dance 
Harmonious  knit,  the  rosy-fingered  Hours, 
The  Zephyrs  floating  loose,  the  timely  Rains, 
Of  bloom  ethereal  the  light-footed  Dew^s, 
And  softened  into  joy  the  surly  Storms. 
These,  in  successive  turn,  with  lavish  hand, 
Shower  every  beauty,  every  fragrance  shower, 
Herbs,  flowers,  and  fruits;  and,  kindling  at  thy 

touch,  .  -  , 
From  land  to  land  is  flush'd  the  vernal  year.  ' 

Nor  to  the  surface  of  enliven'd  earth, 
Graceful  with  iiills  and  dales,  and  leafy  woods, 
Her  liberal  tresses,  is  thy  force  confined : 
But,  to  the  bowel'd  cavern,  darting  deep. 
The  mineral  kinds  confess  thy  mighty  power. 
EflTulgent,  hence  the  veiny  marble  shines; 
Hence  Labour  draws  his  tools;  hence  burnish 'd 

War 

Gleams  on  the  day;  the  nobler  works  of  Peace 
Hence  bless  mankind,  and  generous  Commerce 
binds 

The  round  of  nations  in  a  golden  chain. 

The  unfruitful  rock  itself,  impregn'd  by  thee, 
In  dark  retirement  forms  the  lucid  stone. 
The  lively  diamond  drinks  thy  purest  rays. 
Collected  light,  compact ;  that  polish'd  bright. 
And  all  its  native  lustre  let  abroad, 
Dares,  as  it  sparkles  on  the,  fair  one's  breast, 
With  vain  ambition  emulate  her  eyes. 
At  thee  the  ruby  lights  its  deepening  glow, 
And  with  a  waving  radiance  inward  flames. 
From  thee,  the  sapphire,  solid  ether,  takes 
Its  hue  cerulean ;  and,  of  evening  tinct, 
The  purple-streaming  amethyst  is  thine. 


With  thy  own  smile  the  yellow  topaz  burns. 
Nor  deeper  verdure  dyes  the  robe  of  Spring, 
When  first  she  gives  it  to  the  southern  gale, 
Than  the  green  emerald  shows.  But,  all  coijibined, 
Thick  through  the  whitening  opal  play  thy  beams; 
Or,  flying  several  from  its  surface,  form 
A  trembling  variance  of  revolving  hues, 
As  the  site  varies  ii^  the  gazer's  hand. 

The  very  dead  creation,  from  thy  touch, 
Assumes  a  mimic  life.    By  thee  refined. 
In  brighter  mazes  the  relucent  stream 
Plays  o'er  the  mead.    The  precipice  abrupt. 
Projecting  horror  on  the  blacken'd  flood. 
Softens  at  thy  return.    The  desert  joys, 
Wildly,  through  all  his  melancholy  bounds. 
Rude  ruins  glitter;  and  the  briny  deep. 
Seen  from  some  pointed  promontory's  top. 
Far  to  the  blue  horizon's  utmost  verge. 
Restless,  reflects  a  floatmg  gleam.    But  this, 
And  all  the  much-transported  Muse  can  sing. 
Are  to  thy  beauty,  dignity,  and  use. 
Unequal  far ;  great  delegated  soxirce 
Of  light,  and  life,  and  grace,  and  joy  below  ! 

How  shall  I  then  attempt  to  sing  of  Him  ! 
Who,  Light  Himself,  in  uncreated  light 
Invested  deep,  dwells  awfully  retired 
From  mortal  eye,  or  angel's  purer  ken ; 
Whose  single  smile  has,  from  the  first  of  time, 
Fill'd,  overflowing,  all  those  lamps  of  Heaven, 
That  beam  for  ever  through  the  boundless  sky : 
But,  should  he  hide  his  face,  the  astonish'd  sun. 
And  all  the  extinguish'd  stars,  would  loosening, 
reel 

Wide  from  their  spheres,  and  Chaos  come  again 

And  yet  was  every  faltering  tongue  of  Man, 
Almighty  Father  !  silent  in  thy  praise  ; 
Thy  works  themselves  would  raise  a  general  voice, 
E'en  in  the  depth  of  solitary  woods 
By  human  foot  untrod ;  proclaim  thy  power 
And  to  the  choir  celestial  Thee  resound. 
The  eternal  cause,  support,  and  end  of  all ! 

To  me  be  Nature's  volume  broad  display'd  ; 
And  to  peruse  its  all  instructing  page, 
Or,  haply  catching  inspiration  thence, 
Some  easy  passage,  raptured,  to  translate 
My  sole  delight;  as  through  the  falling  glooms 
Pensive  I  stray,  or  with  the  rising  dawn 
On  Fancy's  eagle-wing  excursive  soar. 

Now,  flaming  up  the  heavens,  the  potent  sun 
Melts  into  limpid  air  the  high-raised  clouds, 
And  morning  fogs,  that  hover'd  round  the  hills 
In  party-colour'd  bands  ;  till  wide  unveil'd 
The  face  of  Nature  shines,  from  where  earth 
seems, 

Far-stretch'd  around,  to  meet  the  bending  sphere. 

Half  in  a  blush  of  clustering  roses  lost. 
Dew-dropping  Coolness  to  the  shade  retires ; 
There,  on  the  verdant  turf,  or  flowery  bed, 
By  gelid  founts  and  careless  rills  to  muse ; 


SUMMER. 


15 


While  tyrant  Heat,  dispreading  through  the  sky, 
With  rapid  sway,  his  burning  influence  darts 
On  man,  and  beast,  and  herb,  and  tepid  stream. 

Who  can  unpitying  see  the  flowery  race. 
Shed  by  the  morn,  their  new-flush'd  bloom  resign. 
Before  the  parching  beam'?  so  fade  the  fair, 
When  fevers  revel  through  their  azure  veins. 
But  one  the  lofty  follower  of  the  sun. 
Sad  when  he  sets,  shuts  up  her  yellow  leaves, 
Drooping  all  night ;  and,  when  he  warm  returns. 
Points  her  en  amour 'd  bosom  to  his  ray. 

Home,  from  his  morning  task,  the  swain  re- 
treats ; 

His  flock  before  him  stepping  to  the  fold : 
While  the  fuU-udder'd  mother  lows  around 
The  cheerful  cottage,  then  expecting  food. 
The  food  of  innocence  and  health !  the  daw. 
The  rock,  and  magpie,  td  the  gray-grown  oaks 
That  the  calm  village  in  their  verdant  arms. 
Sheltering,  embrace,  direct  their  lazy  flight ; 
Where  on  the  minghng  boughs  they  sit  embower'd. 
All  the  hot  noon,  till  cooler  hours  arise. 
Faint,  underneath,  the  household  fowls  convene ; 
And,  in  a  corner  of  the  buzzing  shade. 
The  house-dog,  with  the  vacant  greyhound,  lies, 
Out-stretch'd,  and  sleepy.    In  his  slumbers  one 
Attacks  the  nightly  thief,  and  one  exults 
O'er  hill  and  dale  ;  till,  waken'd  by  the  wasp. 
They  starting  snap.  Nor  shall  the  Muse  disdain 
To  let  the  little  noisy  summer  race 
Live  in  her  lay,  and  flutter  through  her  song: 
Not  mean  though  simple ;  to  the  sun  ally'd, 
From  him  they  draw  their  animating  fire. 

Waked  by  his  warmer  ray,  the  reptile  young 
Come  wing'd  abroad ;  by  the  light  air  upborne, 
Lighter,  and  full  of  soul.    From  every  chink 
And  secret  corner,  where  they  slept  away 
The  wintry  storms.;  or  rising  from  their  tombs, 
To  higher  life  ;  by  myriads,  forth  at  once. 
Swarming  they  pour  ;  of  all  the  varied  hues 
Their  beauty-beaming  parent  can  disclose. 
Ten  thousand  forms,  ten  thousand  diflferent  tribes. 
People  the  blaze.    To  sunny  waters  some 
By  fatal  instinct  fly  ;  where  on  the  pool 
They,  sportive,  wheel:  or,  sailing  down  the  stream. 
Are  snatch'd  immediate  by  the  quick-eyed  trout. 
Or  darting  salmon.    Thro'  the  green-wood  glade 
Some  love  to  stray ;  there  lodged,  amused,  and  fed. 
In  the  fresh  leaf.    Luxurious,  others  make 
The  meads  thMr  choice,  and  visit  every  flower, 
And  every  latent  herb  :  for  the  sweet  task. 
To  propagate  their  kinds,  and  where  to  wrap, 
In  what  soft  beds,  their  young  yet  undisclosed. 
Employs  their  tender  care.    Some  to  the  house, 
The  fold,  and  dairy,  hungry  bend  their  flight ; 
Sip  round  the  pail,  or  taste  the  curdling  cheese ; 
Oft,  inadvertent,  from  the  milky  stream 
They  meet  their  fate  ;  or,  weltering  in  the  bowl, 
With  powerless  wings  around  them  wrapt,  expire. 


But  chief  to  heedless  flies  the  window  proves 
A  constant  death;  where,  gloomily  retired. 
The  villain  spider  lives,  cunning,  and  fierce, 
Mixture  abhorr'd !  amid  a  mangled  heap 
Of  carcasses,  in  eager  watch  he  sits, 
O'erlooking  all  his  waving  snares  around. 
Near  the  dire  cell  the  dreadless  wanderer  oft 
Passes,  as  oft  the  ruffian  shows  his  front; 
The  prey  at  last  ensnared,  he  dreadful  darts, 
With  rapid  glide,  along  the  leaning  line ; 
And,  fixing  in  the  wretch  his  cruel  fangs. 
Strikes  backward  grimly  pleased;  the  fluttering 
wing 

And  shriller  sound  declare  extreme  distress, 
And  ask  the  helping  hospitable  hand. 

Resounds  the  living  surface  of  the  ground: 
Nor  undelightful  is  the  ceaseless  hum. 
To  him  who  muses  through  the  woods  at  noon; 
Or  drowsy  shepherd,  as  he  lies  reclined. 
With  half-shut  eyes,  beneath  the  floating  shade 
Of  willows  gray,  close  crowding  o'er  the  brook. 

Gradual,  from  these  what  numerous  kinds  de- 
scend. 

Evading  e'en  the  microscopic  eyel 

Full  Nature  swarms  with  life ;  one  wondrous  mass 

Of  animals,  or  atoms  organized. 

Waiting  the  vital  breath,  when  parent  Heaven 

Shall  bid  his  spirit  blow.    The  hoary  fen, 

In  putrid  streams,  emits  the  living  cloud 

Of  pestilence.    Through  subterranean  cells, 

Where  searching  sunbeams  scarce  can  find  a  way, 

Earth  animated  heaves.    The  flowery  leaf 

Wants  not  its  soft  inhabitants.  Secure, 

Within  its  winding  citadel,  the  stone 

Holds  multitudes.    But  chief  the  forest  boughs, 

That  dance  unnumber'd  to  the  playful  breeze, 

The  downy  orchard,  and  the  melting  pulp 

Of  mellow  fruit,  the  nameless  nations  feed 

Of  evanescent  insects.    Where  the  pool 

Stands  mantled  o'er  with  green,  invisible, 

Amid  the  floating  verdure  millions  stray. 

Each  liquid  too,  whether  it  pierces,  sooths. 

Inflames,  refreshes,  or  exalts  the  taste. 

With  various  forms  abounds.    Nor  is  the  stream 

Of  purest  crystal,  nor  the  lucid  air, 

Though  one  transparent  vacancy  it  seems. 

Void  of  their  unseen  people.    These,  conceal'd 

By  the  kind  art  of  forming  Heaven,  escape 

The  grosser  eye  of  man :  for,  if  the  worlds 

In  worlds  inclosed  should  on  his  senses  burst. 

From  cates  ambrosial,  and  the  nectar'd  bowl, 

He  would  abhorrent  turn ;  and  in  dead  night. 

When  silence  sleeps  o'er  all,  be  stunn'd  with  noise. 

Let  no  presuming  impious  railer  tax 
Creative  Wisdom,  as  if  ought  was  form'd 
In  vain,  or  not  for  admirable  ends. 
Shall  little  haughty  Ignorance  pronounce 
His  works  unwise,  of  which  the  smallest  part 


16 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Exceeds  the  narriiw  vision  of  her  mind'? 
As  if  upon  a  full  proportion'd  dome, 
On  swelling  columns  heaved,  the  pride  of  art ! 
A  critic  fly,  whose  feeble  ray  scarce  spreads 
An  inch  around,  with  blind  presumption  bold, 
Should  dare  to  tax  the  structure  of  the  whole. 
And  lives  the  man,  whose  universal  eye 
Has  swept  at  once  the  unbounded  scheme  of 
things; 

Mark'd  their  dependance  so,  and  firm  accord, 
As  with  unfaltering  accent  to  conclude 
That  this  availeth  nought '?  Has  any  seen 
The  mighty  chain  of  beings,  lessening  down 
From  Infinite  Perfection  to  the  brink 
Of  dreary  nothing,  desolate  abyss ! 
From  which  astohish'd  thought,  recoiling,  turns'? 
Till  then  alone  let  zealous  praise  ascend. 
And  hymns  of  holy  wonder,  to  that  Power, 
Whose  wisdom  shines  as  lovely  on  our  minds, 
As  on  our  smiling  eyes  his  servant-sun. 

Thick  in  yon  stream  of  light,  a  thousand  ways, 
Upward,  and  downward,  thwarting,  and  convolved. 
The  quivering  nations  sport;  till,  tempest- wing'd. 
Fierce  Winter  sweeps  them  from  the  face  of  day. 
E'en  so  luxurious  men,  unheeding,  pass 
An  idle  summer  life  in  fortune's  shine, 
A  season's  glitter !  thus  they  flutter  on 
From  toy  to  toy,  from  vanity  to  vice ; 
Till,  blown  away  by  death,  oblivion  comes 
Behind,  and  strikes  them  from  the  book  of  life. 

Now  swarms  the  village  o'er  the  jovial  mead: 
The  rustic  youth,  brown  with  meridian  toil. 
Healthful  and  strong;  full  as  the  summer- rose 
Blown  by  prevailing  suns,  the  ruddy  maid, 
Half  naked,  swelling  on  the  sight,  and  all 
Her  kindled  graces  burning  o'er  her  cheek. 
1  E'en  stooping  age  is  here;  and  infant  hands 
Trail  the  long  rake,  or,  with  the  fragrant  load 
O'ercharged,  amid  the  kind  oppression  roll. 
Wide  flies  the  tedded  grain ;  all  in  a  row 
Advancing  broad,  or  wheeling  round  the  field, 
They  spread  the  breathing  harvest  to  the  sun. 
That  throws  refreshful  round  a  rural  smell: 
Or,  as  they  rake  the  green-appearing  ground, 
And  drive  the  dusky  wave  along  the  mead. 
The  russet  hay-cock  rises  thick  behind. 
In  order  gay.    While  heard  from  dale  to  dale. 
Waking  the  breeze,  resounds  the  blended  voice 
Of  happy  labour,  love,  and  social  glee. 

Or  rushing  thence,  in  one  diflfusive  band. 
They  drive  the  troubled  flocks,  by  many  a  dog 
Compell'd,  to  where  the  mazy-running  brook 
Forms  a  deep  pool ;  this  bank  abrupt  and  high, 
And  that  fair-spreading  in  a  pebbled  shore. 
Urged  to  the  giddy  brink,  much  is  the  toil. 
The  clamour  much,  of  men,  and  boys,  and  dogs. 
Ere  the  soft  fearful  people  to  the  flood 
Commit  their  woolly  sides.    And  oft  the  swain, 
On  some  impatient  seizing,  hurls  them  in: 


Embolden'd  then,  nor  hesitating  more, 
Fast,  fast,  they  plunge  amid  the  flashing  wave, 
And  panting  labour  to  the  farthest  shore. 
Repeated  this,  till  deep  the  well-wash'd  fleece 
Has  drunk  the  flood,  and  from  his  lively  haunt, 
The  trout  is  banish'd  by  the  sordid  stream ; 
Heavy,  and  dripping.  to,the  breezy  brow 
Slow  move  the  harmless  race :  where,  as  they  spreai. 
Their  swelling  treasures  to  the  sunny  ray. 
Inly  disturb'd,  and  wondering  what  this  wild 
Outrageous  tumult  means,  their  loud  complaints 
The  country  fill ;  and,  toss'd  from  rock  to  rock, 
Incessant  bleatings  run  around  the  hills. 
At  last,  of  snowy  white,  the  gather'd  fiocks 
Are  in  the  wattled  pen  innuraerous  press'd, 
Head  above  head  :  and  ranged  in  lusty  rows 
The  shepherds  sit,  and  whet  the  sounding  shears. 
The  housewife  waits  to  roll  her  fleecy  stores. 
With  all  her  ga3'--drest  maids,  attending  round. 
One,  chief,  in  gracious  dignity  enthroned. 
Shines  o'er  the  rest,  the  pastoral  queen,  and  rays 
Her  smiles,  sweet-beaming,  on  her  shepherd-king ; 
While  the  glad  circle  round  them  yield  their  souls 
To  festive  mirth,  and  wit  that  knows  no  gall. 
Meantime,  their  joyous  task  goes  on  apace : 
Some. mingling  stir  the  melted  tar,  and  some. 
Deep  on  the  new-shorn  vagrant's  heaving  side, 
To  stamp  the  master's  cypher  ready  stand ; 
Others  the  unwilling  wether  drag  along ; 
And,  glorying  in  his  might,  the  sturdy  boy 
Holds  by  the  twisted  horns  the  indignant  ram. 
Behold  where  bound,  and  of  its  robe  bereft. 
By  needy  man,  that  all-depending  lord. 
How  meek,  how  patient,  the  mild  creature  lies  ! 
What  softness  in  its  melancholy  face. 
What  dumb  complaining  innocence  appears ! 
Fear  not,  ye  gentle  tribes,  'tis  not  the  knife 
Of  horrid  slaughter  that  is  o'er  you  waved ; 
No,  'tis  the  tender  swain's  well-guided  shears, 
Who  having  now,  to  pay  his  annual  care, 
Borrow'd  your  fleece,  to  you  a  cumbrous  load, 
Will  send  you  bounding  to  your  hills  again. 

A  simple  scene !  yet  hence  Britannia  sees 
Her  solid  grandeur  rise :  hence  she  commands 
The  exalted  stores  of  every  brighter  clime. 
The  treasures  of  the  sun  without  his  rage  : 
Hence,  fervent  all,  with  culture,  toil,  and  arts, 
Wide  glows  her  land :  her  dreadful  thunder  hence 
Rides  o'er  the  waves  sublime,  and  now,  e'en  now, 
Impending  hangs  o'er  Gallia's  humbled  coast ; 
Hence  rules  the  circling  deep,  and  awes  the  world. 

'Tis  raging  noon ;  and,  vertical,  the  sun 
Darts  on  the  head  direct  his  forceful  rays. 
O'er  heaven  and  earth,  far  as  the  ranging  eye 
Can  sweep,  a  dazzling  deluge  reigns;  and  all 
From  pole  to  pole  is  undistinguish'd  blaze. 
In  vain  the  sight,  dejected,  to  the  ground 
Stoops  for  relief ;  thence  hot-ascending  steams 
And  keen  reflection  pain.    Deep  to  the  root 


SUMMER. 


17 


Of  vegetation  parch  d,  the  cleaving  fiejds 
And  slippery  lawn  an  arid  hue  disclose, 
Blast  Fanc3^'s  bloom,  and  wither  e'en  the  soul. 
Echo  no  more  returns  the  cheerful  sound 
Of  sharpening  scythe:  the  mower  sinking  heaps 
O'er  him  the  humid  hay,  with  flowers  perfumed; 
And  scarce  a  chirping  grasshopper  is  heard 
T  hrough  the  dumb  mead.  Distressful  Nature  pants. 
The  very  streams  look  languid  from  afar ; 
Or,  through  the  unshelter'd  glade,  impatient,  seem 
To  hurl  into  the  covert  of  the  grove. 

All-conquering  Heat,  oh  intermit  thy  wrath ! 
And  on  my  throbbing  temples  potent  thus 
Beam  not  so  fierce  !  incessant  still  you  flow, 
And  still  another  fervent  flood  succeeds, 
Pour'd  on  the  head  profuse.    In  vain  I  sigh. 
And  restless  turn,  and  look  around  for  night ; 
Night  is  far  off ;  and  hotter  hours  approach. 
Thrice  happy  he  !  who  on  the  sunless  side 
Of  a  romantic  mountain,  forest-crown'd. 
Beneath  the  whole  collected  shade  reclines : 
Or  in  the  gelid  caverns,  woodbine-wrought. 
And  fresh  bedew'd  with  ever-spouting  streams, 
Sits  coolly  calm ;  while  all  the  world  without, 
Unsatisfied,  and  sick,  tosses  in  noon. 
Emblem  instructive  of  the  virtuous  man, 
"Who  keeps  his  temper'd  mind  serene  and  pure, 
And  every  passion  aptly  harmonized. 
Amid  a  jarring  world  with  vice  inflamed. 

Welcome,  ye  shades  !  ye  bowery  thickets,  hail ! 
Ye  lofty  pines  I  ye  venerable  oaks ! 
Ye  ashes  wild,  resounding  o'er  the  steep  ! 
Delicious  is  your  shelter  to  the  soul. 
As  to  the  hunted  hart  the  sallying  spring, 
Or  stream  full-flowing,  that  his  swelling  sides 
Laves,  as  he  floats  along  the  herbaged  brink. 
Cool,  through  the  nerves,  your  pleasing  comfort 
glides ; 

The  heart  beats  glad;  the  fresh-expanded  eye 
And  ear  resume  their  watch  ;  the  sinews  knit ; 
And  Ufe  shoots  swift  through  all  the  lighten'd  limbs. 

Around  the  adjoining  brook,  that  purls  along 
The  vocal  grove,  now  fretting  o'er  a  rock. 
Now  scarcely  moving  through  a  reedy  pool. 
Now  starting  to  a  sudden  stream,  and  now 
Gently  diftused  into  a  limpid  plain ; 
A  various  group  the  herds  and  flocks  compose. 
Rural  confusion !  on  the  grassy  bank 
Some  ruminating  lie ;  while  others  stand 
Half  in  the  flood,  and  often  bending  sip 
The  circling  surface.    In  the  middle  droops 
The  strong  laborious  ox,  of  honest  front. 
Which  incomposed  he  shakes ;  and  from  his  sides 
The  troublous  insects  lashes  with  his  tail, 
Returning  still.    Amid  his  subjects  safe, 
Slumbers  the  monarch-swain ;  his  careless  arm 
Thrown  round  his  head,  on  downy  moss  sustain'd ; 
Here  laid  his  scrip,  with  wholesome  viands  fill'd  ; 
There,  listening  every  noise,  his  watchful  dog. 


Light  fly  his  slumbers,  if  perchance  a  flight 
Of  angry  gad-flies  fasten  on  the  herd; 
That  startling  scatters  from  the  shallow  brook, 
In  search  of  lavish  stream.    Tossing  the  foam, 
They  scorn  the  keeper's  voice,  and  scour  the  plain. 
Through  all  the  bright  severity  of  noon; 
While,  from  their  labouring  breasts,  a  hollow  mosm 
Proceeding,  runs  low-bellowing  round  the  hills. 

Oft  in  this  season  too  the  horse,  provoked, 
While  his  big  sinews  full  of  spirits  swell. 
Trembling  with  vigour,  in  the  heat  of  blood. 
Springs  the  high  fence ;  and,  o'er  the  field  effused. 
Darts  on  the  gloomy  flood,  with  steadfast  eye, 
And  heart  estranged  to  fear:  his  nervous  chest. 
Luxuriant,  and  erect,  the  seat  of  strength ! 
Bears  down  the  opposing  stream :  quenchless  his 
thirst ; 

He  takes  the  river  at  redoubled  draughts; 
And  with  wide  nostrils,  snorting,  skims  the  wave. 

Still  let  me  pierce  into  the  midnight  depth 
Of  yonder  grove,  of  wildest  largest  growth: 
That,  forming  higli  in  air  a  woodland  quire, 
Nods  o'er  the  mount  beneath.    At  every  step, 
Solemn  and  slow,  the  shadows  blacker  fall, 
And  all  is  awful  listening  gloom  around. 

These  are  the  haunts  of  Meditation,  these 
The  scenes  where  ancient  bards  the  inspiriag 
breath. 

Ecstatic,  felt;  and,  from  this  world  retired. 
Conversed  with  angels,  and  immortal  forms, 
On  gracious  errands  bent:  to  save  the  fall 
Of  virtue  struggling  on  the  brink  of  vice ; 
In  waking  whispers,  and  repeated  dreams, 
To  hint  pure  thought,  and  warn  the  favour'd  soul 
For  future  trials  fated  to  prepare ; 
To  prompt  the  poet,  who  devoted  gives 
His  muse  to  better  themes ;  to  sooth  the  pangs 
Of  dying  worth,  and  from  the  patriot's  breast 
(Backward  to  mingle  in  detested  war. 
But  foremost  when  engaged)  to  turn  the  death; 
And  numberless  such  offices  of  love. 
Daily,  and  nightly,  zealous  to  perform. 

Shook  sudden  from  the  bosom  of  the  sky 
A  thousand  shapes  or  glide  athwart  the  dusk, 
Or  stalk  majestic  on.    Deep-roused,  I  feel 
A  sacred  terror,  a  severe  delight,  • 
Creep  through  my  mortal  frame;  and  thus,  mC' 
thinks, 

A  voice  than  human  more,  the  abstracted  ear 
Of  fancy  strikes: — "  Be  not  of  us  afraid. 
Poor  kindred  man!  thy  fellow-creatures,  we 
From  the  same  Parent -Power  our  beings  drew, 
The  same  our  Lord,  and  laws,  and  great  pursuit. 
Once  some  of  us,  like  thee,  through  stormy  life, 
Tx>ird,  tempest-beaten,  ere  we  could  attain 
This  holy  calm,  this  harmony  of  mind. 
Where  purity  and  peace  immingle  charms. 
Then  fear  not  us;  but  with  responsive  song, 
Amid  these  dim  recesses,  undisturb'd 


18 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


By  noisy  folly  and  discordant  vice, 

Of  Nature  sing  with  us,  and  Nature's  God. 

Here  frequent,  at  the  visionary  hour, 

When  musing  midnight  reigns  or  silent  noon, 

Angelic  harps  are  in  full  concert  heard, 

And  voices  chanting  from  the  wood-crown'd  hill, 

The  deepening  dale,  or  inmost  sylvan  glade; 

A  privilege  bestow'd  by  us,  alone, 

On  Contemplation,  or  the  hallow'd  ear 

Of  poet,  swelling  to  seraphic  strain." 

And  art  thou,  Stanley,*  of  that  sacred  band  1 
Alas,  for  us  too  soon !  though  raised  above 
The  reach  of  human  pain,  above  the  flight 
Of  human  joy;  yet,  with  a  mingled  ray 
Of  sadly  pleased  remembrance,  must  thou  feel 
A  mother's  love,  'a  mother's  tender  woe : 
Who  seeks  thee  still,  in  many  a  former  scene ; 
Seeks  thy  fair  form,  thy  lovely  beaming  eyes, 
Thy  pleasing  converse,  by  gay  lively  sense 
Inspired :  where  moral  wisdom  mildly  shone, 
Without  the  toil  of  art;  and  virtue  glovi^'d. 
In  all  her  smiles,  without  forbidding  pride. 
But,  O  thou  best  of  parents !  wipe  thy  tears ; 
Or  rather  to  Parental  Nature  pay 
The  tears  of  grateful  joy,  who  for  a  while 
Lent  thee  this  younger  self,  this  opening  bloom 
Of  thy  enlighten'd  mind  and  gentle  worth. 
Believe  the  Muse :  the  wintry  blast  of  death 
Kills  not  the  buds  of  virtue ;  no,  they  spread, 
Bfcneath  the  heavenly  beam  of  brighter  suns, 
Through  endless  ages,  into  higher  powers. 

Thus  up  the  mount,  in  airy  vision  wrapt, 
T  stray,  regardless  whither;  till  the  sound 
Of  a  near  fall  of  water  every  sense 
Wakes  from  the  charm  of  thought :  swift-shrink- 
ing back, 

I  check  my  steps,  and  view  the  broken  scene. 

Smooth  to  the  shelving  brink  a  copious  flood 
Rolls  fair,  and  placid ;  where  collected  all, 
In  one  impetuous  torrent,  down  the  steep 
It  thundering  shoots,  and  shakes  the  country 
round. 

At  first,  an  azure  sheet,  it  rushes  broad ; 
Then  whitening  by  degrees,  as  prone  it  falls, 
And  from  the  loud  resounding  rocks  below 
Dash'd  in  a  cloud  of  foam,  it  sends  aloft 
A  hoary  mist,  and  forms  a  ceaseless  shower. 
Nor  can  the  tortured  wave  here  find  repose : 
But,  raging  still  amid  the  shaggy  rocks. 
Now  flashes  o'er  the  scatter'd  fragments,  now 
Aslant  the  hollow  channel  rapid  darts ; 
And  falling  fast  from  gradual  slope  to  slope, 
With  wild  infracted  course,  and  lessen'd  roar, 
Tt  gains  a  safer  bed,  and  steals,  at  last. 
Along  the  mazes  of  the  quiet  vale. 

Invited  from  the  cliff"  to  whose  dark  brow 


*  A  young  lady,  who  died  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  in  the  year 
1738,  upon  whom  Thomson  wrote  an  Epitaph, 


He  clings,  the  steep-ascending  eagle  soars. 
With  upward  pinions  through  the  flood  of  day; 
And,  giving  full  his  bosom  to  the  blaze, 
Gains  on  the  sun;  while  all  the  tuneful  race, 
Smit  by  afl[lictive  noon,  disordered  droop. 
Deep  in  the  thicket;  or,  from  bower  to  bower 
Responsive,  force  an  interrupted  strain. 
The  stock-dove  only  through  the  forest  coos. 
Mournfully  hoarse;  oft  ceasing  feom  his  plaint, 
Short  interval  of  weary  wo !  again 
The  sad  idea  of  his  murder'd  mate. 
Struck  from  his  side  by  savage  fowler's  guile, 
Across  his  fancy  comes;  and  then  resounds 
A  louder  song  of  sorrow  through  the  grove. 

Beside  the  dewy  border  let  me  sit. 
All  in  the  freshness  of  the  humid  air: 
There  in  that  hoUow'd  rock,  grotesque  and  wild, 
An  ample  chair  moss-lined,  and  over  head 
By  flowering  umbrage  shaded ;  where  the  bee 
Strays  diligent ;  and  with  the  extracted  balm 
Of  fragrant  woodbine  loads  his  little  thigh. 

Now,  while  I  taste  the  sweetness  of  the  shade 
While  Nature  lies  around  deep-luU'd  in  noon, 
Now  come,  bold  Fancy,  spread  a  daring  flight. 
And  view  the  wonders  of  the  torrid  zone : 
Climes  unrelenting !  with  whose  rage  compared, 
Yon  blaze  is  feeble,  and  yon  skies  are  cool. 
See,  how  at  once  the  bright  eflulgent  sun. 
Rising  direct,  swift  chases  from  the  sky 
The  short-Uved  twilight;  and  with  ardent  blaze 
Looks  gaily  fierce  through  all  the  dazzling  air: 
He  mounts  his  throne ;  but  kind  before  him  sends, 
Issuing  from  out  the  portals  of  the  morn. 
The  general  breeze,*  to  mitigate  his  fire. 
And  breathe  refreshment  on  a  fainting  world. 
Great  are  the  scenes,  with  dreadful  beauty  crown'd 
And  barbarous  wealth,  that  see,  each  circling  year, 
Returning  suns  and  double  seasonst  pass: 
Rocks  rich  in  gems,  and  mountains  big  with  mines. 
That  on  the  high  equator  ridgy  rise, 
Whence  many  a  bursting  stream  auriferous  plays: 
Majestic  woods,  of  every  vigorous  green. 
Stage  above  stage,  high  waving  o'er  the  hills; 
Or  to  the  fair  horizon  wide  diffused, 
A  boundless  deep  immensity  of  shade. 
Here  lofty  trees,  to  ancient  song  unknown. 
The  noble  sons  of  potent  heat  and  floods 
Prone-rushing  from  the  clouds,  rear  high  to  Heaven 
Their  thorny  stems,  and  broad  around  them  throw 
Meridian  gloom.    Here,  in  eternal  prime. 
Unnumbered  fruits  of  keen  delicious  taste 
And  vital  spirit,  drink  amid  the  cliffs. 


'  Which  blows  constantly  between  the  tropics  from  the 
east,  or  the  collateral  [mints,  the  northeast  and  south-east: 
caused  by  the  pressure,  oi  the  rarefied  air  on  that  before  it,  ac- 
cording to  the  iliurnal  nuHion  of  the  sun  from  east  to  west. 

t  In  all  cliiuales  lieiweeii  the  tropics,  the  sun,  as  he  passes 
and  repasses  in  his  annual  motion,  is  twice  a  year  vertical, 
which  produces  this  cH'cct. 


SUMMER. 


19 


And  burning  sands  that  bank  the  shrubby  vales. 
Redoubled  day,  yet  in  their  rugged  coats 
A  friendly  juice  to  cool  its  rage  contain. 

Bear  me,  Pomono!  to  thy  citron  groves; 
To  where  the  lemon  and  the  piercing  lime, 
"With  the  deep  orange,  glowing  through  the  green, 
Their  lighter  glories  blend.    Lay  me  reclined 
Beneath  the  spreading  tamarind  that  shakes, 
Fann'd  by  the  breeze,  its  fever-cooling  fruit. 
Deep  in  the  night  the  massy  locust  sheds, 
Q,uench  my  hot  limbs;  or  lead  me  through  the 
maze. 

Embowering  endless,  of  the  Indian  fig; 
Or  thrown  at  gayer  ease,  on  some  fair  brow, 
Let  me  behold,  by  breezy  murmurs  cool'd, 
Broad  o'er  my  head,  the  verdant  cedar  wave, 
And  high  palmetos  lift  their  graceful  shade. 
Or  stretch'd  amid  these  orchards  of  the  sun, 
Give  me  to  drain  the  cocoa's  milky  bowl. 
And  from  the  palm  to  draw  its  freshening  wine ! 
More  bounteous  far  than  all  the  frantic  juice 
Which  Bacchus  pours.   Nor,  on  its  slender  twigs 
Low-bending,  be  the  full  pomegranate  scorn'd; 
Nor,  creeping  through  the  woods,  the  gelid  race 
Of  berries.    Oft  in  humble  station  dwells 
Unboastful  worth,  above  fastidious  pomp. 
Witness,  thou  best  Anana,  thou  the  pride 
Of  vegetable  life,  beyond  whate'er 
The  poets  imaged  in  the  golden  age : 
Cluick  let  me  strip  thee  of  thy  tufty  coat, 
Spread  thy  ambrosial  stores,  and  feast  with  Jove ! 

From  these  the  prospect  varies.  Plains  immense 
Lie  stretch'd  below,  interminable  meads 
And  vast  savannahs,  where  the  wandering  eye, 
Unfix'd,  is  in  a  verdant  ocean  lost. 
Another  Flora  there,  of  bolder  hues. 
And  richer  sweets,  beyond  our  garden's  pride. 
Plays  o'er  the  fields,  and  showers  with  sudden  hand 
Exuberant  spring :  for  oft  those  valleys  shift 
Their  green  embroider'd  robe  to  fiery  brown, 
And  swift  to  green  again,  as  scorching  suns. 
Or  streaming  dews  and  torrent  rains,  prevail. 

Along  these  lonely  regions,  where,  retired 
From  little  scenes  of  art,  great  Nature  dwells 
In  awful  solitude,  and  nought  is  seen 
But  the  wild  herds  that  own  no  master's  stall 
Prodigious  rivers  roll  their  fattening  seas : 
On  whose  luxuriant  herbage,  half  conceal'd, 
Like  a  fallen  cedar,  far  diffused  his  train, 
Cased  in  green  scales,  the  crocodile  extends. 
The  flood  disparts:  behold!  in  plaited  mail 
Behemoth*  rears  his  head.  Glanced  from  his  side. 
The  darted  steel  in  idle  shivers  flies : 
He  fearless  walks  the  plain,  or  seeks  the  hills; 
"Where,  as  he  crops  his  varied  fare,  the  herds, 
In  widening  circle  round,  forget  their  food, 
And  at  the  harmless  stranger  wondering  gaze. 


The  hippopotamus,  or  river-horse. 

2P 


Peaceful,  beneath  primeval  trees,  that  cast 
Their  ample  shade  o'er  Niger's  stream, 
And  where  the  Ganges  rolls  his  sacred  wave; 
Or  mid  the  central  depth  of  blackening  woods, 
High  raised  in  solemn  theatre  around, 
Leans  the  huge  elephant:  wisest  of  brutes! 
O  truly  wise,  with  gentle  might  endow'd, 
Though  powerful,  not  destructive!  here  he  sees 
Revolving  ages  sweep  the  changeful  earth, 
And  empires  rise  and  fall;  regardless  he 
Of  what  the  never-resting  race  of  men 
Project:  thrice  happy!  could  he  'scape  their  guile, 
Who  mine,  from  cruel  avarice,  his  steps; 
Or  with  his  towery  grandeur  swell  their  state. 
The  pride  of  kings !  or  else  his  strength  pervert, 
And  bid  him  rage  amid  the  mortal  fray, 
Astonish'd  at  the  madness  of  mankind. 

"Wide  o'er  the  winding  umbrage  of  the  floods, 
Like  vivid  blossoms  glowing  from  afar. 
Thick  swarm  the  brighter  birds.  For  Nature 'shand, 
That  with  a  sportive  vanity  has  deck'd 
The  plumy  nations,  there  her  gayest  hues 
Profusely  pours.*    But,  if  she  bids  them  shine, 
Array'd  in  all  the  beauteous  beams  of  day, 
Yet  frugal  still,  she  humbles  them  in  song. 
Nor  envy  we  the  gaudy  robes  they  lent 
Proud  Montezuma's  realm,  whose  legions  cast 
A  boundless  radiance  waving  on  the  sun. 
While  Philomel  is  ours;  while  in  our  shades, 
Through  the  soft  silence  of  the  listening  night, 
The  sober-suited  songstress  thrills  her  lay. 

But  come,  my  muse,  the  desert-barrier  burst, 
A  wild  expanse  of  lifeless  sand  and  tsky : 
And,  swifter  than  the  toiling  caravan, 
Shoot  o'er  the  vale  of  Sennar;  ardent  climb 
The  Nubian  mountains,  and  the  secret  bounds 
Of  jealous  Abyssinia  boldly  pierce. 
Thou  art  no  ruffian,  who  beneath  the  mask 
Of  social  commerce  comest  to  rob  their  wealth; 
No  holy  fury  thou,  blaspheming  Heaven, 
"With  consecrated  steel  to  stab  their  peace, 
And  through  the  land,  yet  red  from  civil  wounds, 
To  spread  the  purple  tyranny  of  Rome. 
Thou,  like  the  harmless  bee,  mayest  freely  range, 
From  mead  to  mead  bright  with  exalted  flowers, 
From  jasmine  grove  to  grove  mayst  wander  gay, 
Through  palmy  shades  and  aromatic  woods. 
That  grace  the  plains,  invest  the  peopled  hills. 
And  up  the  more  than  Alpine  mountains  wave. 
There  on  the  breezy  summit,  spreading  fair. 
For  many  a  league ;  or  on  stupendous  rocks, 
That  from  the  sun-redoubling  valley  lift. 
Cool  to  the  middle  air,  their  lawny  tops; 
"Where  palaces,  and  fanes,  and  villas  rise; 
And  gardens  smile  around,  and  cultured  fields; 


In  all  the  regions  of  the  torrid  zone  the  birds,  though 
more  beautiful  in  their  plumage,  are  observed  to  be  less  ma- 
lodious  then  ours. 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


And  fountains  gush;  and  careless  herds  and  fio 
Securely  stray a  world  within  itself, 
Disdaining  all  assault :  there  let  me  draw 
Ethereal  soul,  there  drink  reviving  gales. 
Profusely  breathing  from  the  spicy  groves. 
And  vales  of  fragrance;  there  at  distance  hear 
The  roaring  floods,  and  cataracts,  that  sweep 
From  disembowel'd  earth  the  virgin  gold ; 
And  o'er  the  varied  landscape,  restless,  rove, 
Fervent  with  life  of  every  fairer  kind :  , 
A  land  of  wonders  1  which  the  sun  still  eyes 
With  ray  direct,  as  of  the  lovely  realm 
Enamour'd,  and  delighting  there  to  dwell. 

How  changed  the  scene !  in  blazing  height  of 
noon. 

The  sun,  oppress'd,  is  plunged  in  thickest  gloom. 
Still  horror  reigns,  a  dreary  twilight  round, 
Of  struggling  night  and  day  malignant  mix'd. 
For  to  the  hot  equator  crowding  fast. 
Where,  highly  rarefied,  the  yielding  air 
Admits  their  stream,  incessant  vapours  roll. 
Amazing  clouds  on  clouds  continual  heap'd ; 
Or  whirl'd  tempestuous,  by  the  gusty  wind, 
Or  silent  borne  along,  heavy  and  slow, 
With  the  big  stores  of  steaming  oceans  charged. 
Meantime,  amid  these  upper  seas,  condensed 
Around  the  cold  aerial  mountain's  brow, 
And  by  conflicting  winds  together  dash'd. 
The  thunder  holds  his  black  tremendous  throne; 
From  cloud  to  cloud  the  rending  lightnings  rage ; 
Till,  in  the  furious  elemental  war 
Dissolved,  the  whole  precipitated  mass 
Unbroken  floods  and  solid  torrents  pours. 

The  treasures  these,  hid  from  the  bounded 
search 

Of  ancient  knowledge;  whence,  with  annual 
pomp, 

Rich  king  of  floods !  o'erflows  the  swelling  Nile. 
From  his  two  springs,  in  Gojam's  sunny  realm, 
Pure  welling  out,  he  through  the  lucid  lake 
Of  fair  Dambea  rolls  his  infant  stream. 
There,  by  the  naiads  nursed,  he  sports  away 
His  playful  youth,  amid  the  fragrant  isles. 
That  with  unfading  verdure  smile  around. 
Ambitious,  thence  the  manly  river  breaks; 
And  gathering  many  a  flood,  and  copious  fed 
With  all  the  mellow'd  treasures  of  the  sky, 
Winds  in  progressive  majesty  along: 
Through  splendid  kingdoms  now  devolves  his 
maze. 

Now  wanders  wild  o'er  solitary  tracts 
Of  Ufe-deserted  sand;  till,  glad  to  quit 
The  joyless  desert,  down  the  Nubian  rocks 
From  thundering  steep  to  steep,  he  pours  his  urn. 
And  Egypt  joys  beneath  the  spreading  wave. 

His  brother  Niger  too,  and  all  the  floods 
inwiiich  the  fuU-lbrm'd  maids  of  Afric  lave 
Their  jetty  limbs;  and  all  that  from  the  tract 
Of  woody  mountain  strctch'd  through  gorgeous  Ind 


Fall  on  Cor'mandel's  coast,  or  Malabar; 
From  Menam's*  orient  stream,  that  nightly  shines 
With  insect-lamps,  to  where  Aurora  sheds 
On  Indus'  smiling  banks  the  rosy  shower: 
All,  at  this  bounteous  season,  ope  their  urns, 
And  pour  untoiling  harvest  o'er  the  land. 

Nor  less  thy  world,  Columbus,  drinks,  refresh'd. 
The  lavish  moisture  of  the  melting  year. 
Wide  o'er  his  isles,  the  branching  Oronoque 
Rolls  a  brown  deluge ;  and  the  native  drives 
To  dwell  aloft  on  life-suflicing  trees, 
At  once  his  dome,  his  robe,  his  food,  and  arms. 
Swell'd  by  a  thousand  streams,  impetuous  hurl'd 
From  all  the  roaring  Andes,  huge  descends 
The  mighty  Orellana.t    Scarce  the  Muse 
Dares  stretch  her  wing  o'er  this  enormous  mass 
Of  rushing  water;  scarce  she  dares  attempt 
The  sea-like  Plata ;  to  whose  dread  expanse. 
Continuous  depth,  and  wondrous  length  of  course, 
Our  floods  are  rills.    With  unabated  force, 
In  silent  dignity  they  sweep  along. 
And  traverse  realms  unknown,  and  blooming 
wilds. 

And  fruitful  deserts,  worlds  of  solitude. 
Where  the  sun  smiles  and  seasons  teem  in  vain, 
Unseen  and  unenjoy'd.    Forsaking  these, 
O'er  peopled  plains  they  fair-diffusive  flow, 
And  many  a  nation  feed,  and  circle  safe, 
In  their  soft  bosom,  many  a  happy  isle ; 
The  seat  of  blameless  Pan,  yet  undisturb'd 
By  Christian  crimes,  and  Europe's  cruel  sons. 
Thus  pouring  on  they  proudly  seek  the  deep. 
Whose  vanquish'd  tide  recoiling  from  the  sh6ck, 
Yields  to  the  liquid  weight  of  half  the  globe, 
And  Ocean  trembles  for  his  green  domain. 

But  what  avails  this  wondrous  waste  of  wealth! 
This  gay  profusion  of  luxurious  bliss  1 
This  pomp  of  Nature  1  what  their  balmy  meads, 
Their  powerful  herbs,  and  Ceres  void  of  pain  1 
By  vagrant  birds  dispersed  and  wafting  winds,  ' 
What  their  unplanted  fruits  1  what  the  cool 
draughts. 

The  ambrosial  food,  rich  gums,  and  spicy  health, 
Their  forests  yield  1  their  toiling  insects  what  1 
Their  silky  pride,  and  vegetable  robes'? 
Ah  !  what  avail  their  fatal  treasures,  hid 
Deep  in  the  bowels  of  the  pitying  earth, 
Golconda's  gems,  and  sad  Potosi's  mines ; 
Where  dwelt  the  gentlest  children  of  the  sun  1 
What  all  that  Afric's  golden  rivers  roll, 
Her  odorous  woods,  and  shining  ivory  stores'? 
Ill-fated  race  !  the  softening  arts  of  Peace, 
Whate'er  the  humanizing  Muses  teach ; 
The  godUke  wisdom  of  the  temper'd  breast  • 


'  Tlie  river  that  runs  through  Siam :  on  whose  banks  a 
vast  nuiltitudc  of  those  insects,  called  fire-flies,  make  a  beau 
tlful  apin  anincc  in  tl>e  night. 

t  Tiic  river  ol' the  Amazons. 


SUMMER. 


31 


Progressive  truth,  the  patient  force  of  thought ; 
'Investigation  calm,  whose  silent  powers 
Command  the  world ;  the  light  that  leads  to  Hea- 
ven ; 

Kind  equal  rule,  the  government  of  laws, 
And  all-protecting  Freedom,  which  alone 
Sustains  the  name  and  dignity  of  man : 
These  are  not  theirs.    The  parent  sun  himself 
Seems  o'er  this  world  of  slaves  to  tyrannize ; 
And,  with  oppressive  ray,  the  roseate  bloom 
Of  beauty  blasting,  gives  the  gloomy  hue, 
And  feature  gross :  or  worse,  to  ruthless  deeds, 
Mad  jealousy,  Wind  rage,  and  fell  revenge, 
Their  fervid  spirit  fires.    Love  dwells  not  there, 
The  soft  regards,  the  tenderness  of  Ufe, 
The  heart-shed  tear,  the  ineffable  delight 
Of  sweet  humanity :  these  court  the  beam 
Of  milder  climes  ;  in  selfish  fierce  desire, 
And  the  wild  fury  of  voluptuous  sense, 
There  lost.    The  very  brute-creation  there 
This  rage  partakes,  and  burns  with  horrid  fire. 

Lo !  the  green  serpent,  from  his  dark  abode, 
Which  even  Imagination  fears  to  tread. 
At  noon  forth-issuing,  gathers  up  his  train 
In  orbs  immense,  then,  darting  out  anew, 
Seeks  the  refreshing  fount ;  by  which  diffused, 
He  throws  his  folds ;  and  while,  with  threatening 
tongue 

And  deathful  jaws  erect,  the  monster  curls 
His  flaming  crest,  all  other  thirst  appall'd, 
Or  shivering  flies  or  check'd  at  distance  stands, 
Nor  dares  approach.    But  still  more  direful  he, 
The  small  close-lurking  minister  of  fate, 
Whose  high-concocted  venom  through  the  veins 
A  rapid  lightning  darts,  arresting  swift 
The  vital  current.    Form'd  to  humble  man, 
This  child  of  vengeful  Nature !  there,  sublimed 
To  fearless  lust  of  blood,  the  savage  race 
Roam,  licensed  by  the  shading  hour  of  guilt, 
And  foul  misdeed,  when  the  pure  day  has  shut 
His  sacred  eye.    The  tiger  darting  fierce 
Impetuous  on  the  prey  his  glance  has  doom'd : 
The  lively  shining  leopard,  speckled  o'er 
With  many  a  spot,  the  beauty  of  the  waste ; 
And,  scorning  all  the  taming  arts  of  man, 
The  keen  hyena,  fellest  of  the  fell. 
These,  rushing  from  the  inhospitable  woods 
Of  Mauritania,  or  the  tufted  isles, 
That  verdant  rise  amid  the  Libyan  wild, 
Innumerous  glare  around  their  shaggy  king 
Majestic,  stalking  o'er  the  printed  sand ; 
And,  with  imperious  and  repeated  roars, 
Demand  their  fated  food.    The  fearful  flocks 
Crowd  near  the  guardian  swain ;  the  nobler  herds, 
Where  round  their  lordly  bull,  in  rural  ease 
They  ruminating  lie,  with  horror  hear 
The  coming  rage.    The  awaken'd  village  starts ; 
And  to  her  fluttering  breast  the  mother  strains 
Her  thoughtless  infant.    From  the  pyrate's  den, 


Or  stern  Morocco's  tyrant  fang  escaped. 
The  wretch  half  wishes  for  his  bonds  again : 
While,  uproar  all,  the  wilderness  resounds, 
From  Atlas  eastward  to  the  frighted  Nile. 

Unhappy  he  !  who  from  the  first  of  joys, 
Society,  cut  off,  is  left  alone 
Amid  this  world  of  death.    Day  after  day_ 
Sad  on  the  jutting  eminence  he  sits, 
And  views  the  main  that  ever  toils  below; 
Still  fondly  forming  in  the  farthest  verge. 
Where  the  round  ether  mixes  with  the  wave, 
Ships,  dim-discover'd  dropping  from  the  clouds  ; 
At  evening,  to  the  setting  sun  he  turns 
A  mournful  eye,  and  down  his  dying  heart 
Sinks  helpless  ;  while  the  wonted  roar  is  up. 
And  hiss  continual  through  the  tedious  night. 
Yet  here,  e'en  here,  into  these  black  abodes 
Of  monsters,  unappall'd,  from  stooping  Rome^ 
And  guilty  Csesar,  Liberty  retired, 
Her  Cato  following  through  Numidian  wilds : 
Disdainful  of  Campania's  gentle  plains. 
And  all  the  green  delights  Ausonia  pours; 
When  for  them  she  must  bend  the  servile  knee, 
And  fawning  take  the  splendid  robber's  boon. 

Nor  stop  the  terrors  of  these  regions  hei'e. 
Commission'd  demons  oft,  angels  of  wrath, 
Let  loose  the  raging  elements.    Breathed  hot 
From  all  the  boundless  furnace  of  the  sky. 
And  the  wide  glittering  waste  of  burning  sand, 
A  sufibcating  wind  the  pilgrim  smites 
With  instant  death.    Patient  of  thirst  and  toil, 
Son  of  the  desert !  e'en  the  camel  feels, 
Shot  through  his  wither'd  heart,  the  fiery  blast. 
Or  from  the  black-red  ether,  bursting  broad, 
Sallies  the  sudden  whirlwind.  Straight  the  sands, 
Commoved  around,  in  gathering  eddies  play: 
Nearer  and  nearer  still  they  darkening  come ; 
Till,  with  the  general  all-involving  storm 
Swept  up,  the  whole  continuous  wild  arise; 
And  by  their  noonday  fount  dejected  thrown 
Or  sunk  at  night  in  sad  disastrous  sleep, 
Beneath  descending  hills,  the  caravan 
Is  buried  deep.    In  Cairo's  crowded  streets 
The  impatient  merchant,  wondering,  waits  in  vain, 
And  Mecca  saddens  at  the  long  delay. 

But  chief  at  sea,  whose  every  flexile  wave 
Obeys  the  blast,  the  aerial  tumult  swells. 
In  the  dread  ocean,  undulating  wide, 
Beneath  the  radiant  line  that  girts  the  globe. 
The  circling  Typhon  *  whirl'd  from  point  to  point, 
Exhausting  all  the  rage  of  all  the  sky. 
And  dire  Ecnephia*  reign.    Amid  the  heavens. 
Falsely  serene,  deep  in  a  cloudy  speck  t 
Compress'd,  the  mighty  tempest  brooding  dwells : 


•  Typhon  and  Ecnephia,  names  of  particular  storms  or  hur- 
ricanes, known  only  between  the  tropics. 

t  Called  by  sailors  the  Ox-eye,  being  in  appearance  at  fiist 
no  bigger. 


22 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Of  no  regard,  save  to  the  skj^Iful  eye, 

Fiery  anJ  foul,  the  small  prognostic  hangs 

Aloft,  or  on  the  promontory's  brow 

Musters  its  force.    A  faint  deceitful  calm, 

A  fluttering  gale,  the  demon  sends  before. 

To  tempt  the  spreading  sail.   Then  down  at  once, 

Precipitant,  descends  a  mingled  mass 

Of  roaring  winds,  and  flame,  and  rushing  floods. 

In  wild  amazement  fix'd  the  sailor  stands. 

Art  is  too  slow:  by  rapid  fate  oppress'd. 

His  broad- winged  vessel  drinks  the  whelming  tide, 

Hid  in  the  bosom  of  the  black  abyss. 

With  such  mad  seas  the  daring  Gama*  fought, 

For  many  a  day,  and  many  a  dreadful  night, 

Incessant,  labouring  round  the  stormy  Cape; 

By  bold  ambition  lefl,  and  bolder  thirst 

Of  gold.    For  therx  from  ancient  gloom  emerged 

The  rising  world  of  trade :  the  Genius,  then. 

Of  navigation,  that,  m  hopeless  sloth, 

Had  slumber'd  on  the  vast  Atlantic  deep, 

For  idle  ages,  starting,  heard  at  last 

The  Lusitanian  Prince;!  who,  Heaven-inspired, 

To  love  of  useful  glory  roused  mankind, 

And  in  unbounded  commerce  mix'd  the  world. 

Increasing  still  the  terrors  of  these  storms. 
His  jaws  horrific  arm'd  with  threefold  fate. 
Here  dwells  the  direful  shark.   Lured  by  the  scent 
Of  steaming  crowds,  of  rank  disease,  and  death, 
Behold !  he  rushing  cuts  the  briny  flood. 
Swift  as  the  gale  can  bear  the  ship  along;" 
And,  from  the  partners  of  that  cruel  trade. 
Which  spoils  unhappy  Guinea  of  her  sons. 
Demands  his  share  of  prey;  demands  themselves. 
The  stormy  fates  descend :  one  death  involves 
Tyrants  and  slaves;  when  straight,  their  mangled 
limbs 

Crashing  at  once,  he  dyes  the  purple  seas 
With  gore,  and  riots  in  the  vengeful  meal. 

When  o'er  this  world,  by  equinoctial  rains 
Flooded  immense,  looks  out  the  joyless  sun, 
And  draws  the  copious  stream :  from  swampy  fens, 
Where  putrefaction  into  life  ferments. 
And  breathes  destructive  myriads;  or  from  woods, 


*  Vasco  de  Gama,  the  first  who  sailed  round  Africa,  by  the 
*/ape  of  Good  Hope,  to  the  East  Indies. 

1  Don  Henry,  third  son  to  John  the  First,  King  of  Portugal. ' 
His  strong  genius  to  the  discovery  of  new  countries  was  the 
chief  source  of  all  the  modern  improvementB  in  navigation.  I 


The  miserable  scene,  you  pitying,  saw 
To  infant-weakness  sunk  the  warrior's  arm; 
Saw  the  deep-racking  pang,  the  ghastly  form, 
The  lip  pale  quivering,  and  the  bcamless  eye 
No  more  with  ardour  bright:  you  heard  the  groan 
Of  agonizing  ships,  from  shore  to  shore; 
Heard,  nightly  plunged  amid  the  sullen  waves, 
The  frequent  corse;  while  on  each  other  fix'd, 
In  sad  presage,  the  blank  assistants  seem'd. 
Silent,  to  ask,  whom  Fate  would  next  demand. 

What  need  I  mention  those  inclement  skies. 
Where,  frequent  o'er  the  sickening  city,  Plague, 
The  fiercest  child  of  Nemesis  divine. 
Descends'?  From  Ethiopia's  poison'd  woods, 
From  stifled  Cairo's  filth,  and  fetid  fields 
With  locust-armies  putrefying  heap'd, 
This  great  destroyer  sprung.    Her  awful  rage 
The  brutes  escape :  Man  is  her  destined  prey, 
Intemperate  Man!  and,  o'er  his  guilty  domes, 
She  draws  a  close  incumbent  cloud  of  death; 
Uninterrupted  by  the  living  winds, 
Forbid  to  blow  a  wholesome  breeze ;  and  stain'd 
With  many  a  mixture  by  the  sun,  suflfused, 
Of  angry  aspect.    Princely  wisdom,  then, 
Dejects  his  watchful  eye;  and  from  the  hand 
Of  feeble  justice,  ineffectual,  drop 
The  sword  and  balance:  mute  the  voice  of  joy, 
And  hush'd  the  clamour  of  the  busy  world. 
Empty  the  streets,  with  uncouth  verdure  clad ; 
Into  the  worst  of  deserts  sudden  turn'd 
The  cheerful  haunt  of  men :  unless  escaped 
From  the  doom'd  house,  where  matchless  horror 
reigns. 

Shut  up  by  barbarous  fear,  the  smitten  wretch. 
With  frenzy  wild,  breaks  loose;  and,  loud  to 
Heaven 

Screaming,  the  dreadful  policy  arraigns, 
Inhuman,  and  unwise.    The  sullen  door, 
Yet  uninfected,  on  its  cautious  hinge 
Fearing  to  turn,  abhors  society: 
Dependants,  friends,  relations.  Love  himself, 
Savaged  by  woe,  forget  the  tender  tie. 
The  sweet  engagement  of  the  feeling  heart. 
But  vain  their  selfish  care:  the  circUng  sky. 
The  wide  enlivening  air  is  full  of  fate ; 
And,  struck  by  turns,  in  solitary  pangs 
They  fall,  unblest,  untended,  and  unmourn'd. 
Thus  o'er  the  prostrate  city  black  Despair 
Extends  her  raven  wing :  while,  to  complete 
The  scene  of  desolation,  stretch'd  around. 
The  grim  guards  stand,  denying  all  retreat, 
And  give  the  flying  wretch  a  better  death. 

Much  yet  remains  unsung:  the  rage  intense 
Of  brazen-vaulted  skies,  of  iron  fields, 
Where  drought  and  famine  starve  the  blasted  year: 
Fired  by  the  torch  of  noon  to  tenfold  rage, 
The  infuriate  hill  that  shoots  the  ])illar'd  flame; 
And,  roused  within  the  subterranean  world, 
The  expanding  earthquake,  that  resistless  shakes 


Impenetrable  shades,  recesses  foul. 

In  vapours  rank  and  blue  corruption  wrapt, 

Whose  gloomy  horrors  yet  no  desperate  foot 

Has  ever  dared  to  pierce ;  then,  wasteful,  forth 

Walks  the  dire  Power  of  pestilent  disease. 

A  thousand  hideous  fiends  her  course  attend, 

Sick  Nature  blasting,  and  to  heartless  woe, 

And  feeble  desolation,  casting  down 

The  towering  hopes  and  all  the  pride  of  Man. 

Such  as,  of  late,  at  Carthagena  quench'd 

The  British  fire.    You,  gallant  Vernon,  saw 


SUMMER. 


533 


Aspiring  cities  from  their  solid  base, 
And  buries  mountains  in  the  flaming  gulf. 
But  'tis  enough ;  return,  my  vagrant  Muse : 
A  nearer  scene  of  horror  calls  thee  home. 

Behold,  slow-settling  o'er  the  lurid  grove 
Unusual  darkness  broods ,  and  growing  gains 
The  full  possession  of  the  sky,  surcharged 
With  wrathful  vapour,  from  the  secret  beds, 
Where  sleep  the  mineral  generations,  drawn. 
Thence  nitre,  sulphur,  and  the  fiery  spume 
Of  fat  bitumen,  steaming  on  the  day. 
With  various-tinctured  trains  of  latent  flame. 
Pollute  the  sky,  and  in  yon  baleful  cloud, 
A  reddening  gloom,  a  magazine  of  fate. 
Ferment;  till,  by  the  touch  ethereal  roused, 
The  dash  of  clouds,  or  irritating  war 
Of  fighting  winds,  while  all  is  calm  below, 
They  furious  spring.    A  boding  silence  reigns, 
.Dread  through  the  dun  expanse;  save  the  dull  sound 
That  from  the  mountain,  previous  to  the  storm, 
Rolls  o'er  the  muttering  earth,  disturbs  the  flood, 
And  shakes  the  forest-leaf  without  a  breath. 
Prone,  to  the  lowest  vale,  the  aerial  tribes 
Descend :  the  tempest-loving  raven  scarce 
Dares  wing  the  dubious  dusk.    In  rueful  gaze 
The  cattle  stand,  and  on  the  scowling  heavens 
Cast  a  deploring  eye,  by  man  forsook. 
Who  to  the  crowded  cottage  hies  him  fast. 
Or  seeks  the  shelter  of  the  downward  cave. 
'Tis  listening  fear,  and  dumb  amazement  all : 
When  to  the  startled  eye  the  sudden  glance 
Appears  far  south,  eruptive  through  the  cloud ; 
And  following  slower,  in  explosion  vast. 
The  Thunder  raises  his  tremendous  voice. 
At  first,  heard  solemn  o'er  the  verge  of  Heaven, 
The  tempest  growls  ;  but  as  it  nearer  comes, 
And  rolls  its  awful  burden  on  the  wind. 
The  lightnings  flash  a  larger  curve,  and  more 
The  noise  astounds  :  till  over  head  a  sheet 
Of  livid  flame  discloses  wide ;  then  shuts, 
And  opens  wider  ;  shuts  and  opens  still 
Expansive,  wrapping  ether  in  a  blaze. 
Follows  the  loosen'd  aggravated  roar. 
Enlarging,  deepening,  mingling ;  peal  on  peal 
Crush'd  horrible,  convulsing  heaven  and  earth. 

Down  comes  a  deluge  of  sonorous  hail. 
Or  prone-descending  rain.  Wide-rent,  the  clouds 
Pour  a  whole  flood;  and  yet,  its  flame  unquench'd, 
The  unconquerable  lightning  struggles  through, 
Ragged  and  fierce,  or  in  red  whirUng  balls, 
And  fires  the  mountains  with  redoubled  rage. 
Black  from  the  stroke,  above,  the  smouldring  pine 
Stands  a  sad  shatter'd  trunk;  and,  stretch'd  below, 
A  fife  less  group  the  blasted  cattle  lie: 
Here  the  soft  flocks,  with  that  same  harmless  look 
They  wore  ahve,  and  ruminating  still 
In  fancy's  eye ;  and  there  the  ftowning  bull, 
And  ox  half-raised.    Struck  on  the  castled  cliff, 
The  venerable  tower  and  spiry  fane 


Resign  their  aged  pride.    The  gloomy  woods 
Start  at  the  flash,  and  from  their  deep  recess, 
Wide-flaming  out,  their  trembling  inmates  shake. 
Amid  Carnarvon's  mountains  rages  loud 
The  repercussive  roar:  with  mighty  crush, 
Into  the  flashing  deep,  from  the  rude  rocks 
Of  Penmanmaur  heap'd  hideous  to  the  sky, 
Tumble  the  smitten  cliffs;  and  Snowden's  peak, 
Dissolving,  instant  yields  his  wintry  load. 
Far  seen,  the  heights  of  heathy  Cheviot  blaze, 
The  Thule  bellows  through  her  utmost  isles. 
Guilt  hears  appall'd,  with  deeply  troubled 
thought. 

And  yet  not  always  on  the  guilty  head 
Descends  the  fated  flash.  Young  Celadon 
And  his  Amelia  were  a  matchless  pair; 
With  equal  virtue  form'd,  and  equal  grace. 
The  same,  distinguish'd  by  their  sex  alone : 
Hers  the  mild  lustre  of  the  blooming  morn, 
And  his  the  radiance  of  the  risen  day. 

They  lov'd:  but  such  the  guileless  passion  was, 
As  in  the  dawn  of  time  inform'd  the  heart 
Of  innocence  and  undissembling  truth. 
'Twas  friendship,  heighten'd  by  the  mutual  wish; 
The  enchanting  hope,  and  sympathetic  glow, 
Beam'd  from  the  mutual  e3^e.    Devoting  all 
To  love,  each  was  to  each  a  dearer  self ; 
Supremely  happy  in  the  awaken'd  power 
Of  giving  joy.    Alone,  amid  the  shades. 
Still  in  harmonious  intercourse  they  lived 
The  rural  day,  and  talk'd  the  flowing  heart, 
Or  sigh'd  and  look'd  unutterable  things. 

So  pass'd  their  life,  a  clear  united  stream, 
By  care  unruffled;  till,  in  an  evil  hour. 
The  tempest  caught  them  on  the  tender  walk, 
Heedless  how  far  and  where  its  mazes  stray'd, 
While  with  each  other  blest,  creative  love 
Still  bade  eternal  Eden  smile  around. 
Presaging  instant  fate,  her  bosom  heaved 
Unwonted  sighs,  and  stealing  oft  a  look 
Of  the  big  gloom,  on  Celadon  her  eye 
Fell  tearful,  wetting  her  disorder'd  cheek. 
In  vain  assuring  love,  and  confidence 
In  Heaven,  repress'd  her  fear;  it  grew,  and  shook 
Her  frame  near  dissolution.    He  perceived 
The  unequal  conflict,  and  as  angels  look 
On  dying  saints,  his  eyes  compassion  shed. 
With  love  illumined  high.    "  Fear  not,"  he  said, 
"  Sweet  innocence  I  thou  stranger  to  offence, 
And  inward  storm !  He,  who  yon  skies  involves 
In  frowns  of  darkness,  ever  smiles  on  thee 
With  kind  regard.    O'er  thee  the  secret  shaft 
That  wastes  at  midnight,  or  the  undreaded  hour 
Of  noon,  flies  harmless:  and  that  very  voice. 
Which  thunders  terror  through  the  guilty  heart, 
With  tongues  of  seraphs  whispers  peace  to  thine. 
'Tis  safety  to  be  near  thee  sure,  and  thus 
To  clasp  perfection  I"    From  his  void  embrace, 
(Mysterious  Heaven !)  that  moment,  to  the  ground. 


24 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


A  blackcn'd  corse,  was  struck  the  beauteous  maid. 
But  who  can  paint  the  lover,  as  he  stood, 
Pierced  by  severe  amazement,  hating  life, 
Speechless,  and  fix'd  in  all  the  death  of  woe ! 
So,  faint  resemblance !  on  the  marble  tomb, 
The  well-dissembled  mourner  stooping  stands, 
For  ever  silent  and  for  ever  sad. 

As  from  the  face  of  Heaven  the  shatter'd  clouds 
Tumultuous  rove,  the  interminable  sky 
Sublimer  swells,  and  o'er  the  world  expands 
A  purer  azure.    Through  the  lighten'd  air 
A  higher  lustre  and  a  clearer  calm. 
Diffusive,  tremble;  while,  as  if  in  sign 
Of  danger  past,  a  glittering  robe  of  joy, 
Set  off  abundant  by  the  yellow  ray. 
Invests  the  fieldsV,  and  nature  smiles  revived. 

'Tis  beauty  all,  and  grateful  song  around, 
Join'd  to  the  low  of  kine,  and  numerous  bleat 
Of  flocks  thick-nibbling  through  the  clover'd  vale. 
And  shall  the  hymn  be  marr'd  by  thankless  Man, 
Most-favoured  !  who  with  voice  articulate 
Should  lead  the  chorus  of  this  lower  world ; 
Shall  he,  so  soon  forgetful  of  the  Hand 
That  hush'd  the  thunder,  and  serenes  the  sky, 
Extinguish'd  feel  that  spark  the  tempest  waked, 
That  sense  of  powers  exceeding  far  his  own, 
Ere  yet  his  feeble  heart  has  lost  its  fears  1 

Cheer'd  by  the  milder  beam,  the  sprightly  youth 
Speeds  to  the  well-known  pool,  whose  crystal  depth 
A  sandy  bottom  shows.    Awhile  he  stands 
Gazing  the  inverted  landscape,  half  afraid 
To  meditate  the  blue  profound  below; 
Then  plunges  headlong  down  the  circling  flood. 
His  ebon  tresses,  and  his  rosy  cheek 
Instant  emerge ;  and  through  the  obedient  wave. 
At  each  short  breathing  by  his  Hp  repell'd. 
With  arms  and  legs  according  well,  he  makes, 
As  humour  leads,  an  easy -winding  path; 
While,  from  his  polish'd  sides,  a  dewy  light 
Effuses  on  the  pleased  spectators  round. 

This  is  the  purest  exercise  of  health. 
The  kind  refresher  of  the  summer-heats; 
Nor  when  cold  Winter  keens  the  brightening  flood, 
Would  I  weak- shivering  Unger  on  the  brink. 
Thus  life  redoubles,  and  is  oft  preserved, 
By  the  bold  swimmer,  in  the  swift  elapse 
Of  accident  disastrous.    Hence  the  limbs 
Knit  into  force ;  and  the  same  Roman  arm, 
That  rose  victorious  o'er  the  conquer'd  earth, 
First  learn'd,  while  tender,  to  subdue  the  wave. 
Even  from  the  body's  purity  the  mind 
Receives  a  secret  sympathetic  aid. 

Close  in  the  covert  of  a  hazel  copse. 
Where,  winded  into  pleasing  soUtudes, 
Runs  out  the  rambling  dale,  young  Damon  sat. 
Pensive,  and  pierc'd  with  love's  delightful  pangs. 
There  to  the  stream  that  down  the  distant  rocks 
Hoarse-murmuring  fell,  and  plaintive  breeze  that 
play'd 


Among  the  bending  willows,  falsely  he 
Of  Musidora's  cruelty  complain'd. 
She  felt  his  flame ;  but  deep  within  her  breast 
In  bashful  coyness,  or  in  maiden  pride, 
The  soft  return  conceal'd;  save  when  it  stole 
In  sidelong  glances  from  her  downcast  eye, 
Or  from  her  swelling  soul  in  stifled  sighs. 
Touch'd  by  the  scene,  no  stranger  to  his  vows, 
He  framed  a  melting  lay,  to  try  her  heart ; 
And,  if  an  infant  passion  struggled  there, 
To  call  that  passion  forth.  Thrice  happy  swain! 
A  lucky  chance  that  oft  decides  the  fate 
Of  mighty  monarchs,  then  decided  thine. 
For  lo !  conducted  by  the  laughing  Loves, 
This  cool  retreat  his  Musidora  sought : 
Warm  in  her  cheek  the  sultry  season  glow'd ; 
And,  robed  in  loose  array,  she  came  to  bathe 
Her  fervent  hmbs  in  the  refreshing  stream. 
What  shall  he  do  1   In  sweet  confusion  lost. 
And  dubious  flutterings,  he  a  while  remain'd: 
A  pure  ingenuous  elegance  of  soul,  ' 
A  delicate  refinement,  known  to  few, 
Perplex'd  his  breast,  and  urged  him  to  retire : 
But  love  forbade.    Ye  prudes  in  virtue,  say. 
Say,  ye  severest,  what  would  you  have  done"? 
Meantime,  this  fairer  nymph  than  ever  blest 
Arcadian  stream,  with  timid  eye  around 
The  banks  surveying,  stripp'dher  beauteous  limbs?. 
To  taste  the  lucid  coolness  of  the  flood. 
Ah  then !  not  Paris  on  the  piny  top 
Of  Ida  panted  stronger,  when  aside 
The  rival-goddesses  the  veil  divine 
Cast  unconfined,  and  gave  him  all  their  charms. 
Than,  Damon,  ih(fa;  as  from  the  snowy  leg, 
And  slender  foot,  the  inverted  silk  she  drew; 
As  the  soft  touch  dissolved  the  virgin  zone : 
And,  through  the  parting  robe,  the  alternate  breast, 
With  youth  wild-throbbing,  on  thy  lawless  gaze 
In  full  luxuriance  rose.    But,  desperate  youth 
How  durst  thou  risk  the  soul-distracting  view. 
As  from  her  naked  limbs  of  glowing  white. 
Harmonious  swell'd  by  Nature's  finest  hand. 
In  folds  loose  floating  fell  the  fainter  lawn ; 
And  fair  exposed  she  stood,  shrunk  from  herself, 
With  fancy  blushing,  at  the  doubtful  breeze 
Alarm'd,  and  starting  like  the  fearful  fawn? 
Then  to  the  flood  she  rush'd;  the  parted  flood 
Its  lovely  guest  with  closing  waves  received ; 
And  every  beauty  softening,  every  grace 
Flushing  anew,  a  mellow  lustre  shed : 
As  shines  the  lily  through  the  crystal  mild ; 
Or  as  the  rose  amid  the  morning  dew. 
Fresh  from  Aurora's  hand,  more  sweetly  glows, 
While  thus  she  wanton'd,  now  beneath  the  wave 
But  ill-conceal 'd;  and  now  with  streaming  locks, 
That  half-embraced  her  in  a  humid  veil. 
Rising  again,  the  latent  Dan)on  drew 
Such  maddening  draughts  of  beauty  to  the  soul. 
As  for  a  while  o'erwhelm'd  his  raptured  thought 


SUMMER. 


35 


With  luxury  too  daring.    Check'd,  at  last, 
By  love's  respectful  modesty,  he  deem'd  < 
The  theft  profane,  if  aught  profane  to  love 
Can  e'er  be  deem'd;  and  struggUng  from  the 
shade, 

With  headlong  hurry  fled :  but  first  these  lines, 
Traced  by  his  ready  pencil,  on  the  bank 
With  trembling  hand  he  threw:—'  Bathe  on,  my 
fair. 

Yet  unbeheld  save  by  the  sacred  eye 
Of  faithful  love  :  I  go  to  guard  thy  haunt, 
To  keep  from  thy  recess  each  vagrant  foot, 
And  each  licentious  eye.'    With  wild  surprise, 
As  if  to  marble  struck,  devoid  of  sense, 
A  stupid  moment  motionless,  she  stood : 
So  stands  the  statue*  that  enchants  the  world, 
So  bending  tries  to  veil  the  matchless  boast. 
The  mingled  beauties  of  exulting  Greece. 
Recovering,  swift  she  flew  to  find  those  robes 
Which  bhssful  Eden  knew  not;  and,  array'd 
In  careless  haste,  the  alarming  paper  snatch'd. 
But,  when  her  Damon's  well  known  hand  she 
saw, 

Her  terrors  vanish'd,  and  a  softer  train 
Of  mix'd  emotions,  hard  to  be  described. 
Her  sudden  bosom  seized :  shame  void  of  guilt. 
The  charming  blush  of  innocence,  esteem. 
And  admiration  of  her  lover's  flame, 
By  modesty  exalted :  e'en  a  sense 
Of  self-approving  beauty  stole  across 
Her  busy  thought.    At  length  a  tender  calm 
Hush'd  by  degrees  the  tumult  of  her  soul ; 
And  on  the  spreading  beech,  that  o'er  the  stream 
Incumbent  hung,  she  with  the  sylvan  pen 
Of  rural  lovers  this  confession  carved. 
Which  soon  her  Damon  kiss'd  with  weeping  joy: 
'  Dear  youth !  sole  judge  of  what  these  verses 
mean, 

By  fortune  too  much  favour'd,  but  by  love, 
Alas !  not  favour'd  less,  be  still  as  now 
Discreet:  the  time  may  come  you  need  not  fly.' 

The  sun  has  lost  his  rage:  his  downward  orb 
Shoots  nothing  now  but  animating  warmth 
And  vital  lustre;  that  with  various  ray 
Lights  up  the  clouds,  those  beauteous  robes  of 


"  The  Venus  of  Medici, 


To  whose  exalting  eye  a  fairer  world, 
Of  which  the  vulgar  never  had  a  glimpse. 
Displays  its  charms;  whose  minds  are  richly 
fraught 

With  philosophic  stores,  superior  light; 
And  in  whose  breast,  enthusiastic,  burns 
Virtue,  the  sons  of  interest  deem  romance; 
Now  call'd  abroad  enjoy  the  falling  day : 
Now  to  the  verdant  Portico  of  woods. 
To  Nature's  vast  Lyceum  forth  they  walk ; 
By  that  kind  School  where  no  proud  master 
reigns, 

The  full  free  converse  of  the  friendly  heart. 
Improving  and  improved.    Now  from  the  world, 
Sacred  to  sweet  retirement,  lovers  steal, 
And  pour  their  souls  in  transport,  which  the  Sire 
Of  love  approving  hears,  and  calls  it  good. 
Which  way,  Amanda,  shall  we  bend  our  course  1 
The  choice  perplexes.    Wherefore  should  we 
choose '? 

All  is  the  same  with  thee.    Say,  shall  we  wind 
Along  the  streams'?  or  walk  the  smiling  mead'? 
Or  .court  the  forest  glades  '?  or  wander  wild 
Among  the  waving  harvests  1  or  ascend, 
While  radiant  Summer  opens  all  its  pride, 
Thy  hill,  delightful  Shene  '?*   Here  let  us  sweep 
The  boundless  landscape  :  now  the  raptured  eye, 
Exulting  swift,  to  huge  Augusta  send. 
Now  to  the  Sister-Hillst  that  skirt  her  plain, 
To  lofty  Harrow  now,  and  now  to  where 
Majestic  Windsor  lifts  his  princely  brow. 
In  lovely  contrast  to  this  glorious  view 
Calmly  magnificent,  then  will  we  turn 
To  where  the  silver  Thames  first  rural  grows. 
There  let  the  feasted  eye  unwearied  stray : 
Luxurious,  there,  rove  through  the  pendant  woods 
That  nodding  hang  o'er  Harrington's  retreat; 
And,  stooping  thence  to  Ham's  embowering  walks, 
Beneath  whose  shades,  in  spotless  peace  retired, 
With  Her  the  pleasing  partner  of  his  heart. 
The  worthy  Glueensberry  yet  laments  his  Gay, 
And  polish'd  Cornbury  woos  the  willing  Muse, 
Slow  let  us  trace  the  matchless  vale  of  Thames ; 
Fair  winding  up  to  where  the  Muses  haunt 
In  Twit'nam's  bowers,  and  for  their  Pope  im- 
plore 

The  healing  God;t  to  royal  Hampton's  pile. 
To  Clermont's    terraced  height,  and  Esher's 
groves, 

Where  in  the  sweetest  solitude,  embraced 
By  the  soft  windings  of  the  silent  Mole, 
Frorn  courts  and  senates  Pelham  finds  repose. 
Inchanting  vale !  beyond  whate'er  the  Muse 
Has  of  Achaia  or  Hesperia  sung ! 


*  The  old  name  of  Richmond,  signifying  in  Saxon,  Shining, 
or  Splendour, 
t  Highgate  and  Hampstead. 
t  In  his  last  sickness. 


Incessant  roU'd  into  romantic  shapes. 
The  dream  of  waking  fancy !  broad  below, 
Cover'd  with  ripening  fruits,  and  swelling  fast 
Into  the  perfect  year,  the  pregnant  earth 
And  all  her  tribes  rejoice.    Now  the  soft  hour 
Of  walking  comes :  for  him  who  lonely  loves 
To  seek  the  distant  hills,  and  tjhere  converse 
With  Nature;  there  to  harmonize  his  heart. 
And  in  pathetic  song  to  breathe  around 
The  harmony  to  others.    Social  friends, 
Attuned  to  happy  unison  of  soul; 


26 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


O  Vale  of  bliss !  O  softly  swelling  hills ! 
On  which  the  Power  of  Cultivation  lies, 
And  joys  to  see  the  wonders  of  his  toil. 

Heavens!  what  a  goodly  prospect  spreads  around, 
Of  hills,  and  dales,  and  woods,  and  lawns,  and 
spires, 

And  ghttering  towns,  and  gilded  streams,  till  all 
The  stretching  landscape  into  smoke  decays ! 
Happy  Britannia !  where  the  aueen  of  Arts, 
Inspiring  vigour.  Liberty  abroad 
Walks,  unconfined,  even  to  thy  farthest  cots. 
And  scatters  plenty  with  unsparing  hand. 

Rich  is  thy  soil,  and  merciful  thy  clime , 
Thy  streams  unfailing  in  the  Summer's  drought; 
Unmatch'd  thy  guardian  oaks ;  thy  valleys  float 
With  golden  waves:  and  on  thy  mountains  flocks 
Bleat  numberless !  while,  roving  round  their  sides, 
Bellow  the  blackening  herds  in  lusty  droves. 
Beneath,  thy  meadows  glow,  and  rise  unquell'd 
Against  the  mower's  scythe.    On  every  hand 
Thy  villas  shine.  Thy  country  teems  with  wealth ; 
And  property  assures  it  to  the  swain. 
Pleased  and  unwearied,  in  his  guarded  toil. 

Full  are  thy  cities  with  the  sons  of  Art ; 
And  trade  and  joy,  in  every  busy  street. 
Mingling  are  heard ;  e'en  Drudgery  himself 
As  at  the  car  he  sweats,  or  dusty  hews 
The  palace  stone,  looks  gay.    Thy  crowded  ports 
Where  rising  masts  an  endless  prospect  yield, 
With  labour  burn,  and  echo  to  the  shouts 
Of  hurried  sailor,  as  he  hearty  waves 
His  last  adieu,  and  loosening  every  sheet. 
Resigns  the  spreading  vessel  to  the  wind. 

Bold,  firm,  and  graceful  are  thy  generous  youth 
By  hardship  sinew'd,  and  by  danger  fired. 
Scattering  the  nations  where  they  go ;  and  first 
Or  on  the  hsted  plain,  or  stormy  seas. 
Mild  are  thy  glories  too,  as  o'er  the  plans 
Of  thriving  peace  thy  thoughtful  sires  preside ; 
In  genius,  and  substantial  learning,  high ; 
For  every  virtue,  every  worth  renown'd ; 
Sincere,  plain-hearted,  hospitable,  kind ; 
Yet  like  the  mustering  thunder  when  provoked, 
The  dread  of  tyrants,  and  the  sole  resource 
Of  those  that  under  grim  oppression  groan. 

Thy  sons  of  Glory  many !    Alfred  thine, 
In  whom  the  splendour  of  heroic  war, 
And  more  heroic  peace,  when  govern'd  well. 
Combine ;  whose  hallow'd  name  the  Virtues  saint. 
And  his  own  Muses  love ;  the  best  of  kings  ! 
With  him  thy  Edwards  and  thy  Henries  shine. 
Names  dear  to  fame ;  the  fi^rst  who  deep  impress'd 
On  haughty  Gaul  the  terror  of  thy  arms, 
That  awes  her  genius  still.    In  statesmen  thou, 
And  patriots,  fertile.    Thine  a  steady  More, 
Who,  with  a  generous  though  mistaken  zeal, 
Withstood  a  brutal  tyrant's  useful  rage, 
Like  Cato  firm,  like  Aristides  just, 
Like  rigid  Cincinnatus  nobly  poor, 


A  dauntless  soul  erect,  who  smiled  on  death 
Frugal  and  wise,  a  Walsingham  is  thine, 
A  Drake,  who  made  thee  mistress  of  the  deep. 
And  bore  thy  name  in  thunder  round  the  world 
Then  flamed  thy  spirit  high :  but  who  can  speak 
Ihe  numerous  worthies  of  the  Maiden  Reign? 
In  Raleigh  mark  their  every  glory  mix'd  • 
Raleigh,  the  scourge  of  Spain!  whose  breast  with  a 
The  sage,  the  patriot,  and  the  hero  burn'd. 
Nor  sunk  his  vigour,  when  a  coward-reign 
The  warrior  fetter'd,  and  at  last  resigned, 
To  glut  the  vengeance  of  a  vanquish'd  foe. 
Then  active  still  and  unrestrain'd,  his  mind 
Explored  the  vast  extent  of  ages  past. 
And  with  his  prison-hours  enrich'd  the  world  • 
Yet  found  no  times,  in  all  the  long  research,  ' 
So  glorious,  or  so  base,  as  those  he  proved,  ' 
In  which  he  conquer'd,  and  in  which  he  bled 
Nor  can  the  Muse  the  gallant  Sidney  pass. 
The  plume  of  war!  with  early  laurels  crovl^n'd, 
The  lover's  myrtle,  and  the  poet's  bay. 
A  Hampden  too  is  thine,  illustrious  land. 
Wise,  strenuous,  firm,  of  unsubmitting  soul, 
Who  stemm'd  the  torrent  of  a  downward  age 
To  slavery  prone,  and  bade  thee  rise  again. 
In  all  thy  native  pomp  of  freedom  bold. 
Bright,  at  his  call,  thy  Age  of  Men  effulged. 
Of  Men  on  whom  late  time  a  kindling  eye 
Shall  turn,  and  tyrants  tremble  while  they  read. 
Bring  every  sweetest  flower,  and  let  me  strew 
The  grave  where  Russel  lies ;  whose  temper'd  blood 
With  calmest  cheerfulness  for  thee  resign'd, 
Stain'd  the  sad  annals  of  a  giddy  reign ;  ' 
Aiming  at  lawless  power,  though  meanly  sunk 
In  loose  inglorious  luxury.    With  him 
His  friend,  the  British  Cassius,*  feariess  bled  ; 
Of  high  determined  spirit,  roughly  brave. 
By  ancient  learning  to  the  enlighten'd  love 
Of  ancient  freedom  warm'd.    Fair  thy  renown 
In  awful  sages  and  in  noble  bards ; 
Soon  as  the  light  of  dawning  Science  spread 
Her  orient  ray,  and  waked  the  Muses'  song. 
Thine  is  a  Bacon ;  hapless  in  his  choice. 
Unfit  to  stand  the  civil  storm  of  state. 
And  through  the  smooth  barbarity  of  courts. 
With  firm  but  pliant  virtue,  forward  still 
To  urge  his  course :  him  for  the  studious  shade 
Kind  Nature  form'd,  deep,  comprehensive,  clear, 
Exact,  and  elegant :  in  one  rich  soul, 
Plato,  the  Stagyrite,  and  Tully  join'd. 
The  great  deliverer  he !  who  from  the  gloom 
Of  cloister'd  monks,  and  jargon-teaching  schools, 
Let  forth  the  true  philosophy,  there  long 
Held  in  the  magic  chain  of  words  and  forms, 
And  definitions  void :  he  led  her  forth. 
Daughter  of  Heaven !  that  slow-ascending  still 
Investigating  sure  the  chain  of  things. 


*  Algernon  Sidney. 


SUMMER. 


27 


With  radiant  finger  points  to  Heaven  again. 
The  generous  Ashley*  thine,  the  friend  of  man; 
Who  scann'd  his  nature  with  a  brother's  eye, 
His  weakness  prompt  to  shade,  to  raise  his  aim, 
To  touch  the  finer  movements  of  the  mind, 
And  with  the  moral  beauty  charm  the  heart. 
Why  need  I  name  thy  Boyle,  whose  pious  search 
Amid  the  dark  recesses  of  his  works, 
The  great  Creator  sought?  And  why  thy  Locke, 
Who  made  the  whole  internal  world  his  own  7 
Let  Newton,  pure  intelligence,  whom  God 
To  mortals  lent,  to  trace  His  boundless  works 
From  laws  sublimely  simple,  speak  thy  fame 
In  all  philosophy.    For  lofty  sense. 
Creative  fancy,  and  inspection  keen 
Through  the  deep  windings  of  the  human  heart. 
Is  not  wild  Shakspeare  thine  and  Nature's  boast 
Is  not  each  great,  each  amiable  Muse 
Of  classic  ages  in  thy  Milton  met  1 
A  genius  universal  as  his  theme ; 
Astonishing  as  chaos,  as  the  bloom 
Of  blowing  Eden  fair,  as  Heaven  sublime! 
Nor  shall  my  verse  that  elder  bard  forget, 
The  gentle  Spenser,  fancy's  pleasing  son; 
Who,  hke  a  copious  river,  pour'd  his  song 
O'er  all  the  mazes  of  enchanted  ground; 
Nor  thee,  his  ancient  master,  laughing  sage, 
Chaucer,  whose  native  manners-painting  verse. 
Well  moralised,  shines  through  the  gothic  cloud 
Of  lime  and  language  o'er  thy  genius  thrown. 

May  my  song  soften  as  thy  daughters  I, 
Britannia,  hail !  for  beauty  is  their  own, 
The  feeling  heart,  simplicity  of  life. 
And  elegance  and  taste :  the  faultless  form, 
Shaped  by  the  hand  of  harmony ;  the  cheek. 
Where  the  live  crimson,  through  the  native  white 
Soft-shooting,  o'er  the  face  diffuses  bloom, 
And  every  nameless  grace;  the  parted  lip, 
Like  the  red  rose  bud  moist  with  morning  dew, 
Breathing  delight ;  and,  under  flowing  jet, 
Or  sunny  ringlets,  or  of  circling  brown, 
The  neck  slight-shaded,  and  the  swelling  breast; 
The  look  resistless,  piercing  to  the  soul, 
And  by  the  soul  inform'd,  when  dress'd  in  love 
She  sits  high  smiling  in  the  conscious  eye. 

Island  of  bliss!  amid  the  subject  seas, 
That  thunder  round  thy  rocky  coast,  set  up, 
At  once  the  wonder,  terror,  and  delight 
Of  distant  nations;  whose  remotest  shores 
Can  soon  be  shaken  by  thy  naval  arm; 
Not  to  be  shook  thyself,  but  all  assaults 
Baffling,  as  thy  hoar  cliffs  the  loud  sea-wave. 

O  Thou!  by  whose  Almighty  nod  the  scale 
Of  empire  rises,  or  alternate  falls. 
Send  forth  the  saving  Virtues  round  the  land, 
In  bright  patrol :  white  Peace  and  social  Love ; 
The  tender-looking  Charity,  intent 


*  Anthony  Ashley  Cooper,  Earl  of  Shaftesbury. 


On  gentle  deeds,  and  shedding  tears  through  smiles; 
Undaunted  Truth,  and  Dignity  of  mind: 
Courage  composed,  and  keen:  sound  Temperance, 
Healthful  in  heart  and  look ;  clear  Chastity, 
With  blushes  reddening  as  she  moves  along, 
Disorder'd  at  the  deep  regard  she  draws ; 
Rough  Industry;  Activity  untired. 
With  copious  hfe  inform'd,  and  all  awake: 
While  in  the  radiant  front,  superior  shines 
That  first  paternal  virtue.  Public  Zeal; 
Who  throws  o'er  all  an  equal  wide  survey, 
And,  ever  musing  on  the  common  weal, 
Still  labours  glorious  with  some  great  design. 

Low  walks  the  sun,  and  broadens  by  degrees, 
Just  o'er  the  verge  of  day.    The  shifting  clouds 
Assembled  gay,  a  richly  gorgeous  train. 
In  all  their  pomp  attend  his  setting,  throne. 
Air,  earth,  and  ocean,  smile  immense.  And  noWj, 
As  if  his  weary  chariot  sought  the  bowers 
Of  Amphitrite,  and  her  tending  nymphs, 
(So  Grecian  fable  sung)  he  dips  his  orb; 
Now  half-immersed ;  and  now  a  gulden  curve 
Gives  one  bright  glance,  then  total  disappears. 

For  ever  running  an  enchanted  round 
Passes  the  day,  deceitful,  vain,  and  void; 
As  fleets  the  vision  o'er  the  formful  brain. 
This  moment  hurrying  wild  the  impassion'd  soul, 
The  next  in  nothing  lost.    'Tis  so  to  him, 
The  dreamer  of  this  earth,  an  idle  blank: 
A  sight  of  horror  to  the  cruel  wretch, 
Who  all  day  long  in  sordid  pleasure  roU'd, 
Himself  a  useless  load,  has  squandered  vile. 
Upon  his  scoundrel  train,  what  might  have  cheer'd 
A  drooping  family  of  modest  worth. 
But  to  the  generous  still-improving  mind, 
That  gives  the  hopeless  heart  to  sing  for  joy, 
Diftusing  kind  beneficence  around, 
Boastless,  as  now  descends  the  silent  dew; 
To  him  the  long  review  of  order'd  hfe 
Is  inward  rapture,  only  to  be  felt. 

Confess'd  from  yonder  slow-extinguish'd  clouds, 
All  ether  softening,  sober  Evening  takes 
Her  wonted  station  in  the  middle  air ; 
A  thousand  shadows  at  her  beck.  First  this 
She  sends  on  earth;  then  that  of  deeper  dye 
Steals  soft  behind ;  and  then  a  deeper  still, 
In  circle  following  circle,  gathers  round, 
To  close  the  face  of  things.    A  fresher  gale 
Begins  to  wave  the  wood,  and  stir  the  stream, 
Sweeping  with  shadowy  gust  the  fields  of  corn; 
While  the  quail  clamours  for  his  running  mate. 
Wide  o'er  the  thistly  lawn,  as  swells  the  breeze, 
A  whitening  shower  of  vegetable  down 
Amusive  floats.    The  kind  impartial  care 
Of  Nature  nought  disdains :  thoughtful  to  feed 
Her  lowest  sons,  and  clothe  the  coming  year, 
From  field  to  field  the  feather'd  seed  she  wings. 

His  folded  flock  secure,  the  shepherd  home 
Hies,  merry-hearted;  and  by  turns  relieves 


28 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


The  ruddy  milk-maid  of  lior  brimming  pail; 
The  beauty  whom  perhaps  his  witless  lieart, 
Unknowing  what  thejoy-mix'd  anguish  means, 
Sincerely  loves,  by  that  best  language  shown 
Of  cordial  glances,  and  obliging  deeds. 
Onward  they  pass,  o'er  many  a  panting  height, 
And  valley  sunk,  and  unfrequented ;  where 
At  fall  of  eve  the  fairy  people  throng, 
In  various  game,  and  revelry,  to  pass 
The  summer  night,  as  village  stories  tell. 
But  far  about  they  wander  from  t!ie  grave 
Of  him,  whom  his  ungentle  fortune  urged 
Against  his  own  sad  breast  to  lift  the  hand 
Of  impious  violence.    The  lonely  tower 
Is  also  shunn'd  ;  whose  mournful  chambers  hold. 
So  night-struck  F^ncy  dreams,  the  yelling  ghost. 

Among  the  crooked  lanes,  on  every  hedge, 
The  glow-worm  lights  his  gem;  and  through  the 
dark 

A  moving  radiance  twinkles.    Evening  yields 
The  world  to  Night ;  not  in  her  winter-robe 
Of  massy  stygian  woof,  but  loose  array'd 
In  mantle  dun.    A  faint  erroneous  ray, 
Glanced  from  the  imperfect  surfaces  of  things. 
Flings  half  an  image  on  the  straining  eye ; 
While  wavering  woods,  and  villages,  and  streams, 
And  rocks,  and  mountain-tops,  that  long  retain'd 
The  ascending  gleam,  are  all  one  swimming  scene. 
Uncertain  if  beheld.    Sudden  to  Heaven 
Thence  weary  vision  turns ;  where,  leading  soft 
The  silent  hours  of  love,  with  purest  ray 
Sweet  Venus  shines ;  and  from  her  genial  rise, 
Vv^hen  day-light  sickens  till  it  springs  afresh, 
Unrival'd  reigns  the  ftiirest  lamp  of  Night. 
As  thus  the  effulgence  tremulous  I  drink, 
With  cherish'd  gaze,  the  lambent  lightnings  shoot 
Across  the  sky ;  or  horizontal  dart 
In   wondrous  shapes:    by   fearful  murmuring 
crowds 

Portentous  deem'd.    Amid  the  radiant  orbs. 
That  more  than  deck,  that  animate  the  sky, 
The  life-infusing  suns  of  other  worlds  : 
Lo!  from  the  dread  immensity  of  space 
Returning,  with  accelerated  course. 
The  rushing  comet  to  the  sun  descends  ; 
And  as  he  sinks  below  the  shading  earth, 
With  awful  train  projected  o'er  the  heavens, 
The  guilty  nations  tremble.    But,  above 
Those  superstitious  horrors  that  enslave 
The  fond  sequacious  herd,  to  mystic  faith 
And  blind  amazement  prone,  the  enlighten'd  few, 
Whose  godlike  minds  philosophy  exalts, 
The  glorious  stranger  hail.    They  feel  a  joy 
Divinely  great;  they  in  their  powers  exult, 
That  wondrous  force  of  thought,  which  mounting 
spurns 

Thisi  dusky  spot,  and  measures  all  the  sky; 
While,  from  his  far  excursion  through  the  wilds 
Of  barren  ether,  faithful  to  his  time,  ! 


They  seethe  blazing  wonder  rise  anew, 
In  seeming  terror  clad,  but  kintlly  bent 
To  work  the  will  of  all-sustaining  Love: 
From  his  huge  vapoury  train  perhaps  to  shake 
Reviving  moisture  on  the  numerous  orbs, 
Through  which  his  long  elhpsiswind;  perhapa 
To  lend  new  fuel  to  declining  suns, 
To  light  up  worlds,  and  feed  the  eternal  fire. 

With  thee,  serene  Philosophy,  with  thee. 
And  tliy  bright  garland,  let  me  crown  my  songl 
Effusive  source  of  evidence,  and  truth  1 
A  lustre  shedding  o'er  the  ennobled  mind, 
Stronger  than  summer-noon;  and  pure  as  that, 
Whose  mild  vibrations  sooth  the  parted  soul, 
New  to  the  dawning  of  celestial  day. 
Hence  through  her  nourish'd  powers,  enlarged  by 
thee, 

She  springs  aloft,  with  elevated  pride. 
Above  the  tangling  mass  of  low  desires. 
That  bind   the  fluttering  crowd;    and,  angel- 
wing'd, 

The  heights  of  science  and  of  virtue  gains. 
Where  all  is  calm  and  clear;  with  Nature  round, 
Or  in  the  starry  regions,  or  the  abyss. 
To  Reason's  and  to  Fancy's  eye  display'd: 
The  First  up  tracing,  from  the  dreary  void, 
Tlie  chain  of  causes  and  effects  to  Him, 
The  vv'orld-producing  Essence,  who  alone 
Possesses  being;  while  the  Last  receives 
The  whole  magnificence  of  heaven  and  earth, 
And  every  beauty,  delicate  or  bold, 
Obvious  or  more  remote,  with  livelier  sense, 
Diffusive  painted  on  the  rapid  mind, 

Tutor'd  by  thee,  hence  Poetry  exalts 
Her  voice  to  ages ;  and  informs  the  page 
With  music,  image,  sentiment,  and  thought, 
j  Never  to  die  !  the  treasure  of  mankind ! 
Their  highest  honour,  and  their  truest  joy  ! 

Without  thee  what  were  unenlightened  Mani 
A  savage  roaming  through  the  woods  and  wilds, 
In  quest  of  prey ;  and  with  the  unfashion'd  fur 
Rough-clad;  devoid  of  every  finer  art, 
And  elegance  of  life.    Nor  happiness 
Domestic,  mix'd  of  tenderness  and  care. 
Nor  moral  excellence,  nor  social  bliss, 
Nor  guardian  law  were  his;'  nor  various  skill 
To  turn  the  furrow,  or  to  guide  the  tool 
Mechanic;  nor  the  heaven-conducted  prow 
Of  navigation  bold,  that  fearless  braves 
The  burning  fine  or  dares  the  wintry  pole; 
Mother  severe  of  infinite  delights ! 
Nothing,  save  rapine,  indolence,  and  guile, 
And  woes  on  woes,  a  still-revolving  train ! 
Whose  horrid  circle  had  made  human  life 
Than  non-existence  worse  :  but,  taught  by  thee, 
Ours  are  the  plans  of  policy  and  peace  ; 
To  live  like  brothers,  and  conjunctive  all 
Embellish  life.    While  thus  laborious  crowds 
Ply  the  tough  oar,  Philosophy  directs 


SUMMER. 


29 


The  ruling  helm ;  or  like  the  liberal  breath 

Of  potent  Heaven,  invisible,  the  sail 

Swells  out,  and  bears  the  inferior  world  along. 

Nor  to  this  evanescent  speck  of  earth 
Puorly  confined,  the  radiant  tracts  on  high 
Are  her  exalted  range  ;  intent  to  gaze 
Creation  through ;  and,  from  that  full  complex 
Of  never  ending  wonders,  to  conceive 
Of  the  Sole  Being  right,  who  spoke  the  Word, 
And  Nature  moved  complete.    With  inward 
view, 

Thence  on  the  ideal  kingdom  swift  she  turns 
Her  eye ;  and  instant,  at  her  powerful  glance, 
The  obedient  phantoms  vanish  or  appear; 


Compound,  divide,  and  into  order  shift, 
Each  to  his  rank,  from  plain  perception  up 
To  the  fair  forms  of  Fancy's  fleeting  train : 
To  reason  then,  deducing  truth  from  truth ; 
And  notion  quite  abstract ;  where  first  begins 
The  world  of  spirits,  action  all,  and  life 
Unfetter 'd,  and  unmixt.    But  here  the  cloud, 
(So  wills  Eternal  Providence)  sits  deep. 
Enough  for  us  to  know  that  this  dark  state 
In  wayward  passions  lost  and  vain  pursuits, 
This  Infancy  of  Being,  cannot  prove 
The  final  issue  of  the  works  of  God, 
By  boundless  Love  and  perfect  Wisdom  form'd, 
And  ever  rising  with  the  rising  mind 


Autumn. 


INSCRIBED  TO  THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE  ARTHUR  ONSLO  W,  ESa. 

SPEAKER  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  COMMONS. 


,  ARGUMENT. 

The  subject  proposed.  Addressed  to  Mr.  Onslow.  A  prospect  of  the  Fields  ready  for  Harvest.  Reflections  in  praise 
of  Industry  raised  by  that  view.  Reaping.  A  Tale  relative  to  it  A  Harvest  Storm.  Shooting  and  Hirntin':^.  their  barba- 
rity. A  ludicrous  account  cf  Foxhunting.  A  view  of  an  Orchard.  Wall  Fruit.  A  Vineyard.  A  description  of  Foffs, 
frequent  in  the  latter  part  of  Autumn ;  whence  a  digi'ession,  inquiring  into  the  rise  of  Fountains  and  Rivers  Birds  of  sea- 
eon  considered,  that  now  shift  their  Habitation.  The  prodigious  number  of  them  that  cover  the  Northern  and  Western 
Isles  of  Scotland.  Hence  a  view  of  the  Country.  A  prospect  of  the  discoloured,  fading  Woods.  After  a  gentle  dusky  day 
Moonlight.  Autumnal  Meteore.  Morning  :  to  which  succeeds  a  calm,  pure,  sunshiny  Day,  such  as  usually  shuts  up  the 
season.  The  Harvest  being  gathered  in,  the  Country  dissolved  in  joy.  The  whole  concludes  with  a  Paneo-vric  on  a  nhilo- 
Eophical  Country  Life.  ^ 

Crown'd  with  the  sickle  and  the  wheaten  sheaf. 
While  Autumn,  nodding  o'er  the  yellow  plain, 
Comes  jovial  on ;  the  Doric  reed  once  more. 
Well  pleas' d,  I  tune.   Whate'er  the  wintry  frost 
Nitrous  prepared;  the  various  blossom'd  Spring 
Put  in  white  promise  forth ;  and  Summer-suns 
Concocted  strong,  rush  boundless  now  to  view, 
Full,  perfect  all,  and  swell  my  glorious  theme. 

Onslow !  the  Muse,  ambitious  of  thy  name, 
To  grace,  inspire,  and  dignify  her  song. 
Would  from  the  public  voice  thy  gentle  ear 
A  while  engage.    Thy  noble  cares  she  knows, 
The  patriot  virtues  that  distend  thy  thought, 
Spread  on  thy  front,  and  in  thy  bosom  glow; 
"V^hile  listening  senates  hang  upon  thy  tongue, 
Devolving  through  the  maze  of  eloquence 
A  roll  of  periods,  sweeter  than  her  song. 
But  she  too  pants  for  pubhc  virtue,  she. 
Though  weak  of  power,  yet  strong  in  ardent  will, 
Whene'er  her  country  rushes  on  her  heart, 
Assumes  a  bolder  note,  and  fondly  tries 
To  mix  the  patriot's  with  the  poet's  flame. 

When  the  bright  Virgin  gives  the  beauteous 
days, 

And  Libra  weighs  in  equal  scales  the  year ; 
From  Heaven's  high  cope  the  fierce  effulgence 
shook 

Of  parting  Summer,  a  serener  blue, 
With  golden  light  enliven'd,  wide  invests 


The  happy  world.    Attemper'd  suns  arise, 
Sweet-beam'd,  and  shedding  oft  through  lucid 
clouds 

A  pleasing  calm;  while  broad,  and  brown,  below 
Extensive  harvests  hang  the  heavy  head. 
Rich,  silent,  deep,  they  stand ;  for  not  a  gale 
Rolls  its  Hght  billows  o'er  the  bending  plain ; 
A  calm  of  plenty  1  till  the  ruflied  air 
Falls  from  its  poise,  and  gives  the  breeze  to  blow. 
Rent  is  the  fleecy  mantle  of  the  sky; 
The  clouds  fly  difl^erent;  and  the  sudden  sun 
By  fits  effulgent  gilds  the  illumined  field. 
And  black  by  fits  the  shadows  sweep  along 
A  gaily  chequer'd  heart-expanding  view,,  ' 
Far  as  the  circling  eye  can  shoot  around, 
Unbounded  tossing  in  a  flood  of  corn. 
These  are  thy  blessings,  Industry!  rough  power? 
Whom  labour  still  attends,  and  sweat,  and  pain; 
Yet  the  kind  source  of  every  gentle  art. 
And  all  the  soft  civility  of  life: 
Raiser  of  human  kind  !  by  Nature  cast. 
Naked,  and  helpless,  out  amid  the  woods 
And  wilds,  to  rude  inclement  elements; 
With  various  seeds  of  art  deep  in  the  mind 
Implanted,  and  profusely  pour'd  aiound 
Materials  infinite,  but  idle  all. 
Still  unexerted,  in  the  conscious  bieast, 
Slept  the  lethargic  powers;  Corruption  still, 
Voracious,  swaliow'd  what  the  liberal  hand 


30 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Of  bounty  scatter'd  o'er  the  savage  year: 
And  still  the  sad  barbarian,  roving,  raix'd 
With  beasts  of  prey ;  or  for  his  acorn  meal 
Fought  the  fierce  tusky  boar;  a  shivering  wretch! 
Aghast,  and  comfortless,  when  the  bleak  north, 
With  Winter  charged,  let  the  mix'd  tempest  fly, 
Hail,  rain,  and  snow,  and  bitter-breathing  frost : 
Then  to  the  shelter  of  the  hut  he  fled; 
And  the  wild  season,  sordid,  pined  away. 
For  home  he  had  not;  home  is  the  resort 
Of  love,  of  joy,  of  peace  and  plenty,  where, 
Supporting  and  supported,  polish'd  friends, 
And  dear  relations  mingle  into  bliss. 
But  this  the  rugged  savage  never  felt, 
E'en  desolate  in  crowds;  and  thus  his  days 
RoU'd  heavy,  dark,'and  unenjoy'd  along: 
A  waste  of  time  !  till  Industry  approach'd, 
And  roused  him  from  his  miserable  sloth : 
His  faculties  unfolded;  pointed  out, 
Where  lavish  Nature  the  directing  hand 
Of  art  demanded ;  show'd  him  how  to  raise 
His  feeble  force  by  the  mechanic  powers, 
To  dig  the  mineral  from  the  vaulted  earth, 
On  what  to  turn  the  piercing  rage  of  fire. 
On  what  the  torrent,  and  the  gather'd  blast ; 
Gave  the  tall  ancient  forest  to  his  axe; 
Taught  him  to  chip  the  wood,  and  hew  the  stone. 
Till  by  degrees  the  finish'd  fabric  rose ; 
Tore  from  his  limbs  the  blood-polluted  fur, 
And  wrapt  them  in  the  woolly  vestment  warm. 
Or  bright  in  glossy  silk,  and  flowing  lawn ; 
With  wholesome  viands  fill'd  his  table,  pour'd 
The  generous  glass  around,  inspired  to  wake 
The  life-refining  soul  of  decent  wit: 
Nor  stopp'd  at  barren  bare  necessity; 
But  still  advancing  bolder,  led  him  on 
To  pomp,  to  pleasure,  elegance,  and  grace; 
And,  breathing  high  ambition  through  his  soul, 
Set  science,  wisdom,  glory,  in  his  view. 
And  bade  him  be  the  Lord  of  all  below. 

Then  gathering  men  their  natural  powers  com- 
bined. 

And  form'd  a  Public ;  to  the  general  good 
Submitting,  airhing,  and  conducting  all. 
For  this  the  Patriot-Council  met,  the  full. 
The  free,  and  fairly  represented  Whole; 
For  this  they  plann'd  the  holy  guardian  Jaws, 
Distinguish'd  orders,  animated  arts. 
And  with  joint  force  Oppression  chaining,  set 
Imperial  Justice  at  the  helm ;  yet  still 
To  them  accountable :  nor  slavish  dream'd 
That  toiling  millions  must  resign  their  weal. 
And  all  the  honey  of  their  search,  to  such 
As  for  themselves  alone  themselves  have  raised. 

Hence  every  form  of  cultivated  life 
In  order  set,  protected,  and  inspired. 
Into  perfection  wrought.    Uniting  all, 
Society  grew  numerous,  high,  i)olite. 
And  happy.    Nurso  of  art !  the  city  rear'd 


In  beauteous  pride  her  tower-encircled  head; 
And,  stretching  street  on  street,  by  thousand? 
drew. 

From  twining  woody  haunts,  or  the  tough  yew 
To  bows  strong-straining,  her  aspiring  sons. 

Then  Commerce  brought  into  the  public  walk 
The  busy  merchant;  the  big  warehouse  built; 
Raised  the  strong  crane;  choked  up  the  loaded 
street 

With  foreign  plenty:  and  thy  stream,  O  Thames, 
Large,  gentle,  deep,  majestic,  king  of  floods ! 
Chose  for  his  grand  resort.    On  either  hand 
Like  a  long  wintry  forest,  groves  of  masts 
Shot  up  their  spires ;  the  bellying  sheet  between 
Possess'd  the  breezy  void ;  the  sooty  hulk 
Steer'd  sluggish  on ;  the  splendid  barge  along 
Row'd,  regular,  to  harmony ;  around. 
The  boat,  light-skimming,  stretch'd  its  oary  wings ; 
While  deep  the  various  voice  of  fervent  toil 
From  bank  to  bank  increased ;  whence  ribb'd  with 
oak, 

To  bear  the  British  thunder,  black,  and  bold, 
The  roaring  vessel  rush'd  into  the  main. 

Then  too  the  pillar'd  dome,  magnific,  heaved 
Its  ample  roof;  and  Luxury  within 
Pour'd  out   her  glittering  stores:   the  canvass 
smooth. 

With  glowing  life  protuberant,  to  the  view 
Embodied  rose ;  the  statue  seem'd  to  breathe. 
And  soften  into  flesh ;  beneath  the  touch 
Of  forming  art,  imagination-flush'd. 

All  is  the  gift  of  Industry ;  whate'er 
Exalts,  embelhshes,  and  renders  life 
Delightful.    Pensive  Winter  cheer'd  by  him 
Sits  at  the  social  fire,  and  happy  hears 
The  excluded  tempest  idly  rave  along ; 
His  harden'd  fingers  deck  the  gaudy  Spring ; 
Without  him  Summer  were  an  arid  waste ; 
Nor  to  the  Autumnal  months  could  thus  transmit 
Those  full,  mature,  immeasurable  stores. 
That,  waving  round,  recall  my  wandering  song. 

Soon  as  the  morning  trembles  o'er  the  sky, 
And,  unperceived,  unfolds  the  spreading  day; 
Before  the  ripen'd  field  the  reapers  stand. 
In  fair  array,  each  by  the  lass  he  loves. 
To  bear  the  rougher  part,  and  mitigate 
By  nameless  gentle  offices  her  toil. 
At  once  they  stoop,  and  swell  the  lusty  sheaves ; 
While  through  their  cheerful  band  the  rural  talk, 
The  rural  scandal,  and  the  rural  jest. 
Fly  harmless,  to  deceive  the  tedious  time. 
And  steal  unfelt  the  sultry  hours  away. 
Behind  the  master  walks,  builds  up  the  shocks; 
And,  conscious,  glancing  oft  on  every  side 
His  sated  eye,  feels  his  heart  heave  with  joy. 
The  gleaners  spread  around,  and  here  and  there, 
Spike  after  spike,  their  scanty  harvest  pick. 
Be  not  too  narrow,  husbandmen  !  but  fling 
From  tlic  full  sheaf,  with  charitable  stealth, 


AUTUMN. 


31 


The  liberal  handful.    Think,  oh  grateful  think! 
How  good  the  God  of  Harvest  is  to  you ; 
Who  pours  abundance  o'er  your  flowing  fields ; 
While  these  unhappy  partners  of  your  kind 
Wide-hover  round  you,  like  the  fowls  of  heaven, 
And  ask  their  humble  dole.    The  various  turns 
Of  fortune  ponder  ;  that  your  sons  may  want 
What  now,  with  hard  reluctance,  faint,  ye  give. 

The  lovely  young  Lavinia  once  had  friends ; 
And  Fortune  smiled,  deceitful,  on  her  birth. 
For,  in  her  helpless  years  deprived  of  all, 
Of  every  stay,  save  Innocence  and  Heaven, 
She  with  her  widow'd  mother,  feeble,  old, 
And  poor,  lived  in  a  cottage,  far  retired 
Among  the  windings  of  a  woody  vale ; 
By  solitude  and  deep  surrounding  shades, 
But  more  by  bashful  modesty,  conceal'd. 
Together  thus  they  shunn'd  the  cruel  scorn 
Which  virtue,  sunk  to  poverty,  would  meet 
From  giddy  passion  and  low-minded  pride : 
Almost  on  Nature's  common  bounty  fed ; 
Like  the  gay  birds  that  sung  them  to  repose, 
Content,  and  careless  of  to-morrow's  fare. 
Her  form  was  fresher  than  the  morning  rose, 
When  the  dew  wets  its  leaves ;  unstain'd  and  pure 
As  is  the  lily,  or  the  rnountain  snow. 
The  modest  Virtues  mingled  in  her  eyes, 
Still  on  the  ground  dejected,  darting  all 
Their  humid  beams  into  the  blooming  flowers: 
Or  when  the  mournful  tale  her  mother  told, 
Of  what  her  faithless  fortune  promised  once, 
Thrill'd  in  her  thought,  they,  like  the  dewy  star 
Of  evening,  shone  in  tears.    A  native  grace 
Sat  fair-proportion'd  on  her  ponsh'd  limbs, 
Veil'd  in  a  simple  robe,  theu'  best  attire, 
Beyond^the  pomp  of  dress ;  for  loveliness 
Needs  not  the  foreign  aid  of  ornament. 
But  is  when  unadorn'd,  adorn'd  the  most. 
Thoughtless  of  beauty,  she  was  Beauty's  self. 
Recluse  amid  the  close-embowering  woods. 
As  in  the  hollow  breast  of  Appenine, 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  encircling  hills, 
A  myrtle  rises,  far  from  human  eye. 
And  breathes  its  balmy  fragrance  o'er  the  wild ; 
So  flourish'd  blooming,  and  unseen  by  all. 
The  sweet  Lavinia ;  till,  at  length,  compell'J 
By  strong  Necessity's  supreme  command, 
With  smiling  patience  in  her  looks,  she  went 
To  glean  Palemon's  fields.    The  pride  of  swains 
Palemon  was.  the  generous,  and  the  rich  ; 
Who  led  the  rural  life  in  all  its  joy 
And  elegance,  such  as  Arcadian  song 
Transmits  from  ancient  uncorrupted  times; 
When  tyrant  custom  had  not  shackled  man, 
But  free  to  follow  Nature  was  the  mode. 
He  then,  his  fancy  with  autumnal  scenes 
Amusing,  changed  beside  his  reaper-train 
To  walk,  wlien  poor  Lavinin  drew  iiis  eye; 
Unconscious  of  her  pow(  r.  :'n  !  turnin!!;  quick 
31  2Q 


With  unaflfected  blushes  from  his  gaze : 
He  saw  her  charming,  but  he  saw  not  half 
The  charms  her  down-cast  modesty  conceal'd. 
That  very  moment  love  and  chaste  desire 
Sprung  in  his  bosom,  to  himself  unknown; 
For  still  the  world  prevail'd  and  its  dread  laugh, 
Which  scarce  the  firm,  philosopher  can  scorn, 
Should  his  heart  own  a  gleaner  in  the  field ; 
And  thus  in  secret  to  his  soul  he  sigh'd : — 

"  What  pity !  that  so  delicate  a  form, 
By  beauty  kindled,  where  enlivening  sense 
And  more  than  vulgar  goodness  seem  to  dwell. 
Should  be  devoted  to  the  rude  embrace 
Of  some  indecent  clown !    She  looks,  methinks. 
Of  old  Acasto's  line ;  and  to  my  mind 
Recalls  that  patron  of  my  happy  life. 
From  whom  my  liberal  fortune  took  its  rise ; 
Now  to  the  dust  gone  down;  his  houses,  lands, 
And  once  fair-spreading  family,  dissolved. 
'Tis  said  that  in  some  lone  obscure  retreat, 
Urged  by  remembrance  sad,  and  decent  pride, 
Far  from  those  scenes  which  knew  their  better  days, 
His  aged  widow  and  his  daughter  live. 
Whom  yet  my  fruitless  search  could  never  find. 
Romantic  wish  !  would  this  the  daughter  were !" 

When,  strict  inquiring,  from  herself  he  found 
She  was  the  same,  the  daughter  of  his  friend. 
Of  bountiful  Acasto ;  who  can  speak 
The  mingled  passions  that  surprised  his  heart. 
And  through  his  nerves  in  shivering  transport  rani 
Then  blazed  his  smother'd  flame,  avow'd,  and  bold; 
And  as  he  view'd  her,  ardent,  o'er  and  o'er. 
Love,  gratitude,  and  pity  wept  at  once. 
Confused,  and  frighten'd  at  his  sudden  tears, 
Her  risii;ig  beauties  flush'd  a  higher  bloom 
As  thus  Palemon,  passionate  and  just, 
Pour'd  out  the  pious  rapture  of  his  soul : 

"And  art  thou  then  Acasto's  dear  remains  ?  ^ 
She,  whom  my  restless  gratitude  has  sought, 
So  long  in  vain  1    O  heavens  !  the  very  same, 
The  soften'd  image  of  my  noble  friend ; 
Alive  his  every  look,  his  every  feature, 
More  elegantly  touch'd.    Sweeter  than  Spring- 1 
Thou  sole  surviving  blossom  from  the  root 
That  nourish'd  up  my  fortune !  say,  ah  where, 
In  what  sequester'd  desert  hast  thou  drawn 
The  kindest  aspect  of  delighted  Heaven'? 
Into  such  beauty  spread,  and  blown  so  fair; 
Though  Poverty's  cold  wind  and  crushing  rain 
Beat  keen  and  heavy  on  thy  tender  years  1 
O  let  me  now  into  a  richer  soil 
Transplant  thee  safe!  where  vernal  suns  and 
showers 

Dift'use  their  warmest,  largest  influence; 
And  of  my  garden  be  the  pride  and  joy ! 
Ill  it  befits  thee,  oh,  it  ill  befits 
Acasto's  daughter,  his,  whose  open  stores, 
Though  vast,  were  httle  to  his  ampler  heart, 
The  father  of  a  country,  tiius  to  pick 


32 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


The  very  refuse  of  those  harvest  fields, 
Which  from  his  bounteous  friendship  I  enjoy. 
Then  throw  that  shameful  pittance  from  thy  hand, 
But  ill  applied  to  such  a  rugged  task ; 
The  fields,  the  master,  all,  my  fair,  are  thine; 
If  to  the  various  blessings  which  thy  house 
Has  on  me  lavish'd,  thou  wilt  add  that  bliss, 
That  dearest  bliss,  the  power  of  blessing  thee!" 

Here  ceased  the  youth:  yet  still  his  speaking  eye 
Express'd  the  sacred  triumph  of  his  soul. 
With  conscious  virtue,  gratitude,  and  love, 
Above  the  vulgar  joy  divinely  raised. 
Nor  waited  he  reply.    Won  by  the  charm 
Of  goodness  irresistible,  and  all 
In  sweet  disorder  lost,  she  blush'd  consent. 
The  news  immediate  to  her  mother  brought, 
While,  pierced  with  anxious  thought,  she  pined 
away 

The  lonely  moments  for  Lavinia's  fate; 
Amazed,  and  scarce  believing  what  she  heard, 
Joy  seized  her  wither'd  veins,  and  one  bright  gleam 
Of  setting  life  shone  on  her  evening  hours : 
Not  less  enraptured  than  the  happy  pair; 
Who  flourish'd  long  in  tender  bliss,  and  rear'd 
A  numerous  offspring,  lovely  like  themselves, 
And  good,  the  grace  of  all  the  country  round. 

Defeating  oft  the  labours  of  the  year, 
The  sultry  south  collects  a  potent  blast. 
At  first,  the  groves  are  scarcely  seen  to  stir 
Their  trembling  tops;  and  a  still  murmur  runs 
Along  the  soft -inclining  fields  of  corn. 
But  as  the  aerial  tempest  fuller  swells, 
And  in  one  mighty  stream,  invisible, 
Immense,  the  whole  excited  atmosphere 
Impetuous  rushes  o'er  the  sounding  world ; 
Strain'd  to  the  root,  the  stooping  forest  pours 
A  rustling  shower  of  yet  untimely  leaves. 
High  beat,  the  circling  mountains  eddy  in, 
From  the  bare  wild,  the  dissipated  storm, 
And  send  it  in  a  torrent  down  the  vale. 
Exposed,  and  naked,  to  its  utmost  rage, 
Through  all  the  sea  of  harvest  rolling  round, 
The  billowy  plain  floats  wide;  nor  can  evade, 
Though  pliant  to  the  blast,  its  seizing  force; 
Or  whirl'd  in  air,  or  into  vacant  chaff 
Shook  waste.    And  sometimes  too  a  burst  of  rain, 
Swept  from  the  black  horizon,  broad,  descends 
In  one  continuous  flood.    Still  over  head 
The  minghng  tempest  weaves  its  gloom,  and  still 
The  deluge  deepens ;  till  the  fields  around 
Lie  sunk,  and  flatted,  in  the  sordid  wave. 
Sudden,  the  ditches  swell;  the  meadows  swim. 
Red,  from  the  hills,  innumerable  streams 
Tumultuous  roar ;  and  high  above  its  banks 
The  river  lift ;  before  whose  rushing  tide 
Herds,  flocks,  and  harvests,  cottages,  and  swains, 
Roll  mingled  down;  all  that  the  winds  had  spared 
In  one  wild  moment  ruin'd;  the  big  hopes. 
And  well  earn'd  treasures  of  the  painful  year. 


Fled  to  some  eminence,  the  husbandman 
Helpless  beholds  the  miserable  wreck 
Driving  along ;  his  drowning  ox  at  once 
Descending,  with  his  labours  scatter'd  round, 
He  sees;  and  instant  o'er  his  shivering  thought 
Comes  Winter  unprovided,  and  a  train 
Of  claimant  children  dear.    Ye  masters,  then, 
Be  mindful  of  the  rough  laborious  hand 
That  sinks  you  soft  in  elegance  and  ease; 
Be  mindful  of  those  limbs  in  russet  clad, 
Whose  toil  to  yours  is  warmth  and  graceful  pride; 
And,  oh!  be  mindful  of  that  sparing  board. 
Which  covers  yours  with  luxury  profuse, 
Makes  your  glass  sparkl?^,  and  your  sense  rejoice  I 
Nor  cruelly  demand  what  the  deep  rains 
And  all-involving  winds  have  swept  away. 

Here  the  rude  clamour  of  the  sportsman's  joy, 
The  gun  fast-thundering,  and  the  winded  horn, 
Would  tempt  the  muse  to  sing  the  rural  game: 
How  in  his  mid-career  the  spaniel  struck, 
StiflT,  by  the  tainted  gale,  with  open  nose. 
Outstretch'd  and  finely  sensible,  draws  full, 
Fearful  and  cautious,  on  the  latent  prey; 
As  in  the  sun  the  circling  covey  bask 
Their  varied  plumes,  and  watchful  every  waj, 
Through  the  rough  stubble  turn  the  secret  eye. 
Caught  in  the  meshy  snare,  in  vain  they  beat 
Their  idle  wings,  entangled  more  and  more: 
Nor  on  the  surges  of  the  boundless  air. 
Though  borne  triumphant,  are  they  safe;  the  gun, 
Glanced  just,  and  sudden,  from  the  fowler's  eye, 
O'ertakes  their  sounding  pinions :  and  again, 
Immediate,  brings  them  from  the  towering  wing, 
Dead  to  the  ground;  or  drives  them  wide  dispersed. 
Wounded,  and  wheeling  various,  down  the  wind. 
These  are  not  subjects  for  the  peaceful  Muse, 
Nor  will  she  stain  with  such  her  spotless  song; 
Then  most  delighted,  when  she  social  sees 
The  whole  mix'd  animal-creation  round 
Alive  and  happy.    'Tis  not  joy  to  her, 
The  falsely  cheerful  barbarous  game  of  death, 
This  rage  of  pleasure,  which  the  restless  youth 
Awakes,  impatient,  with  the  gleaming  morn: 
When  beasts  of  prey  retire,  that  all  night  long, 
Urged  by  necessity,  had  ranged  the  dark, 
As  if  their  conscious  ravage  shunn'd  the  light, 
Ashamed.    Not  so  the  steady  tyrant  Man, 
Who  with  the  thoughtless  insolence  of  power 
Inflamed,  beyond  the  most  infuriate  wrath 
Of  the  worst  monster  that  e'er  roam'd  the  waste. 
For  sport  alone  pursues  the  cruel  chase, 
Amid  the  beamings  of  the  gentle  days. 
Upbraid,  ye  ravening  tribes,  our  wanton  rage, 
For  hunger  kindles  you,  and  lawless  want ; 
But  lavish  fed,  in  Nature's  bounty  roll'd, 
To  joy  at  anguish,  and  delight  in  blood. 
Is  what  your  horrid  bosoms  never  Jcnew. 

Poor  is  the  triumph  o'er  the  timid  hare ! 
Scared  from  the  corn,  and  now  to  sojne  lone  seat 


AUTUMN. 


33 


Retired:  the  rushy  fen;  the  ragged  furze, 
Stretch'd  o'er  the  stony  heath  ;  the  stubble  chapt; 
The  thistly  lawn;  the  thick  entangled  broom; 
Of  the  same  friendly  hue,  the  wither'd  fern; 
The  fallow  ground  laid  open  to  the  sun, 
Concoctive ;  and  the  nodding  sandy  bank, 
Hung  o'er  the  mazes  of  the  mountain  brook. 
Vain  is  her  best  precaution ;  though  she  sits 
Conceal'd,  with  folded  ears ;  unsleeping  eyes, 
By  Nature  raised  to  take  the  horizon  in ; 
And  head  couch'd  close  betwixt  her  hairy  feet, 
In  act  to  spring  away.    The  scented  dew 
Betrays  her  early  labyrinth ;  and  deep, 
In  scatter'd  sullen  openings,  far  behind. 
With  every  breeze  she  hears  the  coming  storm. 
But  nearer,  and  more  frequent,  as  it  loads 
The  sighing  gale,  she  springs  amazed,  and  all 
The  savage  soul  of  game  is  up  at  once : 
The  pack  full-opening,  various ;  the  shrill  horn 
Resounded  from  the  hills ;  the  neighing  steed, 
Wild  for  the  chase;  and  the  loud  hunter's  shout; 
O'er  a  weak,  harmless,  flying  creature,  all 
Mix'd  in  mad  tumult,  and  discordant  joy. 

The  stag  too,  singled  from  the  herd,  where  long 
He  ranged  the  branching  monarch  of  the  shades. 
Before  the  tempest  drives.    At  first,  in  speed 
He,  sprightly,  puts  his  faith ;  and,  roused  by  fear. 
Gives  all  liis  swift  aerial  soul  to  flight; 
Against  the  breeze  he  darts,  that  way  the  more 
To  leave  the  lessening  murderous  cry  behind : 
Deception  short !  though  fleeter  than  the  winds 
Blown  o'er  the  keen-air'd  mountain  by  the  north. 
He  bursts  the  thickets,  glances  through  the  glades. 
And  plunges  deep  into  the  wildest  wood ; 
If  slow,  yet  sure,  adhesive  to  the  track 
Hot-steaming,  up  behind  him  come  again 
The  inhuman  rout,  and  from  the  shady  depth 
Expel  him,  circling  through  his  every  shift. 
He  sweeps  the  forest  oft;  and  sobbing  sees 
The  glades,  mild  opening  to  the  golden  day; 
Where,  in  kind  contest,  with  his  butting  friends 
He  wont  to  struggle,  or  his  loves  enjoy. 
Oft  in  the  full-descending  flood  he  tries 
To  lose  the  scent,  and  lave  his  burning  sides : 
Oft  seeks  the  herd ;  the  watchful  herd,  alarm'd, 
With  selfish  care  avoid  a  brother's  woe. 
What  shall  he  do'?    His  once  so  vivid  nerves, 
So  full  of  buoyant  spirit,  now  no  more 
Inspire  the  course  ;  but  fainting  breathless  toil, 
Sick,  seizes  on  his  heart;  he  stands  at  bay; 
And  puts  his  iast  weak  refuge  in  despair. 
The  big  round  tears  run  down  his  dappled  face ; 
He  groans  in  anguish :  while  the  growling  pack, 
Blood-happy,  hang  at  his  fair  jutting  chest, 
"  And  mark  his  beauteous  chequer'd  sides  with  gore. 

Of  this  enough.    But  if  the  sylvan  youth, 
Whose  fervent  blood  boils  into  violence. 
Must  have  the  chase;  behold,  despising  flight, 
The  roused  up  lion,  resolute,  and  slow, 


Advancing  full  on  the  protended  spear. 
And  coward  band,  that  circling  wheel  aloof 
Slunk  from  the  cavern,  and  the  troubled  wood, 
See  the  grim  wolf ;  on  him  his  shaggy  foe 
Vindictive  fix,  and  let  the  ruffian  die : 
Or,  growling  horrid,  as  the  brindled  boar 
Grins  fell  destruction,  to  the  monster's  heart 
Let  the  dart  lighten  from  the  nervous  arm. 
These  Britain  knows  not;  give,  ye  Britons, 
then 

Your  sportive  fury,  pitiless,  to  pour 
Loose  on  the  nightly  robber  of  the  fold 
Him,  from  his  craggy  winding  haunts  unearth'd, 
Let  all  the  thunder  of  the  chase  pursue. 
Throw  the  broad  ditch  behind  you ;  o'er  the  hedge 
High  bound,  resistless ;  nor  the  deep  morass 
Refuse,  but  through  the  shaking  wilderness 
Pick  your  nice  way ;  into  the  perilous  flood 
Bear  fearless,  of  the  raging  instinct  full ; 
And  as  you  ride  the  torrent,  to  the  banks 
Your  triumph  sound  sonorous,  running  round, 
From  rock  to  rock,  in  circling  echoes  tost; 
Then  scale  the  mountains  to  their  woody  tops ; 
Rush  down  the  dangerous  steep ;  and  o'er  the 
lawn, 

In  fancy  swallowing  up  the  space  between. 
Pour  all  your  speed  into  the  rapid  game. 
For  happy  he !  who  tops  the  wheeling  chase  ; 
Has  every  maze  evolyed,  and  every  guile 
Disclosed ;  who  knows  the  merits  of  the  pack ; 
Who  saw  the  villain  seized,  and  dying  hard. 
Without  complaint,  though  by  a  hundred  mouths 
Relentless  torn :  O  glorious  he,  beyond 
His  daring  peers  !  when  the  retreating  horn 
Call  them  to  ghostly  halls  of  gray  renown, 
With  woodland  honours  graced ;  the  fox's  fur 
Depending  decent  from  the  roof :  and  spread 
Round  the  drear  walls,  with  antic  figures  fierce, 
The  stag's  large  front :  he  then  is  loudest  heard, 
When  the  night  staggers  with  severer  toils, 
With  feats  Thessalian  Centaurs  never  knew, 
And  their  repeated  wonders  shake  the  dome. 

But  first  the  fuel'd  chimney  blazes  wide; 
The  tankards  foam ;  and  the  strong  table  groans 
Beneath  the  smoking  sirloin,  stretch'd  immense 
From  side  to  side;  in  which,  with  desperate  knife, 
They  deep  incision  make,  and  talk  the  while 
Of  England's  glory,  ne'er  to  be  defaced 
While  hence  they  borrow  vigour :  or  amain 
Into  the  pasty  plunged,  at  intervals, 
If  stomach  keen  can  intervals  allow. 
Relating  all  the  glories  of  the  chase. 
Then  sated  Hunger  bids  his  brother  Thirst 
Produce  the  mighty  bowl;  the  mighty  bowl, 
Swell'dhigh  with  fiery  juice,  steams  liberal  round 
A  potent  gale,  delicious,  as  the  breath 
Of  Maia  to  the  love-sick  shepherdess, 
On  violets  diffused,  while  soft  she  hears 
Her  panting  shepherd  stealing  to  her  arms. 


34 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Nor  wanting  is  the  brown  October,  drawn, 
Mature  and  perfect,  from  his  dark  retreat 
Of  thirty  years ;  and  now  his  honest  front 
Flames  in  the  light  refulgent,  not  afraid 
E'en  with  the  vineyard's  best  produce  to  vie. 
To  cheat  the  thirsty  moments,  whist  awhile 
Walks  his  dull  round  beneath  a  cloud  of  smoke, 
Wreath'd,  fragrant,  from  the  pipe ;  or  the  quick 
dice, 

In  thunder  leaping  from  the  box,  awake 
The  sounding  gammon  :  while  romp-loving  miss 
Is  haul'd  about,  in  gallantry  robust. 

At  last  these  puling  idlenesses  laid 
Aside,  frequent  and  full,  the  dry  divan 
Close  iii  firm  circle ;  and  set,  ardent,  in 
For  serious  drinking.    Nor  evasion  sly, 
Nor  sober  shift,  is  to  the  puking  wretch 
Indulged  apart ;  but  earnest,  brimming  bowls 
Lave  every  soul,  the  table  floating  round, 
And  pavement,  faithless  to  the  fuddled  foot. 
Thus  as  they  swim  in  mutual  swill,  the  talk, 
Vociferous  at  once  from  twenty  tongues,  ' 
Reels  fast  from  theme  to  theme;  from  horses, 
hounds. 

To  church  oi  mistress,  politics  or  ghost, 
In  endless  mazes,  intricate,  perplex'd. 
Meantime,  with  sudden  interruption,  loud. 
The  impatient  catch  bursts  from  the  joyous  heart; 
That  moment  touch'd  is  every  kindred  soul; 
And,  opening  in  a  fuU-mouth'd  cry  of  joy, 
The  laugh,  the  slap,  the  jocund  curse  go  round 
While,  from  their  slumbers  shook,  the  kennel'd 
hounds 

Mix  in  the  music  of  the  day  again. 
As  when  the  tempest,  that  has  vex'd  the  deep 
The  dark  night  long,  with  fainter  murmurs  falls; 
So  gradual  sinks  their  mirth.    Their  feeble 
tongues. 

Unable  to  take  up  the  cumbrous  word, 
Lie  quite  dissolved.    Before  their  maudlin  eyes, 
Seen  dim  and  blue,  the  double  tapers  dance, 
Like  the  sun  wading  through  the  misty  sky. 
Then,  sliding  soft,  they  drop.    Confused  above, 
Glasses  and  bottles,  pipes  and  gazetteers. 
As  if  the  table  e'en  itself  was  drunk. 
Lie  a  wet  broken  scene ;  and  wide,  below, 
Is  heap'd  the  social  slaughter :  where  astride 
The  lubber  Power  in  filthy  triumph  sits, 
Slumbrous,  inclining  still  from  side  to  side, 
And  steeps  them  drench'd  in  potent  sleep  till 
morn. 

Perhaps  some  doctor,  of  tremendous  paunch, 
Awful  and  deep,  a  black  abyss  of  drink, 
Outlives  them  all ;  and  from  his  buried  flock 
Retiring,  full  of  rumination  sad. 
Laments  the  weakness  of  these  latter  times. 

But  if  the  rougher  sex  by  this  fierce  sport 
Is  hurried  wild,  let  not  such  horrid  joy 
E'er  stain  the  bosom  of  the  British  Fair. 


Far  be  the  spirit  of  the  chase  from  them! 
Uncomely  courage,  unbeseeming  skill ; 
To  spring  the  fence,  to  rein  the  prancing  steed  j 
The  cap,  the  whip,  the  mascuhne  attire ; 
In  which  they  roughen  to  the  sense,  and  all 
The  winning  softness  of  their  sex  is  lost. 
In  them  'tis  graceful  to  dissolve  at  wo; 
With  every  motion,  every  word,  to  wave 
Gluick  o'er  the  kindling  cheek  the  ready  blush  ; 
And  from  the  smallest  violence  to  shrink 
Unequal,  then  the  loveliest  in  their  fears ; 
And  by  this  silent  adulation,  soft., 
To  their  protection  more  engaging  Man. 
O  may  their  eyes  no  miserable  sight, 
Save  weeping  lovers,  see  !  a  nobler  game. 
Through  love's  enchanting  wiles  pursued,  yet  fled, 
In  chase  ambiguous.    May  their  tender  limbs 
Float  in  the  loose  simplicity  of  dress ! 
And,  fashion'd  all  to  harmony,  alone 
Know  they  to  seize  the  captivated  soul 
In  rapture  warbled  from  love-breathing  lips ; 
To  teach  the  lute  to  languish  ;  with  smooth  step, 
Disclosing  motion  in  its  every  charm, 
To  swim  along,  and  swell  the  mazy  dance  ; 
To  train  the  foliage  o'er  the  snowy  lawn  ; 
To  guide  the  pencil,  turn  the  tuneful  page ; 
To  lend  new  flavour  to  the  fruitful  year, 
And  heighten  Nature's  dainties  :  in  their  race 
To  rear  their  graces  into  second  life ; 
To  give  society  its  highest  taste ; 
Well  order'd  home  man's  best  delight  to  make ; 
And  by  submissive  wisdom,  modest  skill. 
With  every  gentle  care-eluding  art," 
To  raise  the  virtues,  animate  the  bliss, 
And  sweeten  all  the  toils  of  human  life  : 
This  be  the  female  dignity,  and  praise. 

Ye  swains,  now  hasten  to  the  hazel  bank  ; 
Where,  down  yon  dale,  the  widely  winding  brook 
Falls  hoarse  from  steep  to  steep.    In  close  array. 
Fit  for  the  thickets  and  the  tangling  shrub. 
Ye  virgins,  come.    For  you  their  latest  song 
The  woodlands  raise ;  the  clustering  nuts  for  you 
The  lover  finds  amid  the  secret  shade ; 
And,  where  they  burnish  on  the  topmost  bough, 
With  active  vigour  crushes  down  the  tree; 
Or  shakes  them  ripe  from  the  resigning  husk, 
A  glossy  shower,  and  of  an  ardent  brown. 
As  are  the  ringlets  of  Melinda's  hair : 
Melinda !  form'd  with  every  grace  complete ; 
Yet  these  neglecting,  above  beauty  wise, 
And  far  transcending  such  a  vulgar  praise. 

Hence  from  the  busy  joy-resounding  fields, 
In  cheerful  error,  let  us  tread  the  niaze 
Of  Autumn,  unconfined;  and  taste,  revived, 
The  breath  of  orchard  big  with  bending  fruit, 
Obedient  to  the  breeze  and  beating  ray, 
From  the  deep-loaded  bough  a  mellow  shower 
Incessant  melts  away.    The  juicy  pear 
Lies,  in  a  soft  prolusion,  scatter'd  round. 


AUTUMN. 


35 


A  various  sweetness  swells  the  gentle  race ; 
By  Nature's  all-refining  hand  prepared ; 
Of  temper'd  sun,  and  water,  earth,  and  air, 
In  ever  changing  composition  mix'd. 
Such,  falhng  frequent  through  the  chiller  night, 
The  fragrant  stores,  the  wide  projected  heaps 
Of  apples,  which  the  lusty-handed  Year, 
Innumerous,  o'er  the  blushing  orchard  shakes. 
A  various  spirit,  fresh,  delicious,  keen, 
Dwells  in  their  gelid  pores;  and,  active,  points 
The  piercing  cyder  for  the  thirsty  tongue : 
Thy  native  theme,  and  boon  inspirer  too, 
Philips,  Pomona's  bard,  the  second  thou 
Who  nobly  durst,  in  rhyme-unfetter'd  verse, 
With  British  freedom  sing  the  British  song : 
How,  from  Silurian  vats,  high  sparkling  wines 
Foam  in  transparent  floods ;  some  strong,  to  cheer 
The  wintry  revels  of  the  labouring  hind  ; 
And  tasteful  some,  to  cool  the  summer  hours. 

In  this  glad  season,  while  his  sweetest  beams 
The  sun  sheds  equal  o'er  the  meeken'd  day  ; 
Oh  lose  me  in  the  green  delightful  walks 
Of,  Dodington,  thy  seat,  serene  and  plain ; 
Where  simple  Nature  reigns ;  and  every  view, 
Diffusive,  spreads  the  pure  Dorsetian  downs, 
In  boundless  prospect;  yonder  shagg'd  with  wood. 
Here  rich  with  harvest,  and  there  white  with 
flocks ! 

Meantime  the  grandeur  of  thy  lofty  dome, 
Far  splendid,  seizes  on  the  ravish'd  eye. 
New  beauties  rise  with  each  revolving  day; 
New  columns  swell;  and  still  the  fresh  Spring 
finds 

New  plants  to  quicken,  and  new  groves  to  green. 

Full  of  thy  genius  all !  the  Muses'  seat : 

Where  in  the  secret  bower,  and  winding  walk. 

For  virtuous  Young  and  thee  they  twine  the  bay. 

Here  wandering  oft,  fired  with  the  restless  thirst 

Of  thy  applause,  I  solitary  court 

The  inspiring  breeze:  and  meditate  the  book 

Of  Nature  ever  open;  aiming  thence. 

Warm  from  the  heart,  to  learn  the  moral  song. 

Here,  as  I  steal  along  the  sunny  wall. 

Where  Autumn  basks,  with  fruit  empurpled  deep, 

My  pleasing  theme  continual  prompts  my  thought: 

Presents  the  downy  peach ;  the  shining  plum : 

The  ruddy,  fragrant  nectarine;  and  dark, 

Beneath  his  ample  leaf,  the  luscious  fig. 

The  vine  too  here  her  curling  tendrils  shoots ; 

Hangs  out  her  clusters,  glowing  to  the  south ; 

And  scarcely  wishes  for  a  warmer  sky. 

Turn  we  a  moment  Fancy's  rapid  flight 
To  vigorous  soils,  and  climes  of  fair  extent ; 
Where,  by  the  potent  sun  elated  high. 
The  vineyard  swells  refulgent  on  the  day ; 
Spreads  o'er  the  vale;  or  up  the  mountain  climbs, 
.Profuse ;  and  drinks  amid  the  sunny  rocks. 
From  cliff  to  cliflf  increased,  the  heighten 'd  blaze. 

20.2 


Low  bend  the  weighty  boughs.    The  clusters 
clear, 

Half  through  the  foliage  seen,  or  ardent  flame, 
Or  shine  transparent ;  while  perfection  breathes 
White  o'er  the  turgent  film  the  living  dew. 
As  thus  they  brighten  with  exalted  juice. 
Touch 'd  into  flavour  by  the  mingling  ray; 
The  rural  youth  and  virgins  o'er  the  field, 
Each  fond  for  each  to  cull  the  autumnal  prime, 
Exulting  rove,  and  speak  the  vintage  nigh. 
Then  comes  the  crushing  swain;  the  country 
floats. 

And  foams  unbounded  with  the  marshy  flood ; 
That  by  degrees  fermented  and  refined, 
Round  the  raised  nations  pours  the  cup  of  joy : 
The  claret  smooth,  red  as  the  lip  we  press 
In  sparkHng  fancy,  while  we  drain  the  bowl ; 
The  mellow-tasted  burgundy ;  and  quick, 
As  is  the  wit  it  gives,  the  gay  champagne. 

Now,  by  the  cool  declining  year  condensed, 
Descend  the  copious  exhalations,  check'd 
As  up  the  middle  sky  unseen  they  stole, 
And  roll  the  doubling  fogs  around  the  hill. 
No  more  the  mountain,  horrid,  vast,  sublime. 
Who  pours  a  sweep  of  rivers  from  his  sides. 
And  high  between  contending  kingdoms  rears 
The  rocky  long  division,  fills  the  view 
With  great  variety ;  ^but  in  a  night 
Of  gathering  vapour,  from  the  baffled  sense 
Sinks  dark  and  dreary.    Thence  expanding  far, 
The  huge  dusk,  gradual,  swallows  up  the  plain: 
Vanish  the  woods :  the  dim-seen  river  seems 
Sullen,  and  slow,  to  roll  the  misty  wave. 
E'en  in  the  height  of  noon  oppress'd,  the  sun 
Sheds  weak,  and  blunt,  his  wide-refracted  ray ; 
Whence  glaring  oft,  with  many  a  broaden'd  orb, 
He  frights  the  nations.    Indistinct  on  earth. 
Seen  through  the  turbid  air,  beyond  the  life 
Objects  appear ;  and,  wilder'd,  o'er  the  waste 
The  shepherd  stalks  gigantic.    Till  at  last 
Wreath'd  dun  around,  in  deeper  circles  still 
Successive  closing,  sits  the  general  fog 
Unbounded  o'er  the  world;  and,  mingling  thick, 
A  formless  gray  confusion  covers  all. 
As  when  of  old  (so  sung  the  Hebrew  Bard) 
Light,  uncollected,  through  the  chaos  urged 
Its  infant  way ;  nor  Order  yet  had  drawn 
His  lovely  train  from  out  the  dubious  gloom. 

These  roving  mists,  that  constant  now  begin 
To  smoke  along  the  hilly  country,  these, 
With  weightier  rains,  and  melted  Alpine  snows, 
The  mountain  cisterns  fill,  those  ample  stores 
Of  water,  scoop'd  among  the  hollow  rocks; 
Whence  gush  the  streams,  the  ceaseless  fountains 
play, 

And  their  unfailing  wealth  the  rivers  draw. 
Some  sages  say,  that,  where  the  numerous  wave 
For  ever  lashes  the  resounding  shore, 


36 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Drill'd  through  the  sandy  stratum,  every  way, 
The  waters  with  the  sandy  stratum  rise; 
Amid  whose  angles  infinitely  strain'd, 
They  joyful  leave  their  jaggy  salts  behind, 
And  clear  and  sweeten  as  they  soak  along. 
Nor  stops  the  restless  fluid,  mounting  still, 
Though  oft  amidst  the  irriguous  vale  it  springs ; 
But  to  the  mountain  courted  by  the  sand, 
That  leads  it  darkling  on  in  faithful  maze, 
Far  from  the  parent-main,  it  boils  again 
Fresh  into  day;  and  all  the  glittering  hill 
Is  bright  with  spouting  rills.  But  hence  this  vain 
Amusive  dream  !  why  should  the  waters  love 
To  take  so  far  a  journey  to  the  hills, 
"When  the  sweet  valleys  offer  to  their  toil 
Inviting  quiet,  and  a  nearer  bed  1 
Or  if  by  blind  ambition  led  astray. 
They  must  aspire;  why  should  they  sudden  stop 
Among  the  broken  mountain's  rushy  dells, 
And,  ere  they  gain  its  highest  peak,  desert 
The  attractive  sand  that  charm'd  their  course  so 
longl 

Besides,  the  hard  agglomerating  salts, 
The  spoil  of  ages,  would  impervious  choke 
Their  secret  channels;  or,  by  slow  degrees, 
High  as  the  hills  protrude  the  swelling  vales: 
Old  Ocean  too,  suck'd  through  the  porous  globe. 
Had  long  ere  now  forsook  his  horrid  bed, 
And  brought  Deucalion's  watery  times  again. 

Say  then,  where  lurk  the  vast  eternal  springs, 
That,  like  creating  nature,  lie  conceal'd 
From  mortal  eye,  yet  with  their  lavish  stores 
Refresh  the  globe,  and  all  its  joyous  tribes! 
O  thou  pervading  Genius,  given  to  man. 
To  trace  the  secrets  of  the  dark  abyss, 
O  lay  the  mountains  bare !  and  wide  display 
Their  hidden  structure  to  the  astonish'd  view! 
Strip  from  the  branching  Alps  their  piny  load ; 
The  huge  incumbrance  of  horrific  woods 
From  Asian  Taurus,  from  Imaus  stretch'd 
Athwart  the  roving  Tartar's  sullen  bounds; 
Give  opening  Hemus  to  my  searching  eye. 
And  high  Olympus  pouring  many  a  stream! 
O  from  the  sounding  summits  of  the  north. 
The  Dofrine  hills,  through  Scandinavia  roll'd 
To  farthest  Lapland  and  the  frozen  main ; 
From  lofty  Caucasus,  far  seen  by  those 
Who  in  the  Caspian  and  black  Euxine  toil ; 
From  cold  Riphean  rocks,  which  the  wild  Russ 
Believes  the 'stony  girdle*  of  the  world: 
And  all  the  dreadful  mountains,  wrapp'd  in  storm 
Whence  wide  Siberia  draws  her  lonely  floods; 
O  sweep  the  eternal  snows !  hung  o'er  the  deep. 
That  ever  works  beneath  his  sounding  base. 
Bid  Atlas,  propping  heaven,  as  poets  feign. 


•  The  Moscovites  call  the  Riphean  Mountains  Weliki  Ca- 
inenypoys,  that  is,  the  great  stony  Girdle;  because  they  siip- 
pfwe  thorn  to  encompass  the  whole  earth. 


His  subterranean  wonders  spread !  unveil 
The  miny  caverns,  blazing  on  the  day, 
Of  Abyssinia's  cloud  compelling  cliff's. 
And  of  the  bending  Mountains*  of  the  Moon! 
O'ertopping  all  these  giant  sons  of  earth. 
Let  the  dire  Andes,  from  the  radiant  line 
Stretch'd  to  the  stormy  seas  that  thunder  round 
The  southern  pole,  their  hideous  deeps  unfold  ! 

Amazing  scene!  Behold!  the  glooms  disclose; 
I  see  the  rivers  in  their  infant  beds ! 
Deep,  deep  I  hear  them  labouring  to  get  free; 
I  see  the  leaning  strata,  artful  ranged ; 
The  gaping  fissures  to  receive  the  rains. 
The  melting  snows,  and  ever-dripping  fogs, 
Strow'd  bibulous  above  I  see  the  sands. 
The  pebbly  gravel  next,  the  layers  then 
Of  mingled  moulds,  of  more  retentive  earths 
The  gutter'd  rocks  and  mazy-running  clefts; 
That,  while  the  stealing  moisture  they  transmit, 
Retard  its  motion,  and  forbid  its  waste. 
Beneath  the  incessant  weeping  of  these  drains, 
I  see  the  rocky  siphons  stretch'd  immense. 
The  mighty  reservoirs  of  harden'd  chalk. 
Or  stiff"  compacted  clay,  capacious  fcrm'd : 
O'erflowing  thence,  the  congregated  stores, 
The  crystal  treasures  of  the  liquid  world. 
Through  the  stirr'd  sands  a  bubbling  passage  burst; 
And  welling  out,  around  the  middle  steep. 
Or  from  the  bottoms  of  the  bosom'd  hills, 
In  pure  effusion  flow.    United,  thus. 
The  exhaling  sun,  the  vapour-burden'd  air, 
The  gelid  mountains,  that  to  rain  condensed 
These  vapours  in  continual  current  draw. 
And  send  them  o'er  the  fair-divided  earth, 
In  bounteous  rivers  to  the  deep  again, 
A  social  commerce  hold,  and  firm  support 
The  full-adjusted  harmony  of  things. 

When  Autumn  scatters  his  departing  gleams, 
Warn'd  of  approaching  Winter,  gather'd,  play 
The  swallow-people;  and  toss'd  wide  around, 
O'er  the  calm  sky,  in  convolution  swift. 
The  feather'd  eddy  floats:  rejoicing  once, 
Ere  to  their  wintry  slumbers  they  retire; 
In  clusters  clung,  beneath  the  mouldering  bank, 
And  where,  unpierced  by  frost,  the  cavern  sweats, 
Or  rather  into  warmer  climes  convey'd. 
With  other  kindred  birds  of  season,  there 
They  twitter  cheerful,  till  the  vernal  months 
Invite  them  welcome  back :  for,  thronging,  now 
Innumerous  wings  are  in  commotion  all. 

Where  the  Rhine  loses  his  majestic  force 
In  Belgian  plains,  won  from  the  raging  deep 
By  diligence  amazing,  and  the  strong 
Unconquerable  hand  of  Liberty, 
The  stork-assembly  meets;  for  many  a  day, 
Consulting  deep,  and  various,  ere  they  take 


A  range  of  mountains  in  Africa  that  surround  all  Montv 


AUTUMN. 


37 


Their  arduous  voyage  through  the  liquid  sky: 
And  now  their  route  design'd,  their  leaders  chose, 
Their  tribes   adjusted,  clean'd  their  vigorous 
wings ; 

And  many  a  circle,  many  a  short  essay, 
Wheel'd  round  and  round,  in  congregation  full 
The  figured  flight  ascends ;  and,  riding  high 
The  aerial  billows,  mixes  with  the  clouds. 

Or  where  the  Northern  ocean,  in  vast  whirls. 
Boils  round  the  naked  melancholy  isles 
Of  farthest  Thule,  and  the  Atlantic  surge 
Pours  in  among  the  stormy  Hebrides ; 
Who  can  recount  what  transmigrations  there 
Are  annual  made'?  what  nations  come  and  go'? 
And  how  the  living  clouds  on  clouds  arise  ^ 
Infinite  wings !  till  all  the  plume-dark  air. 
And  rude  resounding  shore  are  one  wild  cry. 

Here  the  plain  harmless  native  his  small  flock. 
And  herd  diminutive  of  many  hues. 
Tends  on  the  little  island's  verdant  swell. 
The  shepherd's  sea-girt  reign ;  or,  to  the  rocks 
Dire-clinging,  gathers  his  ovarious  food; 
Or  sweeps  the  fishy  shore  !  or  treasures  up 
The  plumage,  rising  full,  to  form  the  bed 
Of  luxury.    And  here  awhile  the  Muse, 
High  hovering  o'er  the  broad  cerulean  scene, 
Sees  Caledonia,  in  romantic  view: 
Her  airy  mountains,  from  the  waving  main, 
Invested  with  a  keen  diffusive  sky, 
Breathing  the  soul  acute :  her  forests  huge, 
Incult,  robust,  and  tall,  by  Nature's  hand 
Planted  of  old ;  her  azure  lakes  between, 
Pour'd  out  extensive,  and  of  watery  wealth 
Full;  winding  deep,  and  green,  her  fertile  vales ; 
With  many  a  cool  translucent  brimming  flood 
Wash'd  lovely,  from  the  Tweed  (pure  parent 
stream. 

Whose  pastoral  banks  first  heard  my  Doric  reed. 
With,  sylvan  Jed,  thy  tributary  brook) 
To  where  the  north-inflated  tempest  foams 
O'er  Orca'sor  Betubiam's  highest  peak: 
Nurse  of  a  people,  in  Misfortune's  school 
Train'd  up  to  hardy  deeds;  soon  visited 
By  Learning,  when  before  the  gothic  rage 
She  took  her  western  flight.    A  manly  race, 
Of  un submitting  spirit,  wise,  and  brave; 
Who  still  through  bleeding  ages  struggled  hard, 
(As  well  unhappy  Wallace  can  attest, 
Great  patriot  hero!  ill  requited  chief!) 
To  hold  a  generous,  undiminish'd  state; 
Too  much  in  vain !  Hence  of  unequal  bounds 
Impatient,  and  by  tempting  glory  borne 
O'er  every  land,  for  every  land  their  life 
Has  flow'd  profuse,  their  piercing  genius  plann'd, 
And  swell'd  the  pomp  of  peace  their  faithful  toil. 
As  from  their  own  clear  north,  in  radiant  streams, 
Bright  over  Europe  bursts  the  boreal  morn. 

Oh !  is  there  not  some  patriot,  in  whose  power 
That  best,  that  godlike  luxury  is  placed, 


Of  blessing  thousands,  thousands  yet  unborn, 

Through  late  posterity '?  some,  large  of  soul. 

To  cheer  dejected  industry  1  to  give 

A  double  harvest  to  the  pining  swain'? 

And  teach  the  labouring  hand  the  sweets  of  toil  1 

How,  by  the  finest  art,  the  native  robe 

To  weave;  how  white  as  hyperborean  snow, 

To  form  the  lucid  lawn;  with  venturous  oar 

How  to  dash  wide  the  billow;  nor  look  on,  * 

Shamefully  passive  while  Batavian  fleets 

Defraud  us  of  the  glittering  finny  swarms. 

That  heave  our  friths,  and  crowd  upon  our  shores; 

How  all  enhvening  trade  to  rouse,  and  wing 

The  prosperous  sail,  from  every  growing  port, 

Uninjured,  round  the  sea-encircled  globe; 

And  thus,  in  soul  united  as  in  name, 

Bid  Britain  reign  the  mistress  of  the  deep  1 

Yes,  there  are  such.   And  full  on  thee,  Argyle, 
Her  hope,  her  stay,  her  darling,  and  her  boast, 
From  her  first  patriots  and  her  heroes  sprung. 
Thy  fond  imploring  country  turns  her  eye; 
In  thee  with  all  a  mother's  triumph,  sees 
Her  every  virtue,  every  grace,  combined,  > 
Her  genius,  wisdom,  her  engaging  turn. 
Her  pride  of  honour,  and  her  courage  tried, 
Calm  and  intrepid,  in  the  very  throat 
Of  sulphurous  war,  on  Tenier's  dreadful  field. 
Nor  less  the  palm  of  peace,  inwreathes  thy  brow: 
For,  powerful  as  thy  sword,  from  thy  rich  tongue 
Persuasion  flows,  and  wins  the  high  debate ; 
While  mix'd  in  thee  combine  the  charm  of  youth, 
The  force  of  manhood,  and  the  depth  of  age. 
Thee,  Forbes,  too,  whom  every  worth  attends, 
As  truth  sincere,  as  weeping  friendship  kind, 
Thee,  truly  generous,  and  in  silence  great, 
Thy  country  feels  through  her  reviving  arts, 
Plann'd  by  thy  wisdom,  by  thy  soul  inform'd ; 
And  seldom  has  she  known  a  friend  like  thee. 

But  see  the  fading  many-colour'd  woods, 
Shade  deepening  over  shade,  the  country  round 
Imbrown ;  a  crowded  umbrage,  dusk,  and  dun. 
Of  every  hue,  from  wan  declining  green 
To  sooty  dark.    These  now  the  lonesome  Muse, 
Low  whispering,  lead  into  their  leaf-strown  walks, 
And  give  the  Season  in  its  latest  view. 

Meantime,  light  shadowing  all,  a  sober  calm 
Fleeces  unbounded  ether:  whose  least  wave 
Stands  tremulous,  uncertain  where  to  turn 
The  gentle  current;  while  illumined  wide. 
The  dewy-skirted  clouds  imbibe  the  sun, 
And  through  their  lucid  veil  his  soften'd  force 
Shed  o'er  the  peaceful  world.    Then  is  the  time, 
For  those  whom  Wisdom  and  whom  Nature 
charm, 

To  steal  themselves  from  the  degenerate  crowd, 
And  soar  above  this  little  scene  of  things: 
To  tread  low-thoughted  Vice  beneath  their  feet; 
To  sooth  the  throbbing  passions  into  peace; 
And  woo  lone  Gluiet  in  her  silent  walks 


38 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Thus  solitary,  and  in  pensive  guise, 
Oft  let  me  wander  o'er  the  russet  mead, 
And  through  the  sadden'd  grove,  where  scarce  is 
heard . 

One  dying  strain,  to  cheer  the  woodman's  toil. 
Haply  some  widow'd  songster  pours  his  plaint, 
Far,  in  faint  warblings,  through  the  tawny  copse 
"While  congregated  thrushes,  linnets,  larks, 
•  And  each  wild  throat,  whose  artless  strains  so  late 
Swell'd  all  the  music  of  the  swarming  shades, 
Robb'd  of  their  tuneful  souls,  now  shivering  sit 
On  the  dead  tree,  a  dull  despondent  flock ; 
With  not  a  brightness  waving  o'er  their  plumes, 
And  nought  save  chattering  discord  in  their  note. 
O  let  not,  aim'd  from  some  inhuman  eye, 
The  gun  the  music  of  the  coming  year 
Destroy;  and  harmless,  unsuspecting  harm, 
Lay  the  weak  tribes  a  miserable  prey. 
In  mingled  murder,  fluttering  on  the  ground ! 

The  pale-descending  year,  yet  pleasing  still, 
A  gentler  mood  inspires ;  for  now  the  leaf 
Incessant  rustles  from  the  mournful  grove ; 
Oft  startling  such  as,  studious,  walk  below, 
And  slowly  circles  through  the  waving  air. 
But  should  a  quicker  breeze  amid  the  boughs 
Sob,  o'er  the  sky  the  leafy  deluge  streams ; 
Till  choked,  and  matted  with  the  dreary  shower. 
The  forest  Walks,  at  every  rising  gale. 
Roll  wide  the  wither'd  waste,  and  whistle  bleak. 
Fled  is  the  blasted  verdure  of  the  fields ; 
Arid,  shrunk  into  their  beds,  the  flowery  race 
Their  sunny  robes  resign.    E'en  what  rejnain'd 
Of  stronger  fruits  falls  from  the  naked  tree; 
And  woods,  fields,  gardens,  orchards,  all  around 
The  desolated  prospect  thrills  the  soul. 

He  comes !  he  comes !  in  every  breeze  the  Power 
Of  Philosophic  Melancholy  comes ! 
His  near  approach  the  sudden  starting  tear. 
The  glowing  cneek,  the  mild  dejected  air, 
The  soften'd  feature,  and  the  beating  heart. 
Pierced  deep  with  many  a  virtuous  pang,  declare. 
O'er  all  the  soul  his  sacred  influence  breathes! 
Inflames  imagination;  through  the  breast 
Infuses  every  tenderness;  and  far 
Beyond  dim  earth  exalts  the  swelling  thought. 
Ten  thousand  thousand  fleet  ideas,  such 
As  never  mingled  with  the  vulgar  dream, 
Crowd  fast  into  the  mind's  creative  eye. 
As  fast  the  correspondent  passions  rise 
As  varied,  and  as  high:  Devotion  raised 
To  rapture,  and  divine  astonishment ; 
The  love  of  Nature  unconfined,  and,  chief, 
Of  human  race ;  the  large  ambitious  wish 
To  make  them  blest;  the  sigh  for  sufllering  worth 
Lost  in  obscurity ;  the  noble  scorn 
Of  tyrant  pride;  the  fearless  great  resolve; 
The  wonder  which  the  dying  patriot  draws, 
Inspiring  glory  through  remotest  time ; 
The  awaken'd  throb  for  virtue,  and  for  fame; 


The  sympathies  of  love,  and  friendship  dear; 
With  all  the  social  ofl'spring  of  the  heart. 

Oh!  bear  me  then  to  vast  embowering  shades, 
To  twilight  groves,  and  visionary  vales; 
To  weeping  grottos,  and  prophetic  glooms; 
Where  angel  forms  athwart  the  solemn  dusk. 
Tremendous  sweep,  or  seem  to  sweep  along ; 
And  voices  more  than  human,  through  the  void 
Deep  sounding,  seize  the  enthusiastic  ear ! 

Or  is  this  gloom  too  much^    Then  lead,  ye 
powers. 

That  o'er  the  garden  and  the  rural  seat 
Preside,  which  shining  through  the  cheerful  hand 
In  countless  numbers  blest  Britannia  sees ; 
O  lead  me  to  the  wide  extended  walks. 
The  fair  majestic  paradise  of  Stowe!* 
Not  Persian  Cyrus  on  Ionia's  shore 
E'er  saw  such  sylvan  scenes;  such  various  art 
By  gefiius  fired,  such  ardent  genius  tamed 
By  cool  judicious  art ;  that,  in  the  strife. 
All  beauteous  Nature  fears  to  be  outdone. 
And  there,  O  Pitt,  thy  country's  early  boast, 
There  let  me  sit  beneath  the  shelter'd  slopes, 
Or  in  that  Templet  where,  in  future  times. 
Thou  well  shalt  merit  a  distinguish'd  name; 
And,  with  thy  converse  blest,  catch  the  last  smiles 
Of  Autumn  beaming  o'er  the  yellow  woods. 
While  there  with  thee  the  enchanted  round  I 
walk. 

The  regulated  wild,  gay  Fancy  then 
Will  tread  in  thought  the  groves  of  attic  land. 
Will  from  thy  standard  taste  refine  her  own,  ' 
Correct  her  pencil  to  the  purest  truth 
Of  Nature,  or,  the  unimpassion'd  shades 
Forsaking,  raise  it  to  the  human  mind. 
Or  if  hereafter  she,  with  jUster  hand, 
Shall  draw  the  tragic  scene,  instruct  her  thou. 
To  mark  the  varied  movements  of  the  heart 
What  every  decent  character  requires. 
And  every  passion  speaks:  O  through  her  strain 
Breathe  thy  pathetic  eloquence !  that  moulds 
The  attentive  senate,  charms,  persuades,  exalts, 
Of  honest  Zeal  the  indignant  lightning  throws, 
And  shakes  Corruption  on  her  venal  throne. 
While  thus  we  talk,  and  through  Elysian  vales 
Delighted  rove,  perhaps  a  sigh  escapes: 
What  pity,  Cobham,  thou  thy  verdant  files 
Of  order'd  trees  shouldst  here  inglorious  range, 
Instead  of  squadrons  flaming  o'er  the  field. 
And  long  embattled  hosts!  when  the  proud  foe. 
The  faithless  vain  disturber  of  mankind. 
Insulting  Gaul,  has  roused  the  world  to  war; 
When  keen,  once  more,  within  their  bounds  to  press 
Those  polish'd  robbers,  those  ambitious  slaves, 
The  British  youth  would  hail  thy  wise  conmiand, 
Thy  temper'd  ardour,  and  thy  veteran  skill. 


*  The  seat  of  Lord  Cobham. 

tThe  Temple  of  Virtue  m  Stowe  Gardens 


AUTUMN.! 


39 


The  western  sun  withdraws  the  shorten'd  day; 
And  humid  Evening,  gliding  o'er  the  sky, 
In  her  chill  progress,  to  the  ground  condensed 
The  vapours  throws.  Where  creeping  waters  ooze. 
Where  marshes  stagnate,  and  where  rivers  wind 
Cluster  the  rolUng  fogs,  and  swim  along 
The  dusky-mantled  lawn.   Meanwhile  the  Moon 
Full  orb'd,  and  breaking  through  the  scatter'd 
clouds, 

Shows  her  broad  visage  in  the  crimson 'd  east. 
Turn'd  to  the  sun  direct,  her  spotted  disk, 
Where  mountains  rise,  umbrageous  dales  descend, 
And  caverns  deep,  as  optic  tube  descries, 
A  smaller  earth,  gives  us  his  blaze  again, 
Void  of  its  flame,  and  sheds  a  softer  day. 
Now  through  the  passing  cloud  she  seems  to  stoop. 
Now  up  the  pure  cerulean  rides  sublime. 
Wide  the  pale  deluge  floats,  and  streaming  mild 
O'er  the  sky'd  mountain  to  the  shadowy  vale. 
While  rocks  and  floods  reflect  the  quivering  gleam, 
The  whole  air  whitens  with  a  boundless  tide 
Of  silver  radiance  trembling  round  the  world. 

But  when  half  blotted  from  the  sky  her  light, 
Fainting,  permits  the  starry  fires  to  burn 
With  keener  lustre  through  the  depth  of  heaven; 
Or  near  extinct  her  deaden'd  orb  appears. 
And  scarce  appears,  of  sickly  beamless  white; 
Ofl;  in  this  season,  silent  from  the  north 
A  blaze  of  meteors  shoots;  ensweeping  first 
The  lower  skies,  they  all  at  once  converge 
High  to  the  crown  of  heaven,  and  all  at  once 
Relapsing  quick,  as  quickly  reascend, 
And  mix,  and  thwart,  extinguish,  and  renew, 
All  ether  coursing  in  a  maze  of  light. 

From  look  to  look,  contagious  through  the  crowd. 
The  panic  runs,  and  into  wondrous  shapes 
The  appearance  throws:  armies  in  meet  array, 
Throng'd  with  aerial  spears,  and  steeds  of  fire; 
Till  the  long  lines  of  full  extended  war 
In  bleeding  fight  commix'd,  the  sanguine  flood 
Rolls  a  broad  slaughter  o'er  the  plains  of  heaven. 
As  thus  they  scan  the  visionary  scene. 
On  all  sides  swells  the  superstitious  din, 
Incontinent ;  and  busy  frenzy  talks 
Of  blood  and  battle;  cities  overturn 'd. 
And  late  at  night  in  swallowing  earthquake  sunk, 
Or  hideous  wrapt  in  fierce  ascending  flame; 
Of  sallow  famine,  inundation,  storm; 
Of  pestilence,  and  every  great  distress ; 
Empires  sub  versed,  when  ruling  fate  has  struck 
The  unalterable  hour:  e'en  Nature's  self 
Is  deem'd  to  totter  on  the  brink  of  time. 
Not  so  the  man  of  philosophic  eye. 
And  inspect  sage ;  the  waving  brightness  he 
Curious  surveys,  inquisitive  to  know 
The  causes,  and  materials,  yet  unfix 'd. 
Of  this  appearance  beautiful  and  new. 

Now  black,  and  deep,  the  night  begins  to  fall, 
A  shade  immense !  Sunk  in  the  quenching  gloom, 


Magnificent  and  vast,  are  heaven  and  earth. 
Order  confounded  lies;  all  beauty  void; 
Distinction  lost ;  and  gay  variety 
One  universal  blot ;  such  the  fair  power 
Of  light,  to  kindle  and  create  the  whole. 
Drear  is  the  state  of  the  benighted  wretch, 
Who  then,  bewilder'd,  wanders  through  the  dark, 
Full  of  pale  fancies,  and  chimeras  huge; 
Nor  visited  by  one  directive  ray. 
From  cottage  streaming,  or  from  airy  hall. 
Perhaps  impatient  as  he  stumbles  on. 
Struck  from  the  root  of  shmy  rushes,  blue. 
The  wildfire  scatters  round,  or  gather'd  trails 
A  length  of  flame  deceitful  o'er  the  moss : 
Whither  decoy'd  by  the  fantastic  blaze. 
Now  lost  and  now  renew'd,  he  sinks  absorb'd, 
Rider  and  horse,  amid  the  miry  gulf : 
While  still,  from  day  to  day,  his  pining  wife 
And  plaintive  children  his  return  await. 
In  wild  conjecture  lost.    At  other  times, 
Sent  by  the  better  Genius  of  the  night, 
Innoxious,  gleaming  on  the  horse's  mane. 
The  meteor  sits;  and  shows  the  narrow  path, 
That  winding  leads  through  pits  of  death,  or  else 
Instructs  him  how  to  take  the  dangerous  ford. 

The  lengthen'd  night  elapsed,the  Morning  shines 
Serene,  in  all  her  dewy  beauty  bright, 
Unfolding  fair  the  last  autumnal  day. 
And  now  the  mounting  sun  dispels  the  fog; 
The  rigid  hoar  frost  melts  before  his  beam; 
And  hung  on  every  spray,  on  every  blade 
Of  grass,  the  myriad  dew-drops  twinkle  round. 

Ah,  see  where,  robb'd  and  murder'd,  in  that  pit 
Lies  the  still  heaving  hive !  at  evening  snatch'd, 
Beneath  the  cloud  of  guilt-concealing  night. 
And  fix'd  o'er  sulphur:  while,  not  dreaming  ill, 
The  happy  people,  in  their  waxen  cells. 
Sat  tending  public  cares,  and  planning  schemes 
Of  temperance,  for  Winter  poor;  rejoiced 
To  mark,  full  flowing  round,  their  copious  stores. 
Sudden  the  dark  oppressive  steam  ascends; 
And,  used  to  milder  scents,  the  tender  race, 
By  thousands,  tumble  from  their  honey'd  domesj 
Convolved,  and  agonizing  in  the  dust. 
And  was  it  then  for  this  you  roam'd  the  Spring, 
Intent  from  flower  to  flower  1  for  this  you  toil'd 
Ceaseless  the  burning  Summer  heats  awayl 
For  this  in  Autumn  search'd  the  blooming  waste, 
Nor  lost  one  sunny  gleam  1  for  this  sad  fatel 
O  Man !  tyrannic  lord !  how  long,  how  long 
Shall  prostrate  Nature  groan  beneath  your  rage, 
Awaiting  renovation'?  when  obliged, 
Must  you  destroy  I  of  their  ambrosial  food 
Can  you  not  borrow;  and,  in  just  return. 
Afford  them  shelter  from  the  wintry  winds ; 
Or,  as  the  sharp  year  pinches,  with  Iheir  ovm 
Again  regale  them  on  some  smiling  day  1 
See  where  the  stony  bottom  of  their  town 
Looks  desolate,  and  wild;  with  here  and  there 


40 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


A  liel[)less  number,  who  the  ruiri'd  state 

Survive,  lamenting  weak,  cast  out  to  death. 

Thus  a  proud  city,  populous  and  rich, 

Full  of  the  works  of  peace,  and  high  in  joy, 

At  theatre  or  feast,  or  sunk  in  sleep, 

(As  late,  Palermo,  was  thy  fate)  is  seized 

By  some  dread  earthquake,  and  convulsive  hurl'd 

Sheer  from  the  black  foundation,  stench-involved, 

Into  a  gulf  of  blue  sulphureojis  flame. 

Hence  every  harsher  sight !  for  now  the  day, 
O'er  heaven  and  earth  diffused,  grows  warm,  and 
high; 

Infinite  splendour !  wide  investing  all. 
How  still  the  breeze !  save  what  the  filmy  thread 
Of  dew  evaporate  brushes  from  the  plain. 
How  clear  the  cloudless  sky  1  how  deeply  tinged 
With  a  peculiar  blue!  the  ethereal  arch 
How  swell 'd  immense!  amid  whose  azure  throned 
The  radiant  sun  how  gay !  how  calm  below 
The  gilded  earth  !  the  harvest-treasures  all 
Now  gather'd  in,  beyond  the  rage  of  storms, 
Sure  to  the  swain;  the  circling  fence  shut  up; 
And  instant  Winter's  utmost  rage  defied. 
While,  loose  to  festive  joy,  the  country  round 
Laughs  with  the  loud  sincerity  of  mirth. 
Shook  to  the  wind  their  cares.  The  toil-strung  youth 
By  the  quick  sense  of  music  taught  alone, 
Leaps  wildly  graceful  in  the  lively  dance. 
Her  every  charm  abroad,  the  village-toast. 
Young,  buxom,  warm,  in  native  beauty  rich, 
Darts  not  unmeaning  looks;  and,  where  her  eye 
Points  an  approving  smile,  with  double  force, 
The  cudgel  rattles,  and  the  wrestler  twines. 
Age  too  shines  out ;  and,  garrulous,  recounts 
The  feats  of  youth.    Thus  they  rejoice ;  nor  think 
That,  with  to-morrow's  sun,  their  annual  toil 
Begins  again  the  never  ceasing  round. 

Oh,  knew  he  but  his  happiness,  of  men 
The  happiest  he !  who  far  from  public  rage, 
Deep  in  the  vale,  with  a  choice  few  retired. 
Drinks  the  pure  pleasures  of  the  Rural  Life. 
What  though  the  dome  be  wanting,  whose  proud 
gate. 

Each  morning,  vomits  out  the  sneaking  crowd 
Of  flatterers  false,  and  in  their  turn  abused  1 
Vile  intercourse !  what  though  the  glittering  robe 
Of  every  hue  reflected  light  can  give. 
Or  floating  loose,  or  stiff  with  mazy  gold, 
The  pride  and  gaze  of  fools!  oppress  him  not? 
What  though,  from  utmost  land  and  isea  purvey 'd, 
For  him  each  rarer  tributary  life 
Bleeds  not,  and  his  insatiate  table  heaps 
With  luxury,  and  death  1  What  though  his  bowl 
Flames  not  with  costly  juice;  nor  sunk  iu  beds, 
Oft  of  gay  care,  he  tosses  out  the  night, 
Or  melts  the  thoughtless  hours  in  idle  state? 
What  though  he  knows  not  those  fantastic  joys 
That  still  amuse  the  wanton,  still  decoive! 
A  face  of  pleasure,  but  a  heart  ol  paiu; 


Their  hollow  moments  undelighted  all? 
Sure  peace  is  his ;  a  solid  life,  estranged 
To  disappointment,  and  fallacious  hope: 
Rich  in  content,  in  Nature's  bounty  rich, 
In  herbs  and  fruits  whatever  greens  the  Spring, 
When  heaven  descends  in  showers  or  bends  the 
bough, 

When  Summer  reddens,  and  when  Autumn 

beams; 

Or  in  the  wintry  glebe  whatever  lies 
Conceal'd,  and  fattens  with  the  richest  sap: 
These  are  not  wanting ;  nor  the  milky  drove, 
Luxuriant,  spread  o'er  all  the  lowing  vale ; 
Nor  bleating  mountains;  nor  the  chide  of  streams^ 
And  hum  of  bees,  inviting  sleep  sincere 
Into  the  guiltless  breast,  beneath  the  shade, 
Or  thrown  at  large  amid  the  fragrant  hay ; 
Nor  aught  besides  of  prospect,  grove,  or  song, 
Dim  grottos,  gleaming  lakes,  and  fountain  clear. 
Here  too  dwells  simple  Truth ;  plain  Innocence 
Unsullied  Beauty;  sound  unbroken  Youth, 
Patient  of  labour,  with  a  little  pleased ; 
Truth  ever  blooming;  unambitious  Toil; 
Calm  Contemplation,  and  poetic  Ease. 

Let  others  brave  the  flood  in  quest  of  gain. 
And  beat,  for  joyless  months,  the  gloomy  wave. 
Let  such  as  deem  it  glory  to  destroy 
Rush  into  blood,  the  sack  of  cities  seek  ; 
Unpierced,  exulting  in  the  widow's  wail. 
The  virgin's  shriek,  and  infant's  trembling  cry. 
Let  some,  far  distant  from  their  native  soil, 
Urged  or  by  want  or  harden'd  avarice, 
Find  other  lands  beneath  another  sun. 
Let  this  through  cities  work  his  eager  way 
By  legal  outrage  and  establish'd  guile. 
The  social  sense  extinct ;  and  that  ferment 
Mad  into  tumult  the  seditious  herd, 
Or  melt  them  down  to  slavery.    Let  these 
Insnare  the  wretched  in  the  toils  of  law. 
Fomenting  discord,  and  perplexing  right 
An  iron  race !  and  those  of  fairer  front, 
But  equal  inhumanity,  in  courts. 
Delusive  pomp  and  dark  cabals,  delight ; 
Wreathe  the  deep  bow,  diffuse  the  lying  smile, 
And  tread  the  weary  labyrinth  of  state. 
While  he,  from  all  the  stormy  passions  free 
That  restless  men  involve,  hears,  and  but  hears. 
At  distance  safe,  the  human  tempest  roar, 
Wrapp'd  close  in  conscious  peace.  The  fall  of  kings, 
The  rage  of  nations,  and  the  crush  of  states. 
Move  not  the  man,  who,  from  the  world  escaped. 
In  still  retreats  and  flowery  solitudes. 
To  Nature's  voice  attends,  from  month  to  month, 
And  day  to  day,  through  the  revolving  year ; 
Admiring,  sees  her  in  her  every  shape ; 
Feels  all  her  sweet  emotions  at  his  heart ; 
Takes  what  she  liberal  gives,  nor  thinks  of  more. 
He,  when  young  Spring  protrudes  the  bursting 
germs, 


AUTUMN. 


41 


Marks  the  first  bud,  and  sucks  the  healthful  gale 
Into  his  freshen'd  soul ;  her  genial  hours 
He  full  enjoys ;  and  not  a  beauty  blows, 
And  not  an  opening  blossom  breathes  in  vain. 
In  Summer  he,  beneath  the  hving  shade, 
Such  as  o"er  frigid  Tempo  wont  to  wave. 
Or  Hemus  cool,  reads  what  the  Muse,  of  these, 
Perhaps,  has  in  immortal  numbers  sung ; 
Or  what  she  dictates  writes :  and,  oft  an  eye 
Shot  round,  rejoices  in  the  vigorous  year. 

When  Autuinn's  yellow  lustre  gilds  the  world, 
And  tempts  the'sickled  swain  into  the  field. 
Seized  by  the  general  joy,  his  heart  distends 
With  gentle  throes ;  and,  through  the  tepid  gleams 
Deep  musing,  then  he  best  exerts  his  song. 
E'en  Winter  wild  to  him  is  full  of  bliss. 
The  mighty  tempest,  and  the  hoary  waste, 
Abrupt  and  deep,  stretch'd  o'er  the  buried  earth, 
A\yake  to  solemn  thought.    At  night  the  skies: 
Disclosed,  and  kindled,  by  refining  frost. 
Pour  every  lustre  on  the  exalted  eye. 
A  friend,  a  book,  the  stealing  hours  secure. 
And  mark  them  down  for  wisdom.  With  swift  wing 
O'er  land  and  sea  imagination  roams ; 
Or  truth,  divinely  breaking  on  his  mind, 
Elates  his  being,  and  unfolds  his  powers ; 
Or  ii|  his  breast  heroic  virtue  burns. 
The  touch  of  kindred  too  and  love  he  feels ; 
The  modest  eye,  whose  beams  on  his  alone 
Ecstatic  shine ;  the  little  strong  embrace 
Of  prattling  children,  twined  around  his  neck, 


And  emulous  to  please  him,  calling  forth 

The  fond  parental  soul.    Nor  purpose  gay, 

Amusement,  dance,  or  song,  he  sternly  scorns ; 

For  happiness  and  true  philosophy 

Are  of  the  social,  still,  and  smiling  kind. 

This  is  the  life  which  those  who  fret  in  guilt, 

And  guilty  cities,  never  knew ;  the  life. 

Led  by  primeval  ages,  uncorrupt, 

When  Angels  dwelt,  and  God  himself,  with  Man  I 

Oh  Nature  !  all-sufficient !  over  all ! 
Enrich  me  with  the  knowledge  of  thy  works ! 
Snatch  me  to  Heaven ;  thy  rolHng  wonders  there, 
World  beyond  world,  in  infinite  extent, 
Profusely  scatter 'd  o'er  the  blue  immense, 
Show  me ;  their  motions,  periods,  and  their  laws 
Give  me  to  scan ;  through  the  disclosing  deep 
Light  my  blind  way :  the  mineral  strata  there ; 
Thrust,  blooming,  thence  the  vegetable  world; 
O'er  that  the,  rising  system,  more  complex, 
Of  animals ;  and  higher  still,  the  mind; , 
The  varied  scene  of  quick-compounded  thought 
And  where  the  mixing  passions  endless  shift"; 
These  ever  open  to  my  ravish'd  eye ; 
A  search,  the  flight  of  time  can  ne'er  exhaust  1 
But  if  to  that  unequal ;  if  the  blood. 
In  sluggish  streams  about  my  heart,  forbid 
That  best  ambition ;  under  closing  shades, 
Inglorious,  lay  me  by  the  lowly  brook. 
And  whisper  to  my  dreams.    From  Thee  begin, 
Dwell  all  on  Thee,  with  Thee  conclude  my  song; 
And  let  me  never,  never  stray  from  Thee ! 


Ilon-ida  cano 
Bruma  gelu. 

 f  


ARGUMENT. 

W.„ter  within  the  Polar  Circle.    A  Thaw.   The^whole'^fe^^^^^^^^^^  view  of 


TO  THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE 

SIR  SPENCER  COMPTON. 


Sir, 

The  Author  of  the  following  Poem  begs  leave 
to  inscribe  this,  his  first  performance,  to  your  name 
and  patronage:  unknown  himself,  and  only  intro- 
duced by  the  Muse,  he  yet  ventures  to  approach 
you,  with  a  modest  cheerfulness;  for,  whoever 
attempts  to  excel  in  any  generous  art,  though  he 


comes  alone,  and  unregarded  by  the  world,  may 
hope  for  your  notice  and  esteem,  Happy  if  I  can, 
in  any  degree,  merit  this  good  fortune :  as  every 
ornament  and  grace  of  polite  learning  is  yours, 
your  single  approbation  will  be  my  fame. 

I  dare  not  indulge  my  heart  by  dwelling  on  youi 
public  character ;  on  that  exalted  honour  and  in- 
tegrity which  distinguish  you  in  that  august  as- 
sembly where  you  preside,  that  unshaken  loyalty 
to  your  sovereign,  that  disinterested  concern  fo? 
his  people  which  shine  out,  united,  in  all  your  b&. 


i2 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


haviour,  and  finish  the  patriot.  I  am  conscious 
of  my  want  of  strength  and  sltill  for  so  dehcate  an 
undertakinir ;  and  yet,  as  the  shepherd  in  his  cot- 
tage may  feel  and  acknowledge  the  influence  of 
the  sun  witli  as  lively  a  gratitude  as  the  great  man 
in  his  palace,  even  I  may  be  allowed  to  pubHsh  my 
sense  of  those  blessings  which,  from  so  many  pow- 
erful virtues,  are  derived  to  the  nation  they  adorn. 

I  conclude  with  saying  that  your  fine  discern- 
ment and  humanity,  in  your  private  capacity,  are 
so  conspicuous  that,  if  this  address  is  not  received 
with  some  indulgence,  it  will  be  a  severe  convic- 
tion that  what  1  have  written  has  not  the  least 
share  of  merit. 

I  am, 

^ith  the  profoundest  respect, 
Sir, 

Your  most  devoted  and  most  faithful 
humble  Servant, 

James  Thomson. 


WINTER. 

'  See,  "Winter  comes,  to  rule  the  varied  year, 
Sullen  and  sad,  with  all  his  rising  train; 
Vapours,  and  clouds,  and  storms.    Be  these  my 
theme, 

These !  that  exalt  the  soul  to  solemn  thought. 
And  heavenly  musing.  Welcome,  kindred  glooms, 
Congenial  horrors,  hail !  with  frequent  foot. 
Pleased  have  I,  in  my  cheerful  morn  of  hfe, 
When  nursed  by  careless  SoUtude  I  lived, 
And  sung  of  Nature  with  unceasing  joy, 
Pleased  have  I  wander'd  through  your  rough  do- 
main ; 

Trod  the  pure  virgin-snows,  myself  as  pure ; 
Heard  the  winds  roar,  and  the  big  torrent  burst; 
Or  seen  the  deep-fermenting  tempest  brew'd, 
In  the  grim  evening  sky.    Thus  pass'd  the  time, 
Till  through  the  lucid  chambers  of  the  south 
Look'd  out  the  joyous  Spring,  look'd  out,  and 
smiled. 

To  thee,  the  patron  of  her  first  essay. 
The  Muse,  O  Wilmington  !  renews  her  song. 
Since  has  she  rounded  the  revolving  year: 
Skimm'd  the  gay  Spring;  on  eagle- pinions  borne, 
Attempted  through  the  Summer-blaze  to  rise ; 
Then  swept  o'er  Autumn  with  the  shadowy  gale ; 
And  now  among  the  wintry  clouds  again, 
Roll'd  in  the  doubling  storm  she  tries  to  soar; 
To  swell  her  note  with  all  the  rushing  winds ; 
To  suit  her  sounding  cadence  to  the  floods ; 
As  is  her  theme,  her  numbers  wildly  great  : 
Thrice  happy  could  she  fill  thy  judging  ear 
With  bold  description,  and  with  manly  thought. 
Nor  art  thou  .skill'd  in  awful  schemes  alone, 
And  how  to  make  a  mighty  people  thrive ;  I 
But  equal  goodness,  sound  integrity,  | 


A  firm,  unshaken,  uncorrupted  soul, 
Amid  a  sliding  age,  and  burning  strong, 
Not  vainly  blazing  for  thy  country's  weal, 
A  steady  spirit  regularly  free; 
These,  each  exalting  each,  the  statesman  light 
Into  the  patriot ;  these,  the  public  hope 
And  eye  to  thee  converring,  bid  the  Muse 
Record  what  envy  dares  not  flattery  call. 

Now  when  the  cheeriess  empire  of  tiie  sky 
To  Capricorn  the  Centaur  Archer  yields 
And  fierce  Aquarius  stains  the  inverted  year- 
Hung  o'er  the  farthest  verge  of  ticaven,  the  sur 
Scarce  spreads  through  ether  the  dejected  daj 
Faint  are  his  gleams,  and  ineffectual  shoot 
His  struggling  rays,  in  horizontal  lines. 
Through  the  thick  air ;  as  clothed  in  cloudy  storn 
Weak,  wan,  and  broad,  he  skirts  the  southern  sk} 
And,  soon-descending,  to  the  long  dark  night, 
Wide-shading  all,  the  prostrate  worid  resigns. 
Nor  is  the  night  unwish'd ;  while  vital  heat, 
Light,  life,  and  joy,  the  dubious  day  forsake. 
Meantime,  in  sable  cincture,  shadows  vast, 
Deep-tinged  and  damp,  and  congregated  clouds, 
And  all  the  vapoury  turbulence  of  Heaven, 
Involve  the  face  of  things.    Thus  Winter  falls, 
A  heavy  gloom  oppressive  o'er  the  world. 
Through  Nature  shedding  influence  malign, 
And  rouses  up  the  seeds  of  dark  disease,  " 
The  soul  of  man  dies  in  him,  loathing  life. 
And  black  with  more  than  melancholy  view^s. 
The  cattle  droop;  and  o'er  the  furrow'd  land. 
Fresh  from  the  plough,  the  dun  discolour'd  flocks 
Untended  spreading,  crop  the  wholesome  root, 
Along  the  woods,  along  the  moorish  fens. 
Sighs  the  sad  Genius  of  the  coming  storm ; 
And  up  among  the  loose  disjointed  clifl's, 
And  fractured  mountains  wild,  the  brawling  brook 
And  cave,  presageful,  send  a  hollow  moan, 
Resounding  long  in  Hstenign  Fancy's  ear. 

Then  comes  the  father  of  the  tempest  forth, 
Wrapt  in  black  glooms.  First  j  oyless  rains  obscure. 
Drive  through  the  minghng  skies  with  vapour  foulj 
Dash  on  the  mountain's  brow,  and  shake  the  woods, 
That  grumbling  wave  below.  The  unsightly  plain 
Lies  a  brown  deluge  ;  as  the  low-bent  clouds 
Pour  flood  on  flood,  yet  unexhausted  still 
Combine,  and  deepening  into  niglit,  shut  up 
The  day's  fair  face.    The  wanderers  of  Heaven, 
Each  to  his  home,  retire ;  save  those  that  love 
To  take  their  pastime  in  the  troubled  air. 
Or  skimming  flutter  round  the  dimply  pool. 
The  cattle  from  the  untasted  iiclds  return, 
And  ask,  with  meaning  low,  tlieir  wonted  stalls. 
Or  ruminate  in  the  contiguous  shade, 
l^hither  the  household  i'enthcrv  people  crowd, 
The  crested  cock,  with  all  iiis  female  trnin. 
Pensive,  and  dri})ping;  while  the  cottage-hind 
Hangs  o'er  the  enlivening  blaze,  and  t;{le('ul  there 
Recounts  his  simple  frolic:  n)uch  he  talks, 


WINTER. 


43 


And  much  he  laughs,  nor  recks  the  storm  that  blows 
Without,  and  rattles  on  his  humble  roof. 

Wide  o'er  the  brim,  with  many  a  torrent  swell 'd, 
And  the  mix'd  ruin  of  its  banks  o'erspread, 
At  last  the  roused-up  river  pours  along  : 
Resistless,  roaring,  dreadful,  down  it  comes. 
From  the  rude  mountain,  and  the  mossy  wild, 
Tumbling  through  rocks  abrupt,  and  sounding  far; 
Then  o'er  the  sanded  valley  floating  spreads. 
Calm,  sluggish,  silent ;  till  again,  constrain'd 
Between -two  meeting  hills,  it  bursts  away, 
Where  rocks  and  woods  o'erhang  the  turbid  stream; 
There  gathering  triple  force,  rapid,  and  deep, 
It  boils,  and  wheels,  and  foams,  and  thunders 
through. 

Nature  1  great  parent !  whose  unceasing  hand 
Rolls  round  the  seasons  of  the  changeful  year, 
How  mighty,  how  majestic,  are  thy  works ! 
With  what  a  pleasing  dread  they  swell  the  soul ! 
That  sees  astonish'd !  and  astonish'd  sings  ! 
Ye  too,  ye  winds  !  that  now  begin  to  blow 
With  boisterous  sweep,  I  raise  my  voice  to  you. 
Where  are  your  stores,  ye  powerful  beings !  say, 
Where  your  aerial  magazines  reserved. 
To  swell  the  brooding  terrors  of  the  storm  1 
In  what  far  distant  region  of  the  sky, 
Hush'd  in  deep  silence,  sleep  ye  when  'tis  calm  1 

When  from  the  pallid  sky  the  sun  descends, 
With  many  a  spot,  that  o'er  his  glaring  orb 
Uncertain  wanders,  stain'd  ;  red  fiery  streaks 
Begin  to  flush  around.    The  reeling  clouds 
Stagger  with  dizzy  poise,  as  doubting  yet 
Which  master  to  obey :  while  rising  slow. 
Blank,  in  the  leaden-colour 'd  east,  the  moon 
Wears  a  wan  circle  round  her  blunted  horns. 
Seen  through  the  turbid  fluctuating  air, 
The  stars  obtuse  emit  a  shiver'd  ray ; 
Or  frequent  seem  to  shoot  athwart  the  gloom, 
And  long  behind  them  trail  the  whitening  blaze. 
Snatch'd  in  short  eddies,  plays  the  wither'd  leaf ; 
And  on  the  flood  the  dancing  feather  floats. 
With  broaden'd  nostrils  to  the  sky  upturn'd. 
The  conscious  heifer  snuffs  the  stormy  gale. 
E'en  as  the  matron,  at  her  nightly  task, 
With  pensive  labour  draws  the  flaxen  thread, 
The  wasted  taper  and  the  crackling  flame 
Foretell  the  blast.    But  chief  the  plumy  race, 
The  tenants  of  the  sky,  its  changes  speak. 
Retiring  from  the  clowns,  where  all  day  long 
They  pick'd  their  scanty  fare,  a  blackening  train. 
Of  clamorous  rooks  thick  urge  their  weary  flight 
And  seek  the  closing  shelter  of  the  grove  ; 
Assiduous,  in  his  bower,  the  waiUng  owl 
Plies  his  sad  song     The  cormorant  on  high 
Wheels  from  the  deep,  and  screams  along  the  land. 
Loud  shrieks  the  soaring  hern ;  and  with  wild  wing 
The  circling  seafowl  cleave  the  flaky  clouds.  • 
Ocean,  unequal  press'd,  with  broken  tide 
And  blind  commotion  heaves;  while  from  the  shore. 

2R 


Eat  into  caverns  by  the  restless  wave, 

And  forest-rustling  mountain,  comes  a  voice, 

That  solemn  sounding  bids  the  world  prepare. 

Then  issues  forth  the  storm  with  sudden  burst, 

And  hurls  the  whole  precipitated  air 

Down  in  a  torrent.    On  the  passive  main 

Descends  the  ethereal  force,  and  with  strong  gust 

Turns  from  its  bottom  the  discolour'd  deep. 

Through  the  black  night  that  sits  immense  around, 

Lash'd  into  foam,  the  fierce  conflicting  brine 

Seems  o'er  a  thousand  raging  waves  to  burn: 

Meantime  the  mountain-billows,  to  the  clouds 

In  dreadful  tumult  swell'd,  surge  above  surge, 

Burst  into  chaos  with  tremendous  roar, 

And  anchor'd  navies  from  their  stations  drive, 

Wild  as  the  winds  across  the  howUng  waste 

Of  mighty  waters :  now  the  inflated  wave 

Straining  they  scale,  and  now  impetuous  shoot 

Into  the  secret  chambers  of  the  deep. 

The  wintry  Baltic  thundering  o'er  their  head. 

Emerging  thence  again,  before  the  breath 

Of  full  exerted  Heaven  they  wing  their  course, 

And  dart  on  distant  coasts ;  if  some  sharp  rock, 

Or  shoal  insidious  break  not  their  career, 

And  in  loose  fragments  fling  them  floating  round. 

Nor  less  at  hand  the  loosen'd  tempest  reigns. 
The  mountain  thunders;  and  its  sturdy  sons 
Stoop  to  the  bottom  of  the  rocks  they  shade. 
Lone  on  the  midnight  steep,  and  all  aghast, 
The  dark  -Wayfaring  stranger  breathless  toils, 
And,  often  falUng,  climbs  against  the  blast. 
Low  waves  the  rooted  forest,  vex'd,  and  sheds 
What  of  its  tamish'd  honours  yet  remain  ; 
Dash'd  down,  and  scatter'd,  by  the  tearing  wind's 
Assiduous  fury,  its  gigantic  limbs. 
Thus  struggling  through  the  dissipated  grove. 
The  whirling  tempest  raves  along  the  plain; 
And  on  the  cottage  thatch'd,  or  lordly  roof, 
Keen-fastening,  shakes  them  to  the  solid  base. 
Sleep  frighted  flies ;  and  round  the  rocking  dome. 
For  entrance  eager,  howls  the  savage  blast. 
Then  too,  they  say,  through  all  theburden'd  air. 
Long  groans  are  heard,  shrill  sounds,  and  distant 
sighs, 

That,  utter'd  by  the  Demon  of  the  night, 
Warn  the  devoted  wretch  of  wo  and  death. 

Huge  uproar  lords  it  wide.    The  clouds  com- 
mix'd 

With  stars  swift  gliding  sweep  along  the  sky. 
All  Nature  reels.    Till  Nature's  King,  who  oft 
Amid  tempestuous  darkness  dvvellf  alone, 
And  on  the  wings  of  the  careering  wind 
Walks  dreadfully  serene,  commands  a  calm; 
Then  straight,  air,  sea,  and  earth  are  hush'd  at 
once. 

As  yet  'tis  midnight  deep.    The  weary  clouds, 
Slow  meeting,  mingle  into  solid  gloom. 
Now,  while  the  drovvsy  world  lies  lost  in  sleep, 
Let  nif  us,-'"-i  (te  with  t!ie  serious  Night, 


44 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


And  Contemplation  her  sedate  compeer; 
Let  me  shake  offthe  intrusive  cares  of  day, 
And  lay  the  meddling  senses  all  aside. 

Where  now,  ye  lying  vanities  of  life! 
Ye  ever  tempting  ever  cheating  train ! 
Where  are  you  now]  and  what  is  your  amount? 
Vexation,  disappointment,  and  remorse: 
Sad,  sickening  thought !  and  yet  deluded  man, 
A  scene  of  crude  disjointed  visions  past. 
And  broken  slumbers,  rises  still  resolved, 
With  new-flush'd  hopes,  to  run  the  giddy  round. 

Father  of  light  and  life!  thou  Good  Supreme! 
O  teach  me  what  is  good !  teach  me  Thyself! 
Save  me  from  folly,  vanity,  and  vice. 
From  every  low  pursuit  I  and  feed  my  soul 
With  knowledge,  conscious  peace,  and  virtue 
pure; 

Sacred,  substantial,  never-fading  bliss ! 

The  keener  tempests  rise :  and  fuming  dun 
From  all  the  hvid  east,  or  piercing  north. 
Thick  clouds  ascend;  in  whose  capacious  womb 
A  vapoury  deluge  lies,  to  snow  congeal'd. 
Heavy  they  roll  their  fleecy  world  along; 
And  the  sky  saddens  with  the  gather'd  storm. 
Through  the  hush'd  air  the  whitening  shower  de- 
scends. 

At  first  thin  wavering ;  till  at  last  the  flakes 
Fall  broad,  and  wide,  and  fast,  dimming  the  day, 
With  a  continual  flow.    The  cherish'd  fields 
Put  on  their  winter-robe  of  purest  white. 
'Tis  brightness  all;  save  where  the  new  snow 
melts 

Along  the  mazy  current.    Low  the  woods 
Bow  their  hoar  head  ;  and  ere  the  languid  sun 
Faint  from  the  west  emits  his  evening  ray, 
Earth's  universal  face,  deep  hid,  and  chill. 
Is  one  wild  dazzling  waste,  that  buries  wide 
The  works  of  man.    Drooping,  the  labourer-ox 
Stands  cover'd  o'er  with  snow,  and  then  demands 
The  fruit  of  all  his  toil.    The  fowls  of  Heaven, 
Tamed  by  the  cruel  season,  crowd  around 
The  winnowing  store,  and  claim  the  little  boon 
Which  Providence  assigns  them.    One  alone, 
The  redbreast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods. 
Wisely  regardful  of  the  embroiling  sky, 
In  joyless  fields  and  thorny  thickets,  leaves 
His  shivering  mates,  and  pays  to  trusted  man 
His  annual  visit.    Half  afraid,  he  first 
Against  the  window  beats;  then,  brisk,  alights 
On  the  warm  hearth;  then,  hopping  o'er  the  floor 
Eyes  all  the  smiling  family  askance. 
And  pecks,  and  starts,  and  wonders  where  he  is; 
Till  more  familiar  grown,  the  table-crumbs 
Attract  his  slender  feet.    The  foodless  wilds 
Pour  forth  their  brown  inhabitants.    The  hare. 
Though  timorous  of  heart,  and  hard  beset 
By  death  in  various  forms,  dark  snares  and  dogs. 
And  more  unpitying  men,  the  garden  seeks, 
Urged  on  by  fearless  want.    The  bleating  kind 


Eye  the  bleak  Heaven,  and  next  the  glistenifig 
earth. 

With  looks  of  dumb  despair;  then,  sad  dispersed, 
Dig  for  the  wither'd  herb  through  heaps  of  snow. 
Now,  shepherds,  to  your  helpless  charge  be 
kind, 

Bafile  the  raging  year,  and  fill  their  pens 
With  food  at  will;  lodge  them  below  the  storm, 
And  watch  them  strict:  for  from  the  bellowing 
east. 

In  this  dire  season,  oft  the  whirlwind's  wing 
Sweeps  up  the  burden  of  whole  wintry  plains 
At  one  wide  waft,  and  o'er  the  hapless  flocks, 
Hid  in  the  hollow  of  two  neighbouring  hills, 
The  billowy  tempest  whelms;  till,  upward  urged, 
The  valley  to  a  shining  m.ountain  swells, 
Tipp'd  with  a  wreath  high-curling  in  the  sky. 

As  thus  the  snows  arise ;  and  foul,  and  fierce, 
All  Winter  drives  along  the  darken'd  air: 
In  his  own  loose  revolving  fields,  the  swain 
Disaster'd  stands ;  sees  other  hills  ascend. 
Of  unknown  joyless  brow;  and  other  scenes. 
Of  horrid  prospect,  shag  the  trackless  plain: 
Nor  finds  the  river,  nor  the  forest,  hid 
Beneath  the  formless  wild  ;  but  wanders  on 
From  hill  to  dale,  still  more  and  more  astray; 
Impatient  flouncing  through  the  drifted  heaps, 
Stung  With  the  thoughts  of  home ;  the  thoughts 
of  home 

Rush  on  his  nerves,  and  call  their  vigour  forth 
In  many  a  vain  attempt.    How  sinks  his  soul ! 
What  black  despair,  what  horror  fills  his  heart! 
When  for  the  dusky  spot,  which  fancy  feign'ii 
His  tufted  cottage  rising  through  the  snow. 
He  meets  the  roughness  of  the  middle  waste, 
Far  from  the  track  and  bless'd  abode  of  man; 
While  round  him  night  resistless  closes  fast. 
And  every  tempest,  howUng  o'er  his  head, 
Renders  the  savage  wilderness  more  wild. 
Then  throng  the  busy  shapes  into  his  mind, 
Of  cover'd  pits,  unfathomably  deep, 
A  dire  descent !  beyond  the  power  of  frost; 
Of  faithless  bogs ;  of  precipices  huge, 
Smooth'd  up  with  snow;  and,  what  is  land,  un- 
known, 

What  water,  of  the  still  unfrozen  spring. 
In  the  loose  marsh  or  solitary  lake, 
Where  the  fresh  mountain  from  the  bottom  boils. 
These  check  his  fearful  steps;  and  down  he  sinks. 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  the  shapeless  drift. 
Thinking  o'er  all  the  bitterness  of  death; 
Mix'd  with  the  tender  anguish  nature  shoots 
Through  the  wrung  bosom  of  the  dying  man, 
His  wife,  his  children,  and  his  friends  unseen, 
in  vain  for  him  the  ofiicious  wife  prepares 
The  fire  fair-blazing,  and  the  vestment  warm; 
In  yain  his  little  children,  peeping  out 
Into  the  mingling  storm,  demand  their  sire, 
With  tears  of  artless  innocence.    Alas ! 


WINTER. 


45 


Nor  wife,  nur  children  more  shall  he  behold, 
Nor  friends,  nor  sacred  home.    On  every  nerve 
The  deadly  Winter  seizes;  shuts  up  sense; 
And,  o'er  his  inmos^t  vitals  creeping  cold, 
Lays  him  along  the  snows,  a  stiffen'd  corse, 
Stretch'd  out,  and  bleaching  in  the  northern  blast, 

Ah !  little  think  the  gay  licentious  proud, 
Whom  pleasure,  power,  and  affluence  surround; 
They  who  their  thoughtless  hours  in  giddy  mirth. 
And  wanton,  often  cruel,  riot  waste; 
Ah !  little  think  they,  while  they  dance  along, 
How  many  feel,  this  very  moment,  death. 
And  all  the  sad  variety  of  pain. 
How  many  sink  in  the  devouring  flood. 
Or  more  devouring  flame.    How  many  bleed, 
By  shameful  variance  betwixt  man  and  man. 
How  many  pine  in  want,  and  dungeon  glooms; 
Shut  from  the  common  air,  and  common  use 
Of  their  own  hmbs.    How  many  drink  the  cup 
Of  baleful  grief,  or  eat  the  bitter  bread 
Of  misery.    Sore  pierced  by  wintry  winds. 
How  many  shrink  into  the  sordid  hut 
Of  cheerless  poverty.    How  many  shake 
With  all  the  fiercer  tortures  of  the  mind, 
Unbounded  passion,  madness,  guilt,  remorse; 
Whence  tumbled  headlong  from  the  height  of  life, 
They  furnish  matter  for  the  tragic  Muse. 
E'en  in  the  vale,  where  Wisdom  loves  to  dwell. 
With  friendship,  peace,  and  contemplation  join'd, 
How  many,  rack'd  with  honest  passions,  droop 
In  deep  retired  distress.    How  many  stand 
Around  the  deathbed  of  their  dearest  friends. 
And  point  the  parting  anguish.    Thought  fond 
Man 

Of  these,  and  all  the  thousand  nameless  ills, 
That  one  incessant  struggle  render  life, 
One  scene  of  toil,  of  suffering,  and  of  fate. 
Vice  in  his  high  career  would  stand  appall'd, 
And  heedless  rambling  Impulse  learn  to  think ; 
The  conscious  heart  of  Charity  would  warm, 
And  her  wide  wish  Benevolence  dilate; 
The  social  tear  would  rise,  the  social  sigh; 
And  into  clear  perfection,  gradual  bliss. 
Refining  still,  the  social  passions  work. 

And  here  can  I  forget  the  generous  band,* 
Who,  touch'd  with  human  wo,  redressive  search'd 
Into  the  horrors  of  the  gloomy  jail? 
Unpitied,  and  unheard,  where  misery  moans; 
Where  sickness  pines;  where  thirst  and  hunger 
burn. 

And  poor  misfortune  feels  the  lash  of  vice. 
While  in  the  land  of  Liberty,  the  land 
Whose  every  street  and  public  meeting  glow 
With  open  freedom,  little  tyrants  raged ; 
Snatch'd  the  lean  morsel  from  the  starving  mouth; 
Tore  from  cold  wintry  limbs  the  tatter 'd  weed; 
E'en  robb'd  them  of  the  last  of  comforts,  sleep; 

*  The  jail  Committee  in  the  year  1729. 
F 


The  free-born  Briton  to  the  dungeon  chain'd. 
Or,  as  the  lust  of  cruelty  prevail'd, 
At  pleasure  mark'd  him  with  inglorious  stripes; 
And  crush'd  out  lives,  by  secret  barbarous  w-ays, 
That  for  their  country  would  have  toil'd  or  bled. 
O  great  design  !  if  executed  well. 
With  patient  care,  and  wisdom-temper'd  zeal. 
Ye  sons  of  Mercy!  yet  resume  the  search; 
Drag  forth  the  legal  monsters  into  light, 
Wrench  from  their  hands  oppression's  iron  rod, 
And  bid  the  cruel  feel  the  pains  they  give. 
Much  still  untouch'd  remains ;  in  this  rank  age, 
Much  is  the  patriot's  weeding  hand  required 
The  toils  of  law  (what  dark  insidious  men 
Have  cumbrous  added  to  perplex  the  truth. 
And  lengthen  simple  justice  into  trade) 
How  glorious  were  the  day  !  that  saw  these  brokCg 
And  every  man  within  the  reach  of  right. 

By  wintry  famine  roused,  from  all  the  tract 
Of  horrid  mountains  where  the  shining  Alps, 
And  wavy  Appenine,  and  Pyrenees, 
Branch  out  stupendous  into  distant  lands  : 
Cruel  as  death,  and  hungry  as  the  grave ! 
Burning  for  blood  !  bony,  and  gaunt,  and  grim ! 
Assembling  wolves  in  raging  troops  descend ; 
And,  pouring  o'er  the  country,  bear  along. 
Keen  as  the  north-wind  sweeps  the  glossy  snow. 
All  is  their  prize.    They  fasten  on  the  steed, 
Press  him  to  earth,  and  pierce  his  mighty  heart. 
Nor  can  the  bull  his  awful  front  defend. 
Or  shake  the  murdering  savages  away 
Rapacious,  at  the  mother's  throat  they  fly, 
And  tear  the  screaming  infant  from  her  breast. 
The  godUke  face  of  man  avails  him  nought. 
E'en  beauty,  force  divine !  at  whose  bright  glance 
The  generous  lion  stands  in  soften'd  gaze. 
Here  bleeds,  a  hapless  undistinguish'd  prey. 
But  if,  apprized  of  the  severe  attack, 
The  country  be  shut  up,  lured  by  the  scent, 
On  churchyards  drear  (inhuman  to  relate !) 
The  disappointed  prowlers  fall,  and  dig 
The  shrouded  body  from  the  grave;  o'er  which, 
Mix'd  with  foul  shades,  and  frighted  ghosts,  they 
howl. 

Among  those  hilly  regions,  where  embraced 
In  peaceful  vales  the  happy  Grisons  dwell; 
Oft,  rushing  sudden  from  the  loaded  cliffs. 
Mountains  of  snow  their  gathering  terrors  roll. 
From  steep  to  steep,  loud-thundering  down  they 
come, 

A  wintry  waste  in  dire  commotion  all ; 

And  herds,  and  flocks,  and  travellers,  and  swains, 

And  sometimes  whole  brigades  of  marching  troops, 

Or  hamlets  sleeping  in  the  dead  of  night, 

Are  deep  beneath  the  smothering  ruin  whelm'd. 

Now,  all  amid  the  rigours  of  the  year. 
In  the  wild  depth  of  Winter,  while  without 
The  ceaseless  winds  blow  ice,  be  my  retreat, 
Between  the  groaning  forest  and  the  shore 


46 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Beat  by  the  boundless  multitude  of  waves, 

A  rural,  shelter'd,  solitary,  scene; 

Where  ruddy  fire  and  beaming  tapers  join, 

To  cheer  the  gloom.    There  studious  let  me  sit, 

And  hold  high  converse  with  the  mighty  Dead; 

Sages  of  ancient  time,  as  gods  revered, 

As  gods  beneficent,  who  bless'd  mankind 

With  arts,  with  arms,  and  humanized  a  world. 

Roused  at  the  inspiring  thought,  1  throw  aside 

The  long-lived  volume;  and,  deep-musing,  hail 

The  sacred  shades,  that  slowly  rising  pass 

Before  my  wondering  eyes.    First  Socrates, 

Who,  firmly  good  in  a  corrupted  state. 

Against  the  rage  of  tyrants  single  stood, 

Invincible !  calm  Reason's  holy  law, 

That  Voice  of  God  within  the  attentive  mind. 

Obeying,  fearless,  or  in  life,  or  death: 

Great  moral  teacher !  Wisest  of  mankind ! 

Solon  the  next,  who  built  his  common-weal 

On  equity's  wide  base;  by  tender  laws 

A  lively  people  curbing,  yet  undamp'd : 

Preserving  still  that  quick  peculiar  fire. 

Whence  in  the  laurel'd  field  of  finer  arts 

And  of  bold  freedom,  they  unequal'd  shone. 

The  pride  of  smiling  Greece,  and  human-kind. 

Lycurgus  then,  who  bow'd  beneath  the  force 

Of  strictest  discipline,  severely  wise. 

All  human  passions.    Following  him,  I  see. 

As  at  Thermopylae  he  glorious  fell, 

The  firm  devoted  chief,*  who  proved  by  deeds 

The  hardest  lesson  which  the  other  taught. 

Then  Aristides  lifts  his  honest  front ; 

Spotless  of  heart,  to  whom  the  unflattering  voice 

Of  freedom  gave  the  noblest  name  of  Just; 

In  pure  majestic  poverty  revered; 

Who,  e'en  his  glory  to  his  country's  weal 

Submitting,  swell'd  a  haughty  Rival's t  fame. 

Rear'd  by  his  care,  of  softer  ray  appears 

Cimon  sweet-soul'd  ;  whose  genius,  rising  strong. 

Shook  oflf  the  load  of  young  debauch ;  abroad 

The  scourge  of  Persian  pride,  at  home  the  friend 


Sweet  peace  and  happy  wisdom  smooth'd  his  brow, 
Not  friendship  softer  was,  nor  love  more  kind. 
And  he,  the  last  of  old  Lycurgus'  sons. 
The  generous  victim  to  that  vain  attempt, 
To  save  a  rotten  state,  Agis,  who  saw 
E'en  Sparta's  self  to  servile  avarice  sunk, 
The  two  Achaian  heroes  close  the  train : 
Aratus,  who  awhile  relumed  the  soul 
Of  fondly  lingering  liberty  in  Greece; 
And  he  her  darling  as  her  latest  hope. 
The  gallant  Philopoemen;  who  to  arms 
Turn'd  the  luxurious  pomp  he  could  not  cure; 
Or  toiling  in  his  farm,  a  simple  swain  ; 
Or,  bold  and  skilful,  thundering  in  the  field. 

Of  rougher  front,  a  mighty  people  come ! 
A  race  of  heroes !  in  those  virtuous  times 
Which  knew  no  stain,  save  that  with  partial  flame 
Their  dearest  country  they  too  fondly  loved: 
Her  better  Founder  first,  the  light  of  Rome 
Numa,  who  soften'd  her  rapacious  sons  : 
Servius  the  king,  who  laid  the  solid  base 
On  which  o'er  earth  the  vast  republic  spread. 
Then  the  great  consuls  venerable  rise. 
The  public  Father*  who  the  private  quell'd, 
As  on  the  dread  tribunal  sternly  sad. 
He,  whom  his  thankless  country  could  not  lose, 
Camillus,  only  vengeful  to  her  foes. 
Fabricius,  scorner  of  all -conquering  gold ; 
And  Cincinnatus,  awful  from  the  plough. 
Thy  willing  victim, t  Carthage,  bursting  loose 
From  all  that  pleading  Nature  could  oppose. 
From  a  whole  city's  tears,  by  rigid  faith 
Imperious  call'd,  and  honour's  dire  command. 
Scipio,  the  gentle  chief,  humanely  brave. 
Who  soon  the  race  of  spotless  glory  ran. 
And,  warm  in  youth,  to  the  poetic  shade 
With  Friendship  and  Philosophy  retired. 
Tully,  whose  powerful  eloquence  a  while 
Restrain'd  the  rapid  fate  of  rushing  Rome. 
Unconquer'd  Cato,  virtuous  in  extreme : 
And  thou,  unhappy  Brutus,  kind  of  heart, 
Whose  steady  arm,  by  awful  virtue  urged, 
Lifted  the  Roman  steel  against  thy  friend. 
Thousands  besides  the  tribute  of  a  verse 
Demand ;  but  who  can  count  the  stars  of  Heaven  1 
Who  sing  their  influence  on  this  lower  world? 

Behold,  who  yonder  comes !  in  sober  state. 
Fair,  mild,  and  strong,  as  is  a  vernal  sun: 
'Tis  Phoebus'  self,  or  else  the  Mantuan  Swain 
Great  Homer  too  appears,  of  daring  wing, 
Parent  of  song !  and  equal  by  his  side. 
The  British  Muse:  join'd  hand  in  hand  they 
walk. 

Darkling,  full  up  the  middle  steep  to  fame, 
Nor  absent  are  those  shades,  whose  skilful  touch 
Pathetic  drew  the  impassion'd  heart,  and  charm'd 


Of  every  worth  and  every  splendid  art ; 
Modest,  and  simple,  in  the  pomp  of  wealth. 
Then  the  last  worthies  of  declining  Greece, 
Late  call'd  to  glory,  in  unequal  times. 
Pensive  appear.    The  fair  Corinthian  boast, 
Timoleon,  happy  temper !  mild,  and  firm. 
Who  wept  the  brother  while  the  tyrant  bled. 
And,  equal  to  the  best,  the  Theban  Pair,t 
Whose  virtues,  in  heroic  concord  join'd. 
Their  country  raised  to  freedom,  empire,  fame. 
He  too,  with  whom  Athenian  honour  sunk. 
And  left  a  mass  of  sordid  lees  behind, 
Phocion  the  Good  ;  in  public  life  severe. 
To  virtue  still  inexorably  firm ; 
But  when,  beneath  his  low  illustrious  roof, 


*  Leonidas.  t  Themistocles. 

t  Pelopidas  and  Epaminondas. 


'  Marcus  Junius  Brutus. 


t  Regujusk 


WINTER. 


47 


Transported  Athens  with  the  moral  scene ; 
Nor  those  who,  tuneful,  waked  the  enchanting 
lyre. 

First  of  your  kind  !  society  divine ! 
Still  visit  thus  my  nights,  for  you  reserved, 
And  mount  my  soaring  soul  to  thoughts  like 
yours. 

Silence,  thou  lonely  power!  the  door  be  thine; 
See  on  the  hallow'd  hour  that  none  intrude. 
Save  a  few  chosen  friends,  who  sometimes  deign 
To  bless  my  humble  roof,  with  sense  refined, 
Liearning  digested  well,  exalted  faith. 
Unstudied  wit,  and  humour  ever  gay. 
Or  from  the  Muses'  hill  will  Pope  descend, 
To  raise  the  sacred  hour,  to  bid  it  smile. 
And  with  the  social  spirit  warm  the  heart  1 
For  though  not  sweeter  his  own  Homer  sings, 
Yet  is  his  life  the  more  endearing  song. 

Where  art  thou,  Hammond  1  thou,  the  darling 
pride, 

The  friend  and  lover  of  the  tuneful  throng ! 
Ah  why,  dear  youth,  in  all  the  blooming  prime 
Of  vernal  genius,  where  disclosing  fast 
Each  active  worth,  each  manly  virtue  lay. 
Why  wert  thou  ravish'd  from  our  hope  so  soon  1 
What  now  avails  that  noble  thirst  of  fame, 
Which  stung  thy  fervent  breast  ?  that  treasured 
store 

Of  knowledge  early  gain'd  1  that  eager  zeal 
To  serve  thy  country,  glowing  in  the  band 
Of  youthful  patriots,  who  sustain  her  name; 
What  now,  alas !  that  life-diffusing  charm 
Of  sprightly  wit  1  that  rapture  for  the  Muse, 
That  heart  of  friendship,  and  that  soul  of  joy. 
Which  bade  with  softest  light  thy  virtues  smile  1 
Ah  !  only  show'd,  to  check  our  fond  pursuits. 
And  teach  our  humbled  hopes  that  life  is  vain  ! 

Thus  in  some  deep  retirement  would  I  pass 
The  winter -glooms,  with  friends  of  pliant  soul, 
Or  blithe,  or  solemn,  as  the  theme  inspired ; 
With  them  would  search,  if  Nature's  boundless 
frame 

Was  call'd,  late-rising  from  the  void  of  night, 
Or  sprung  eternal  from  the  Eternal  Mind; 
Its  life,  its  laws,  its  progress,  and  its  end. 
Hence  larger  prespects  of  the  beauteous  whole 
Would,  gradual,  open  on  our  opening  minds; 
And  each  diffusive  harmony  unite 
In  full  perfection,  to  the  astonish'd  eye. 
Then  would  we  try  to  scan  the  moral  world. 
Which,  though  to  us  it  seems  embroil'd,  moves  on 
In  higher  order ;  fitted  and  impell'd 
By  Wisdom's  finest  hand,  and  issuing  all 
In  general  good.    The  sage  historic  Muse 
Should  next  conduct  us  through  the  deeps  of 
time : 

Show  us  how  empire  grew,  declined,  and  fell, 
In  scatter'd  states;  what  makes  the  nations  smile, 
Improves  their  soil,  and  gives  them  double  suns ; 
32  2  R  2 


And  why  they  pine  beneath  the  brightest  skies, 
In  Nature's  richest  lap.    As  thus  we  talk'd, 
Our  hearts  would  burn  within  us,  would  inhale 
That  portion  of  divinity,  that  ray 
Of  purest  Heaven,  which  lights  the  public  soul 
Of  patriots  and  of  heroes.    But  if  doom'd 
In  powerless  humble  fortune,  to  repress 
These  ardent  risings  of  the  kindling  soul ; 
Then,  even  superior  to  ambition,  we 
Would  learn  the  private  virtues ;  how  to  glide 
Through  shades  and  plains,  along  the  smoothest 
stream 

Of  rural  life :  or  snatch'd  away  by  hope. 
Through  the  dim  spaces  of  futurity, 
With  earnest  eye  anticipate  those  scenes 
Of  happiness  and  wonder;  where  the  mind 
In  endless  growth  and  infinite  ascent. 
Rises  from  state  to  state,  and  world  to  world. 
But  when  with  these  the  serious  though  is  foil'd, 
We,  shifting  for  relief,  would  play  the  shapes 
Of  frolic  fancy;  and  incessant  form 
Those  rapid  pictures,  that  assembled  train 
Of  fleet  ideas,  never  join'd  before, 
Whence  lively  wit  excites  to  gay  surprise ; 
Or  folly  painting  humour,  grave  himself. 
Calls  laughter  forth,  deep-shaking  every  nerve. 

Meantime  the  village  rouses  up  the  fire ; 
While  well  attested,  and  as  vi^ell  believed. 
Heard  solemn,  goes  the  gobhn  story  round ; 
Till  surperstitious  horror  creeps  o'er  all. 
Or,  frequent  in  the  sounding  hall,  they  wake 
The  rural  gambol.    Rustic  mirth  goes  round  : 
The  simple  joke  that  takes  the  shepherd's  heart 
Easily  pleased;  the  long  loud  laugh,  sincere; 
The  kiss,  snatch'd  hasty  from  the  side-long  maid, 
On  purpose  guardless,  or  pretending  sleep: 
The  leap,  the  slap,  the  haul;  and,  shook  to  notes 
Of  native  music,  the  respondent  dance. 
Thus  jocund  fleets  with  them  the  winter  night. 

The  city  swarms  intense.    The  public  haunt. 
Full  of  each  theme  and  warm  with  mix'd  dis- 
course. 

Hums  indistinct.    The  sons  of  riot  flow 
Down  the  loose  stream  of  false  enchanted  joy, 
To  swift  destruction.    On  the  rankled  soul 
The  gaming  fury  falls ;  and  in  one  gulf 
Of  total  ruin,  honour,  virtue,  peace. 
Friends,  families,  and  fortune,  headlong  sink. 
Upsprings  the  dance  along  the  lighted  dome, 
Mix'd  and  evolved,  a  thousand  sprightly  ways. 
The  glittering  court  effuses  every  pomp; 
The  circle  deepens :  beam'd  from  gaudy  robes, 
Tapers,  and  sparkling  gems,  and  radiant  eyes 
A  soft  effulgence  o'er  the  palace  waves: 
While,  a  gay  insect  in  his  summet-shine, 
The  fop,  light  fluttering,  spreads  his  mealy  wings. 
Dread  o'er  the  scene,  the  ghost  of  Hamle^ 
stalks; 

Othello  rages;  poor  Monimia  mourns; 


48 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


And  Belvidera  pours  lier  soul  in  love. 
Terror  alarms  the  breast;  the  comely  tear 
Steals  o'er  the  cheek:  or  else  the  Comic  Muse 
Holds  to  the  world  a  picture  of  itself, 
A  nd  raises  sly  the  fair  impartial  laugh. 
Sometimes  she  lifts  her  strain,  and  paints  the  scenes 
Of  beauteous  life;  whate'er  can  deck  mankind. 
Or  charm  the  heart,  in  generous  Bevil*  show'd. 

O  thou,  whose  wisdom,  solid  yet  refined, 
"Whose  patriot-virtues,  and  consummate  skill 
To  touch  the  finer  springs  that  move  the  world, 
Join'd  to  whate'er  the  Graces  can  bestow, 
And  all  Apollo's  animating  fire, 
Give  thee,  with  pleasing  dignity,  to  shine 
At  once  the  guardian,  ornament,  and  joy, 
Of  poHsh'd  life  ;  permit  the  rural  Muse, 
O  Chesterfield,  to 'grace  with  thee  her  song! 
_Ere  to  the  shades  again  she  humbly  flies, 
Indulge  her  fond  ambition,  in  thy  train, 
(For  every  Muse  has  in  thy  train  a  place) 
To  mark  thy  various,  fuU-accomplish'd  mind: 
To  mark  that  spirit,  which,  with  British  scorn, 
Rejects  the  allurements  of  corrupted  power; 
That  elegant  politeness,  which  excels, 
E'en  in  the  judgment  of  presumptuous  France, 
The  boasted  manners  af  her  shining  court ; 
That  with  the  vivid  energy  of  sense, 
The  truth  of  Nature,  which  with  Attic  point 
And  kind  well  temper'd  satire,  smoothly  keen. 
Steals  through  the  soul,  and  without  pain  corrects. 
Or  rising  thence  with  yet  a  brighter  flame, 
O  let  me  hail  thee  on  some  glorious  day. 
When  to  the  listening  senate,  ardent,  crowd 
Britannia's  sons  to  hear  her  pleaded  cause. 
Then  dress'd  by  thee,  more  amiably  fair. 
Truth  the  soft  robe  of  mild  persuasion  wears  : 
Thou  to  assenting  reason  givest  again 
Her  dwn  enlighten'd  thoughts;  call'd  from  the 
.heart. 

The  obedient  passions  on  thy  voice  attend ; 
And  e'en  reluctant  party  feels  a  while 
Thy  gracious  power :  as  through  the  varied  maze 
Of  eloquence,  now  smooth,  now  quick,  now  strong. 
Profound  and  clear,  you  roll  the  copious  flood. 

To  thy  loved  haunt  return,  my  happy  Muse : 
For  now,  behold,  the  joyous  winter  days. 
Frosty,  succeed  ;  and  through  the  blue  serene, 
For  sight  too  fine,  the  ethereal  nitre  flies ; 
KilUng  infectious  damps,  and  the  spent  air 
Storing  afresh  with  elemental  life. 
Close  crowds  the  shining  atmosphere;  and  binds  . 
Our  strcngthen'd  bodies  in  its  cold  embrace. 
Constringent;  feeds,  and  animates  our  blood ; 
Refines  our  spirits,  through  the  new-strung  nerves,  '. 
In  swifter  sallies  darting  to  the  brain ;  ( 
Where  sits  the  soul,  intense,  collected,  cool. 
Bright  as  the  skies,  and  as  the  season  keen. 

•  A  character  in  the  Conscious  Lovere,  by  Sir  R.  Steele. 


All  Nature  feels  tne  renovating  force 
Of  Winter,  only  to  ihe  thoughtless  eye 
In  ruin  seen.    The  frost-concocted  glebe 
Draws  in  abundant  vegetable  soul. 
And  gathers  vigour  tor  the  coming  year, 
i  A  stronger  glow  sits  on  the  lively  cheek 
Of  ruddy  fire:  and  luculent  along 
The  purer  rivers  flow;  their  sullen  deeps, 
Transparent,  open  to  the  shepherd's  gaze. 
And  murmur  hoarser  at  the  fixing  frost. 

What  art  thou,  frost  1  and  whence  are  thy  keen 
stores 

Derived,  thou  secret  all-invading  power. 
Whom  e'en  the  illusive  fluid  can  not  fly"? 
Is  not  thy  potent  energy,  unseen, 
Myriads  of  little  salts,  or  hook'd,  or  shaped 
Like  double  wedges,  and  diffused  immense 
Through  water,  earth,  and  ether  1  hence  at  eve, 
Steam'd  eager  from  the  red  horizon  round, 
With  the  fierce  rage  of  Winter  deep  suffused, 
An  icy  gale,  oft  shifting,  o'er  the  pool 
Breathes  a  blue  film,  and  in  its  mid  career 
Arrests  the  laickering  stream.  The  loosen'd  ice, 
Let  down  the  flood,  and  half  dissolved  by  day, 
Rustles  no  more ;  but  to  the  sedgy  bank 
Fast  grows,  or  gathers  round  the  pointed  stone, 
A  crystal  pavement,  by  the  breath  of  Heaven 
Cemented  firm ;  till,  seized  from  shore  to  shore 
The  whole  imprison'd  river  growls  below. 
Loud  rings  the  frozen  earth,  and  hard  reflects 
A  double  noise;  while,  at  his  evening  watch, 
The  village  dog  deters  the  nightly  thief; 
The  heifer  lows;  the  distant  water- fall 
Swells  in  the  breeze;  and,  with  the  hasty  tread 
Of  traveller,  the  hollow-sounding  plain 
Shakes  from  afar.    The  full  ethereal  round, 
Infinite  worlds  disclosing  to  the  view. 
Shines  out  intensely  keen ;  and,  all  one  cope 
Of  starry  glitter,  glows  from  pole  to  pole. 
From  pole  to  pole  the  rigid  influence  fails. 
Through  the  still  night,  incessant,  heavy,  strong. 
And  seizes  Nature  fast.    It  freezes  on ; 
Till  Morn,  late  rising  o'er  the  drooping  world, 
Lifts  her  pale  eye  unjoyous.    Then  appears 
The  various  labour  of  the  silent  night: 
Prone  from  the  dripping  eave,  and  dumb  cascade. 
Whose  idle  torrents  only  seem  to  roar. 
The  pendent  icicle:  the  frost-work  fair. 
Where  transient  hues,  and  fancied  figures  rise; 
Wide-spouted  o'er  the  hill,  the  frozen  bi'ook, 
A  livid  tract,  cold-gleaming  on  the  morn; 
The  forest  bent  beneath  the  plumy  wave; 
And  by  the  frost  refined  the  whiter  snow, 
Incrusted  hard,  and  sounding  to  the  tread 
Of  early  shepherd,  as  he  pensive  seeks 
His  pining  flock,  or  from  the  mountain  top, 
Pleased  with  the  slippery  surface,  swift  descends. 

On  blithsome  frolics  bent,  the  youthful  swains, 
While  every  work  of  man  is  laid  at  rest, 


WINTER. 


Fond  o'er  the  river  crowd,  in  various  sport 
And  revelry  dissolved;  where  mixing  glad, 
Happiest  of  all  the  train,  the  raptured  boy 
Lashes  the  whirling  top.    Or,  where  the  Rhine 
Branch'd  out  in  many  a  long  canal  extends, 
From  every  province  swarming,  void  of  care, 
Batavia  rushes  forth;  and  as  they  sweep, 
On  sounding  skates,  a  thousand  different  ways, 
In  circling  poise,  swift  as  the  winds,  along, 
The  then  gay  land  is  madden'd  all  to  joy. 
Nor  less  the  northern  courts,  wide  o'er  the  snow. 
Pour  a  new  pomp.    Eager,  on  rapid  sleds, 
Their  vigorous  youth  in  bold  contention  wheel 
The  long-resounding  course.  Meantime  to  raise 
The  manly  strife,  with  highly  blooming  charms, 
Flush'd  by  the  season,  Scandinavia's  dames. 
Or  Russia's  buxom  daughters,  glow  around. 

Pure,  quick,  and  sportful,  is  the  wholesome  day; 
But  soon  elapsed.    The  horizontal  sun. 
Broad  o'er  the  south,  hangs  at  his  utmost  noon : 
And,  ineffectual,  strikes  the  gelid  cUfF: 
His  azure  gloss  the  mountain  still  maintains. 
Nor  feels  the  feeble  touch.    Perhaps  the  vale 
Relents  awhile  to  the  reflected  ray: 
Or  from  the  forest  falls  the  clustered  snow, 
Myriads  of  gems,  that  in  the  waving  gleam 
Gay-twinkle  as  they  scatter.    Thick  around 
Thunders  the  sport  of  those  who  with  the  gun, 
And  dog  impatient  bounding  at  the  shot. 
Worse  than  the  Season,  desolate  the  fields ; 
And,  adding  to  the  ruins  of  the  year. 
Distress  the  footed  or  the  feathered  game. 

But  what  is  this'?  our  infant  Winter  sinks, 
Divested  of  his  grandeur,  should  our  eye 
Astonish'd  shoot  into  the  frigid  zone; 
Where,  for  relentless  months,  continual  Night 
Holds  o'er  the  glittering  waste  her  starry  reign. 
There,  through  the  prison  of  unbounded  wUds, 
Barr'd  by  the  hand  of  Nature  from  escape. 
Wide  roams  the  Russian  exile.    Nought  around 
Strikes  his  sad  eye,  but  deserts  lost  in  snow; 
And  heavy- loaded  groves;  and  solid  floods, 
That  stretch  athwart  the  solitary  waste. 
Their  icy  horrors  to  the  frozen  main. 
And  cheerless  towns  far  distant,  never  bless'd. 
Save  when  its  annual  course  the  caravan 
Bends  to  the  golden  coast  of  rich  Cathay,* 
With  news  of  human- kind.  Yet  there  Ufe  glows; 
Yet  cherish'd  there  beneath  the  shining  waste. 
The  furry  nations  harbour:  tipp'd  with  jet, 
Fair  ermines,  spotless  as  the  snows  they  press ; 
Sables  of  glossy  black;  and  dark-embrown'd, 
Or  beauteous  freak'd  with  many  a  mingled  hue. 
Thousands  besides,  the  costly  pride  of  courts, 
T!here,  warm  together  press'd,  the  trooping  deet 
Sleep  on  the  new-fallen  snows;  and  bcarce  his 
head 


Raised  o'er  the  heapy  wreath,  the  branching  elk. 
Lies  slumbering  sullen  in  the  white  abyss. 
The  ruthless  hunter  wants  nor  dogs  nor  toils, 
Nor  with  the  dread  of  sounding  bows  he  drives 
The  fearful  flying  race;  with  ponderous  clubs, 
As  weak  against  the  mountain-heaps  they  push 
Their  beating  breast  in  vain,  and  piteous  bray. 
He  lays  them  quivering  on  the  ensanguined  snow». 
And  with  loud  shouts  rejoicing  bears  them  home. 
There  through  the  piny  forest  half-absorp'd, 
Rough  tenant  of  these  shades,  the  shapeless  bear. 
With  dangling  ice  all  horrid,  stalks  forlorn ; 
Slow-paced,  and  sourer  as  the  storms  increase. 
He  makes  his  bed  beneath  the  inclement  drift, 
And,  with  stern  patience,  scorning  weak  com- 
plaint. 

Hardens  his  heart  against  assailing  want. 

Wide  o'er  the  spacious  regions  of  the  north, 
That  see  Bootes  urge  his  tardy  wain, 
A  boisterous  race,  by  frosty  Caurus*  pierced. 
Who  little  pleasure  know  and  fear  no  pain. 
Prolific  swarm.    They  once  relumed  the  flame 
Of  lost  mankind  in  polish'd  slavery  sunk ; 
Drove  martial  horde  on  horde,t  with  fearful 
sweep 

Resistless  rushing  o'er  the  enfeebled  south. 
And  gave  the  vanquished  world  another  form. 
Not  such  the  sons  of  Lapland :  wisely  they 
Despise  the  insensate  barbarous  trade  of  war; 
They  ask  no  more  than  simple  Nature  gives, 
They  love  their  mountains,  and  enjoy  their  storms. 
No  false  desires,  no  pride-created  wants. 
Disturb  the  peaceful  current  of  their  time ; 
And  through  the  restless  ever  tortured  maze 
Of  pleasure,  or  ambition,  bid  it  rage. 
Their  reindeer  form  their  riches.    These  their 
tents. 

Their  robes,  their  beds,  and  all  their  homely  wealth 
Supply,  their  wholesome  fare  and  cheerful  cups. 
Obsequious  at  their  call,  the  docile  tribe 
Yield  to  the  sled  their  necks,  and  whirl  tb em  swift 
O'er  hill  and  dale,  heap'd  into  one  expanse 
Of  marbled  snow,  as  far  as  eye  can  sweep 
With  a  blue  crust  of  ice  unbounded  glazed. 
By  dancing  meteors  then,  that  ceaseless  shake 
A  waving  blaze  refracted  o'er  the  heavens. 
And  vivid  moons,  and  stars  that  keener  play 
With  doubled  lustre  from  the  glossy  waste, 
E'en  in  the  depth  of  polar  night,  they  find 
A  wondrous  day:  enough  to  light  the  chase. 
Or  guide  their  daring  steps  to  Finland  fairs. 
Wish'd  Spring  returns;  and  from  the  hazy  south. 
While  dim  Aurora  slowly  moves  before. 
The  welcome  sun,  just  verging  up  at  first, 
By  small  degrees  extends  the  swelling  curve ! 
Till  seen  at  last  for  gay  rejoicing  months. 
Still  round  and  round,  his  spiral  course  he  winds, 


*  The  old  naane  for  China. 


'  North-west  wind.      t  The  wandering  Scyihian  clans 


50 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


And  as  he  nearly  dips  his  flaming  orb, 
Wheels  up  again,  and  reascends  the  sky. 
In  that  glad  season  from  the  lakes  and  floods, 
Where  pure  Niemi's*  fairy  mountains  rise, 
And  fringed  with  roses  Tengliot  rolls  his  stream 
They  draw  the  copious  fry.    With  these,  at  eve, 
They  cheerful  loaded  to  their  tents  repair ; 
Where,  all  day  long  in  useful  cares  employ'd, 
Their  kind  unblemish'd  wives  the  fire  prepare. 
Thrice  happy  race !  by  poverty  secured 
From  legal  plunder  and  rapacious  power : 
In  whom  fell  interest  never  yet  has  sown 
The  seeds  of  vice :  whose  spotless  swains  ne'er 
knew 

Injurious  deed,  nor,  blasted  by  the  breath 
Of  faithless  love,  their  blooming  daughters  wo. 

Still  pressing  on,  beyond  Tornea's  lake. 
And  Hecla  flaming  through  a  waste  of  snow, 
And  farthest  Greenland,  to  the  pole  itself, 
Where,  failing  gradual,  life  at  length  goes  out. 
The  Muse  expands  her  solitary  flight ; 
And,  hovering  o'er  the  wild  stupendous  scene, 
Beholds  new  seas  beneath  another  sky.t 
Throned  in  his  palace  of  cerulean  ice. 
Here  Winter  holds  his  unrejoicing  court; 
And  through  the  airy  hall  the  loud  misrule 
Of  driving  tempest  is  for  ever  heard; 
Here  the  grim  tyrant  meditates  his  wrath ; 
Here  arms  his  winds  with  all  subduing  frost: 
Moulds  his  fierce  hail,  and  treasures  up  his 
snows. 

With  which  he  now  oppresses  half  the  globe. 

Thence  winding  eastward  to  the  Tartar's  coast, 
She  sweeps  the  howling  margin  of  the  main ; 
Where  undissolving,  from  the  first  of  time, 
Snows  swell  on  snows,  amazing  to  the  sky ; 
And  icy  mountains  high  on  mountains  piled, 
Seem  to  the  shivering  sailor  from  afar. 
Shapeless  and  white,  an  atmosphere  oif  clouds. 
Projected  huge,  and  horrid  o'er  the  surge, 
Alps  frown  on  Alps;  or  rushing  hideous  down, 
As  if  old  Chaos  was  again  return'd, 
Wide-rend  the  deep,  and  shake  the  solid  pole. 
Ocean  itself  no  longer  can  resist 
The  binding  fury :  but,  in  all  its  rage 
Of  tempest  taken  by  the  boundless  frost, 
Is  many  a  fathom  to  the  bottom  chain'd. 


'  M.  de  Maupertius,  in  his  book  on  the  Figure  of  the  Earth, 
after  having  described  the  beautiful  laJce  and  mountain  of 
Niemi,  in  Lapland,  says,  "  From  this  height  we  had  opportu- 
nity several  times  to  see  those  vapours  rise  from  the  lake, 
which  the  people  of  the  country  call  Haltios,  and  which  they 
deem  to  be  the  guardian  spirits  of  the  mountains.  We  had 
been  frighted  with  stories  of  bears  that  haunted  this  place,  but 
Baw  none.  It  seemed  rather  a  place  of  resort  for  fairies  and 
genii,  than  bears." 

t  The  same  author  observes,  "I  was  surprised  to  see  upon 
the  banks  of  this  river  (the  Tenglio)  roses  of  aa  lively  a  red  as 
any  that  are  in  our  gardens. 

t  The  other  hemisphere. 


And  bid  to  roar  no  more :  a  bleak  expanse, 
Shagg'd  o'er  with  wavy  rocks,  cheerless,  and  voi<l 
Of  every  hfe,  that  from  the  dreary  months 
Flies  conscious  southward.    Miserable  they! 
Who,  here  entangled  in  the  gathering  ice. 
Take  their  last  look  of  the  descending  sun; 
While,  full  of  death,  and  fierce  with  tenfold  frost, 
The  long  long  night,  incumbent  o'er  their  heads, 
Falls  horrible.    Such  was  the  Briton's*  fate. 
As  with  first  prow,  (what  have  not  Britons  dared  !^ 
He  for  the  passage  sought,  attempted  since 
So  much  in  vain,  and  seeming  to  be  shut 
By  jealous  Nature  with  eternal  bars. 
In  these  fell  regions,  in  Arzina  caught, 
And  to  the  stony  deep  his  idle  ship 
Immediate  seal'd,  he  with  his  hapless  crew 
Each  full  exerted  at  his  several  task, 
Froze  into  statues;  to  the  cordage  glued 
The  sailor,  and  the  pilot  to  the.  helm. 

Hard  by  these  shores,  where  scarce  his  freezing 
stream 

Rolls  the  wild  Oby,  live  the  last  of  men; 
And  half  enliven'd  by  the  distant  sun. 
That  rears  and  ripens  man,  as  well  as  plants, 
Here  human  nature  wears  its  rudest  form. 
Deep  from  the  piercing  season  sunk  in  caves. 
Here  by  dull  fires,  and  with  unjoyous  cheer, 
They  waste  the  tedious  gloom.  Immersed  in  furs, 
Doze  the  gross  race.    Nor  sprightly  jest  nor  song, 
Nor  tenderness  they  know;  nor  aught  of  life, 
Beyond  the  kindred  bears  that  stalk  without. 
Till  morn  at  length,  her  roses  drooping  all. 
Shed  a  long  twilight  brightening  o'er  their  fields. 
And  calls  the  quiver'd  savage  to  the  chase. 

What  can  not  active  government  perform, 
New-moulding  manl  Wide-stretching  from  these 
shores, 

A  people  savage  from  remotest  time, 

A  huge  neglected  empire,  one  vast  mind. 

By  Heaven  inspired,  from  gothic  darkness  call'd. 

Immortal  Peter  !  first  of  monarchs  !  he 

His  stubborn  country  tamed,  her  rocks,  her  fens. 

Her  floods,  her  seas,  her  ill-submitting  sons; 

And  while  the  fierce  barbarian  he  subdued. 

To  more  exalted  soul  he  raised  the  man. 

Ye  shades  of  ancient  heroes,  ye  who  toil'd 

Through  long  successive  ages  to  build  up 

A  labouring  plan  of  state,  behold  at  once 

The  wonder  done !  behold  the  matchless  prince  I 

Who  left  his  native  throne,  where  reign'd  till  then 

A  mighty  shadow  of  unreal  power ; 

Who  greatly  spurn'd  the  slothful  pomp  of  courts; 

And  roaming  every  land,  in  every  port 

His  sceptre  laid  aside,  with  glorious  hand 

Unwearied  plying  the  mechanic  tool, 

Gather'd  the  seeds  of  trade,  of  useful  arts, 


I  '  Sir  Hugh  Willoughby,  sent  by  Queen  Elizabeth  to  di* 
cover  the  north-east 


WINTER. 


51 


Of  civil  wisdom,  and  of  material  skill. 
Charged  with  the  stores  of  Europe  home  he  goes ! 
Then  cities  rise  amid  the  illumined  waste; 
O'er  joyless  deserts  smiles  the  rural  reign; 
Ear  distant  flood  to  flood  is  social  join'd; 
The  astonish'd  Euxine  hears  the  Baltic  roar; 
Proud  navies  ride  on  seas  that  never  foam'd 
With  daring  keel  before ;  and  armies  stretch 
Each  way  their  dazzling  files,  repressing  here 
The  frantic  Alexander  of  the  north, 
And  awing  there  stern  Othman's  shrinking  sons. 
Sloth  flies  the  land,  and  Ignorance,  and  Vice, 
Of  old  dishonour  proud :  it  glows  around. 
Taught  by  the  Royal  Hand  that  roused  the  whole. 
One  scene  of  arts,  of  arms,  of  rising  trade : 
For  what  his  wisdom  plann'd,  and  power  enforced. 
More  potent  still,  his  great  example  show'd. 

Muttering,  the  winds  at  eve,  with  blunted  point, 
Blow  hollow  blustering  from  the  south.  Subdued, 
The  frost  resolves  into  a  trickling  thaw. 
Spotted  the  mountains  shine ;  loose  sleet  decends, 
And  floods  the  country  round.    The  rivers  swell. 
Of  bonds  impatient.    Sudden  from  the  hills, 
O'er  rocks  and  woods,  in  broad  brown  cataracts, 
A  thousand  snow- fed  torrents  shoot  at  once ; 
And,  where  they  rush,  the  wide  resounding  plain 
Is  left  one  slimy  waste.    Those  sullen  seas, 
That  wash'd  the  ungenial  pole,  will  rest  no  more 
Beneath  the  shackles  of  the  mighty  north ; 
But,  rousing  all  their  waves,  resistless  heave. 
And  hark !  the  lengthening  roar  continuous  runs 
Athwart  the  rifted  deep :  at  once  it  bursts. 
And  piles  a  thousand  mountains  to  the  clouds. 
Ill  fares  the  bark  with  trembling  wretches  charged. 
That,  toss'd  amid  the  floating  fragments,  moors 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  icy  isle, 
While  night  o'erwhelms  the  sea,  and  horror  looks 
More  horrible.    Can  human  force  endure 
The  assembled  mischiefs  that  besiege  them  round  1 
Hpart-gnavnng  hunger,  fainting  weariness. 
The  roar  of  winds  and  waves,  the  crush  of  ice, 
Now  ceasing,  now  renew'd  with  louder  rage, 
And  in  dire  echoes  bellowing  round  the  main. 
More  to  embroil  the  deep,  leviathan 
And  his  unwieldy  train,  in  dreadful  sport, 
Tempest  the  loosen'd  brine,  while  through  the 
gloom. 

Far  from  the  bleak  inhospitable  shore. 

Loading  the  winds,  is  heard  the  hungry  howl 

Of  famish'd  monsters,  there  awaiting  wrecks, 

Yet  Providence,  that  ever  waking  eye. 

Looks  down  with  pity  on  the  feeble  toil 

Of  mortals  lost  to  hope,  and  lights  them  safe, 

Through  all  this  dreary  labyrinth  of  fate. 

'Tis  done  !  dread  Winter  spreads  his  latest  glooms, 

And  reigns  tremendous  o'er  the  conquer'd  Year. 

How  dead  the  vegetable  kingdom  lies ! 

How  dumb  the  tuneful!  horror  wide  extends 

His  desolate  domain.    Behold,  fond  man  I 


See  here  thy  pictured  life;  pass  some  few  years. 
Thy  flowering  Spring,  thy  Summer's  ardent 
strength. 

Thy  sober  Autumn  fading  into  age. 
And  pale  concluding  Winter  comes  at  last. 
And  shuts  the  scene.  Ah !  whither  now  are  fled 
Those  dreams  of  greatness  1  those  unsolid  hopes 
Of  happiness  1  those  longings  after  fame  1 
Those  restless  cares'?  those  busy  bustling  days'? 
Those  gay-spent,  festive  nights'?  those  veering 
thoughts. 

Lost  between  good  and  ill,  that  shared  thy  life'? 

All  now  are  vanish'd  !  Virtue  sole  survives. 

Immortal  never-failing  friend  of  man. 

His  guide  to  happiness  on  high.  And  see  ! 

'Tis  come,  the  glorious  morn!  the  second  birth 

Of  heaven  and  earth !  awakening  Nature  hears 

The  new  creating  word,  and  starts  to  life. 

In  every  heighten'd  form,  from  pain  and  death 

For  ever  free.    The  great  eternal  scheme, 

Involving  all,  and  in  a  perfect  whole 

Uniting,  as  the  prospect  wider  spreads 

To  reason's  eye  refined  clear  up  apace. 

Ye  vainly  wise !  ye  blind  presumptuous  !  now, 

Confounded  in  the  dust,  adore  that  Power 

And  Wisdom  oft  arraign'd:  see  now  the  cause, 

Why  unassuming  worth  in  secret  lived. 

And  died,  neglected:  why  the  good  man's  share 

In  life  was  gaul  and  bitterness  of  soul : 

Why  the  lone  widow  and  her  orphans  pined 

In  starving  solitude;  while  luxury. 

In  palaces,  lay  straining  her  low  though 

To  form  unreal  wants :  why  heaven-born  truth, 

And  moderation  fair,  wore  the  red  marks 

Of  superstition's  scourge:  why  licensed  pain, 

That  cruel  spoiler,  that  embosom'd  foe, 

Embitter'd  all  our  bliss.    Ye  good  distress'd  I 

Ye  noble  few !  who  here  unbending  stand 

Beneath  Ufe's  pressure,  yet  bear  up  a  while, 

And  what  your  bounded  view,  which  only  saw 

A  little  part,  deem'd  evil  is  no  more: 

The  storms  of  Wintry  Time  will  quickly  pass, 

And  one  unbounded  Spring  encircle  all. 


HYMN. 

These,  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father,  these 
Are  but  the  varied  God.    The  rolling  year 
Is  full  of  Thee.    Forth  in  the  pleasing  Spring 
Thy  beauty  walks,  thy  tenderness  and  love. 
Wide  flush  the  fields;  the  softening  air  is  balm- 
Echo  the  mountains  round ;  the  forest  smiles ; 
And  every  sense  and  every  heart  is  joy. 
Then  comes  thy  glory  in  the  Summer-months, 
With  Hght  and  heat  refulgent.    Then  thy  sun 
Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  rolling  year: 
And  oft  thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder  speaks : 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve, 


52 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


By  brooks  and  groves,  in  hollow-whispering  gales 
Thy  bounty  shines  in  Autumn  unconfined, 
And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that  lives. 
In  Winter  awful  Thou !  with  clouds  and  storms 
Around  Thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tempest  roU'd 
Majestic  darkness!  on  the  whirlv/ind's  wing, 
Riding  sublime,  thou  bidst  the  world  adore, 
And  humblest  Nature  with  thy  northern  blast. 

Mysterious  round!  what  skill,  what  force  divine, 
Deep  felt,  in  these  appear  !  a  simple  train. 
Yet  so  delightful  mix'd,  with  such  kind  art, 
Such  beauty  and  beneficence  combined  ; 
Shade,  unperceived,  so  softening  into  shade; 
And  all  so  forming  an  harmonious  whole; 
That  as  they  still  succeed,  they  ravish  still. 
But  wandering  oft,  with  brute  unconscious  gaze, 
Man  marks  not  Thee,  marks  not  the  mighty  hand 
That,  ever  busy,  wheels  the  silent  spheres; 
Works  in  the  secret  deep;  shoots, steaming,  thence 
The  fair  profusion  that  o'erspreads  the  Sprmg: 
Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming  day; 
Feeds  every  creature;  hurls  the  tempest  forth; 
And,  as  on  earth  this  grateful  change  revolves, 
With  transport  touches  all  the  springs  of  life. 

Nature  attend !  join,  every  living  soul, 
Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky, 
[n  adoration  join;  and,  ardent,  raise 
One  general  song !  To  Him,  ye  vocal  gales, 
Breathe  soft,  whose  Spirit  in  your  freshness 

breathes : 
Oh,  talk  of  Him  in  solitary  glooms ! 
Where,  o'er  the  rock  the  scarcely  waving  pine 
Fills  the  brown  shade  with  a  religious  awe. 
And  ye,  whose  bolder  note  is  heard  afar, 
Who  shake  the  astonish'd  world,  lift  high  to  heaven 
The  impetuous  song,  and  say  from  wliom  you  rage. 
His  praise,  ye  brooks,  attune,  ye  trembling  rills; 
And  let  me  catch  it  as  I  muse  along. 
Ye  headlong  torrents,  rapid,  and  profound ; 
Ye  softer  floods,  that  lead  the  human  maze 
Along  the  vale ;  and  thou,  majestic  main, 
A  secret  world  of  wonders  in  thyself, 
Sound  His  stupendous  praise;  whose  gren.ter  voice 
Or  bids  you  roar,  or  bids  your  roarings  fall. 
Soft  roll  your  incense,  herbs,  and  fruits,  and  flowers, 
In  mingled  clouds  to  Him;  whose  sun  exalts. 
Whose  breath  perfumes  you,  and  whose  pencil 
paints. 

Ye  forests  bend,  ye  harvests,  wave,  to  Him; 
Breathe  your  still  song  into  the  reaper's  heart, 
As  home  he  goes  beneath  the  joyous  moon. 
Ye  that  keep  watch  in  heaven,  as  eartli  asleep 
Unconscious  lies,  efiuse  your  mildt^st  beams. 
Ye  constellations,  while  your  angels  strike, 
Amid  the  spangled  sky,  the  silver  lyre. 


;  G  reat  source  of  day !  •  best  image  here  below 
Of  thy  Creator,  ever  pouring  wide, 
From  world  to  world,  the  vital  ocean  round, 
On  Nature  write  with  every  beam  his  praise. 
The  thunder  rolls:  be  hush'd  the  prostrate  world : 
While  cloud  to  cloud  returns  the  solemn  hymn. 
Bleat  out  afresh,  ye  liills,  ye  mossy  rocks 
Retain  the  sound :  the  broad  responsive  low, 
Ye  valleys  raise;  for  the  Great  Shepherd  reigns; 
And  his  unsuffering  kingdom  yet  will  come. 
Ye  woodlands  all,  awake:  a  boundless  song 
Burst  from  the  groves!  and  when  the  restless  day, 
Expiring,  lays  the  vvarbhng  world  asleep. 
Sweetest  of  birds  !  sweet  Philomela,  charm 
The  listening  shades,  and  teach  the  night  Hisi 
praise. 

Ye  chief,  for  whom  the  whole  creation  smiles. 
At  once  the  head,  the  heart,  and  tongue  of  all, 
Crown  the  great  hymn ;  in  swarming  cities  vast, 
Assembled  men,  to  the  deep  organ  join 
The  long  resounding  voice,  oft  breaking  clear, 
At  solemn  pauses,  through  the  swelling  base; 
And,  as  each  mingling  flame  increases  each, 
In  one  united  ardour  rise  to  heaven. 
Or  if  you  rather  choose  the  rural  shade, 
And  And  a  fane  in  every  sacred  grove; 
There  let  the  shepherd's  flute,  the  virgin's  lay, 
The  prompting  seraph,  and  the  poet's  lyre. 
Still  sing  the  God  of  Seasons,  as  they  roll ! 
For  me,  when  I  forget  the  darling  theme. 
Whether  the  blossom  blows,  the  summer-ray 
Russets  the  plain,  inspiring  Autumn  gleams; 
Or  Winter  rises  in  the  blackening  east ; 
Be  my  tongue  mute,  may  fancy  paint  no  more. 
And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heart  to  beat! 

Should  fate  command  me  to  the  farthest  verge 
Of  the  green  earth,  to  distant  barbarous  climes, 
Rivers  unknown  to  song;  where  first  the  sun 
Gilds  Indian  mountains,  or  his  setting  bea'm 
Flames  on  the  Atlantic  isles ;  'tis  nought  to  me  : 
Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt, 
In  the  void  waste  as  in  the  city  full; 
And  where  He  vital  breathes  there  must  be  joy. 
When  even  at  last  .the  solemn  hour  shall  come. 
And  wing  my  mystic  flight  to  future  wojkls, 
I  cheerful  will  obey;  there,  with  new  powers, 
Will  rising  wonders  sing:  I  can  not  go 
Where  Universal  Love  not  smiles  around, 
Sustaining  all  yon  orbs,  and  all  their  sons; 
From  seeming  Evil  still  educing  Good, 
And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still. 
In  infinite  progression.    But  I  lose 
Myself  in  Him,  in  Light  ineftiible  ! 
Come  then,  expressive  Silence,  muse  his  praise. 


THE  CASTLE  OF  INDOLENCE. 


53 


SPECIMEN  OF  THE  ALTERATIONS 
Made  by  Thomson  in  the  early  editions  of  the 
Seasons. 

'Tis  done ! — dread  Winter  has  subdued  the  Year, 
And  reigns,  tremendous,  o'er  the  desart  -plains ! 
How  dead  the  Vegetable  Kingdom  lies  ! 
How  dumb  the  tuneful !    Horror  wide  extends 
His  solitary  empire — now,  fond  Man  ! 
Behold  thy  pictur'd  life :  Pass  some  few  Years, 
Thy  flowering  Spring,  thy  short-Wd  Summer's 
strength. 

Thy  sober  Autumn,  fading  into  age, 
And  pale,  concluding  Winter  shuts  thy  scene, 
And  shrouds  Thee  in  the  Grave.  Where  now  are 
fled 

Those  Dreams  of  Greatness  1  those  un  solid  Hopes 
Of  Happiness  1  those  longings  after  Fame  1 
Those  restless  Cares  1  those  busy,  busthng  Days  1 
Those  Nights  of  secret  guilt?   those  veering 
thoughts. 

Fluttering  'twixt  Good,  and  Ill,that  shar'd  thy  Life? 
All,  now,  are  vanish'd  !    Virtue,  sole,  survives 
Immortal,  Mankind's  never-failing  Friend, 
His  Guide  to  Happiness  on  high — and  see ! 
'Tis  come,  the  Glorious  Morn  !  the  second  Birth 
Of  Heaven  and  Earth  ! — awakening  Nature  hears 
Th'  Almighty  Trumpet's  Fozce,  and  starts  to  Life, 
Renew' d,  unfading.    Now,  th^  Eternal  Scheme, 


That  Dark  Perplexity,  that  Mystic  maze, 
Wh  ich  Sight  cuu'd  never  trace,  nor  Heart  conceive^ 
To  Reason's  Eye,  refin'd,  clears  up  apace. 
Angels,  and  Men,  astonish'd  pause — and  dread 
To  travel  thro'  the  Depths  of  Providence, 
Untry'd,  unbounded.     Ye  vain  learned!  see, 
And,  prostrate  in  the  Dust,  adore  that  Power, 
And  Goodness,  oft  arraign'd.    See  now  the  cause. 
Why  conscious  worth,  oppress'd,  in  secret,  long, 
Mourn' d,  unregarded :  why  the  good  Man's  share 
In  Life,  was  Gall,  and  Bitterness  of  Soul : 
Why  the  lone  Widow,  and  her  Orphans,  pin'd, 
In  starving  Solitude  ;  while  Luxury, 
In  Palaces,  lay  prompting  her  low  thought 
To  form  unreal  Wants:  Why  Heaven-born  Faith^ 
And  Charity,  prime  Grace,  wore  the  red  marks 
Of  Persecution's  Scourge :  Why  licens'd  Pain 
That  cruel  Spoiler,  that  embosom'd  Foe, 
Imbitter'd  all  our  Bhss.    Ye  Good  Distrest ! 
Ye  noble  Few  !  that  here,  unbending,  stand 
Beneath  Life's  Pressures — yet  a  little  while, 
And  all  your  woes  are  past.    Time  swiftly  feets^ 
And  wish'd  Eternity,  approaching,  brings 
Life  undecaying.  Love  without  Allay, 
Pure  flowing  Joy,  and  Happiness  sincere. 

The  concluding  lines  of  Winter,  taken  from  the 
2nd  Edit.  1726, — those  words  printed  in  italic  show 
how  much  has  been  altered  by  the  author. 


[This  poem  being  writ  in  the  manner  of  Spenser,  the  obsolete  words,  and  a  simplicity  of  diction  in  some  of  the  line^ 
which  borders  on  the  ludicrous,  were  necessary  to  make  the  imitation  more  perfect.  And  the  style  of  tliat  admirable  poot,  as 
well  as  the  measure  in  which  he  wrote,  are,  as  it  were,  appropriated  by  custom  to  all  allegorical  Poems  writ  in  our  language  j 
just  as  in  French,  the  style  of  Marot,  who  lived  under  Fi'ancis  the  First,  has  been  used  in  tales,  and  familiar  epistles,  by  the 
nolitest  v/riters  of  the  age  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth.] 


CANTO  I. 

The  castle  bight  of  Indolence, 

And  its  false  luxury; 
Where  for  a  little  time,  alas! 

We  lived  right  jollily. 

I. 

O  MORTAL  man,  who  livest  here  by  toil, 
Do  not  complain  of  this  thy  hard  estate ; 
That  like  an  emmet  thou  must  ever  moil, 
Is  a  sad  sentence  of  an  ancient  date ; 
And,  certes,  there  is  for  it  reason  great ; 
For,  though  sometimes  it  makes  thee  weep  and 
wail, 

And  curse  thy  star,  and  early  drvdge  and  late ; 
Withouten  that  would  come  a  heavier  bale, 
Loose  life,  unruly  passions,  and  diseases  pale. 


ir. 

In  lowly  dale,  fast  by  a  river's  side, 
With  wocdy  hifl  o'er  hill  encompass'd  round, 
A  most  enchanting  wizard  did  abide, 
Than  whom  a  fiend  more  fell  is  no  where  found. 
It  was,  I  ween,  a  lovely  spot  of  ground  ; 
And  there  a  season  atween  June  and  May, 
Half  prankt  with  spring,  with  summer  half  im- 
brown'd, 

A  listless  climate  made,  where  sooth  to  say, 
No  living  wight  could  work,  xie.  cared  even  for  play. 

nr. 

Was  nought  around  but  images  of  rest : 
Sleep-soothing  groves,  and  quiet  lawns  between. 
And  flowery  beds  that  slumbrous  influence  kest. 
From  poppies  breathed;  and  beds  of  pleasant 
green, 


54 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Where  never  yet  was  creeping  creature  seen. 
Meantime   unnumber'd  glittering  streamlets 
play'd, 

And  hurled  every  where  their  waters  sheen ; 
That,  as  they  bicker'd  through  the  sunny  glade, 
Though  restless  still  themselves,  a  lulling  murmur 
made. 

IV. 

Join'd  to  the  prattle  of  the  purling  rills 
Were  heard  the  lowing  herds  along  the  vale, 
And  flocks  loud  bleating  from  the  distant  hills, 
And  vacant  shepherds  piping  in  the  dale; 
And,  now  and  then,  sweet  Philomel  would  wail. 
Or  stock-doves  plain  amid  the  forest  deep, 
That  drowsy  rustled  to  the  sighing  gale; 
And  still'  a  coil  the  grasshopper  did  keep ; 
Yet  all  these  sounds  yblent  inclined  all  to  sleep. 

v. 

Full  in  the  passage  of  the  vale  above, 
A  sable,  silent,  solemn  forest  stood; 
Where  nought  but  shadowy  forms  were  seen  to 
move, 

As  Idless  fancied  in  her  dreaming  mood : 
And  up  the  hills,  on  either  side,  a  wood 
Of  blackening  pines,  aye  waving  to  and  fro. 
Sent  forth  a  sleepy  horror  through  the  blood ; 
And  where  this  valley  winded  out,  below. 
The  murmuring  main  was  heard,  and  scarcely 
heard  to  flow. 

vr. 

A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy  head  it  was, 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye ; 
And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
For  ever  flushing  round  a  summer  sky : 
There  eke  the  soft  delights,  that  witchingly 
Instil  a  wanton  sweetness  through  the  breast. 
And  the  calm  pleasures  always  hover'd  nigh; 
But  whate'er  smack'd  of  noyance,  or  unrest, 
Was  far,  far  off  expell'd  from  this  delicious 
nest. 

VII. 

The  landscape  such,  inspiring  perfect  ease, 
Where  Indolence  (for  so  the  wizard  hight) 
Close-hid  his  castle  mid  embowering  trees. 
That  half  shut  out  the  beams  of  Phcebus  bright, 
And  made  a  kind  of  checker'd  day  and  night; 
Meanwhile,  unceasing  at  the  massy  gate, 
Beneath  a  spacious  palm,  the  wicked  wight 
Was  placed ;  and  to  his  lute,  of  cruel  fate 
And  labour  harsh,  complained,  lamenting  man's 
estate. 

viii.  • 

Thither  continual  pilgrims  crowded  still, 
From  all  the  roads  of  earth  that  pass  there  by: 


For,  as  they  chaunced  to  breathe  on  neighbour- 
ing hill, 

The  freshness  of  this  valley  smote  their  eye, 
And  drew  them  ever  and  anon  more  nigh ; 
Till  clustering  round  the  enchanter  false  they 
hung, 

Ymolten  with  his  syren  melody  ; 
While  o  er  the  enfeebling  lute  his  hand  he 
flung, 

And  to  the  trembling  chords  these  tempting  verses 
sung: 

IX. 

"  Behold !  ye  pilgrims  of  this  earth,  behold! 
See  all  but  man,  with  unearn'd  pleasure  gay: 
See  her  bright  robes  the  butterfly  unfold, 
Broke  from  her  wintry  tomb  in  prime  of  May! 
What  youthful  bride  can  equal  her  array  1 
Who  can  with  her  for  easy  pleasure  vie'? 
From  mead  to  mead  with  gentle  wing  to  stray. 
From  flower  to  flower  on  balmy  gales  to  fly, 
Is  all  she  has  to  do  beneath  the  radiant  sky. 

X. 

"  Behold  the  merry  minstrels  of  the  morn. 
The  swarming  songsters  of  the  careless  grove, 
Ten  thousand  throats!  that  from  the  flowering 
thorn, 

Hymn  their  good  God,  and  carol  sweet  of  love, 
Such  grateful  kindly  raptures  them  emove : 
They  neither  plough  nor  sow :  ne,  fit  for  flail, 
E'er  to  the  barn  the  nodden  sheaves  they  drove; 
Yet  theirs  each  harvest  dancing  in  the  gale, 
Whatever  crowns  the  hill,  or  smiles  along  the 
vale. 

XI. 

.  "  Outcast  of  nature,  man  !  the  wretched  thrall 
Of  bitter  dropping  sweat,  of  sweltry  pain, 
Of  cares  that  eat  away  the  heart  with  gall, 
And  of  the  vices,  an  inhuman  train. 
That  all  proceed  from  savage  thirst  of  gain . 
For  when  hard-hearted  interest  first  began 
To  poison  earth,  Astraea  left  the  plain ; 
Guile,  violence,  and  murder  seized  on  man. 

And,  for  soft  milky  streams,  with  blood  the  rivera 
ran. 

XII. 

"  Come,  ye,  who  still  the  cumbrous  load  of  life 
Push  hard  up  hill;  but  as  the  furthest  steep 
You  trust  to  gain,  and  put  an  end  to  strife, 
Down  thunders  back  the  stone  with  mighty 
sweep. 

And  hurls  your  labours  to  the  valley  deep, 

For  ever  vain :  come,  and  without  foe, 

I  in  obhvion  will  your  sorrows  stee|), 

Your  c;ir('s,  your  toils;  will  steep  you  in  a  sea 

f  full  deliglit:  O  come,  ye  weary  wiglits,  to  me! 


THE  CASTLE  OF  INDOLENCE. 


55 


XIII. 

"  With  me,  you  need  not  rise  at  early  dawn, 
To  pass  the  joyless  day  in  various  stounds; 
Or,  louting  low,  on  upstart  fortune  fawn, 
And  sell  fair  honour  for  some  paltry  pounds ; 
Or  through  the  city  take  your  dirty  rounds, 
To  cheat,  and  dun,  and  lie,  and  visit  pay, 
Now  flattering  base,  now  giving  secret  wounds; 
Or  prowl  in  courts  of  law  for  human  prey, 
In  venal  senate  thieve,  or  rob  on  broad  highway. 

XIV. 

"  No  cocks,  with  me,  to  rustic  labour  call, 
From  village  on  to  village  sounding  clear; 
To  tardy  swain  no  shrill-voiced  matrons  squall; 
No  dogs,  no  babes,  no  wives,  to  stun  your  ear; 
No  hammers  thump;  no  horrid  blacksmith  sear, 
Ne  noisy  tradesman  your  sweet  slumbers  start, 
With  sounds  that  are  a  misery  to  hear : 
But  all  is  calm,  as  would  delight  the  heart 
Of  Sybarite  of  old,  all  nature  and  all  art, 

XV. 

"Here  nought  but  candour  reigns,  indulgent 
ease. 

Good-natured  lounging,  sauntering  up  and  down. 
They  who  are  pleased  themselves  must  always 
please; 

On  others'  ways  they  never  squint  a  frown, 
Nor  heed  what  haps  in  hamlet  or  in  town : 
Thus,  from  the  source  of  tender  Indolence, 
With  milky  blood  the  heart  is  overflown, 
Is  sooth'd  and  sweeten'd  by  the  social  sense ; 
For  interest,  envy,  pride,  and  strife  are  banish'd 
hence. 

XVI. 

"  What,  what  is  virtue  but  repose  of  mind,  • 
A  pure  ethereal  calm,  that  knows  no  storm  ; 
Above  the  reach  of  wild  ambition's  wind. 
Above  those  passions  that  this  world  deform, 
And  torture  man,  a  proud  malignant  worm 
But  here,  instead,  soft  gales  of  passion  play, 
And  gently  stir  the  heart,  thereby  to  form 
A  quicker  sense  of  joy  ;  as  breezes  stray 
Across  the  enliven'd  skies,  and  make  them  still 
more  gay. 

XVII. 

*  The  best  of  men  have  ever  loved  repose: 
They  hate  to  mingle  in  the  filthy  fray ; 
Where  the  soul  sours,  and  gradual  rancour 
grows, 

Imbitter'd  more  from  peevish  day  to  day. 
E'en  those  whom  fame  has  lent  her  fairest  ray, 
The  most  renown'd  of  worthy  wights  of  yore, 
From  a  base  world  at  last  have  stolen  away : 
So  Scipio,  to  the  soft  Cumsean  shore 
Retiring,  tasted  joy  he  never  knew  before, 

2S 


XVIII, 

'  But  if  a  little  exercise  you  choose, 
Some  zest  for  ease,  'tis  not  forbidden  here: 
Amid  the  groves  you  may  indulge  the  Muse, 
Or  tend  the  blooms,  and  deck  the  vernal  year; 
Or  softly  stealing,  with  your  watery  gear. 
Along  the  brooks,  the  crimson-spotted  fry 
You  may  delude :  the  whilst,  amused,  you  hear 
Now  the  hoarse  stream,  and  now  the  zephyr's 
sigh. 

Attuned  to  the  birds,  and  woodland  melody. 

XIX, 

'  O  grievous  folly !  to  heap  up  estate. 
Losing  the  days  you  see  beneath  the  sun; 
When,  sudden,  comes  blind  unrelenting  fate^ 
And  gives  the  untasted  portion  you  have  won 
With  ruthless  toil,  and  many  a  wretch  undone, 
To  those  who  mock  you,  gone  to  Pluto's  reign, 
There  with  sad  ghosts  to  pine,  and  shadows  dun: 
But  sure  it  is  of  vanities  most  vain, 
To  toil  for  what  you  here  untoihngmay  obtain,' 

XX, 

He  ceased.    But  still  their  trembling  ears  re- 
tain'd 

The  deep  vibrations  of  his  witching  song).. 
That,  by  a  kind  of  magic  power,  constrain'd 
To  enter  in,  pell-mell,  the  listening  throng. 
Heaps  pour'd  on  heaps,  and  yet  they  slipt  along, 
In  silent  ease ;  as  when  beneath  the  beam 
Of  summer-moons,  the  distant  woods  among. 
Or  by  some  flood  all  silver'd  with  the  gleam. 
The  soft-embodied  fays  through  airy  portal  stream: 

XXI. 

By  the  smooth  demon  so  it  order 'd  was. 
And  here  his  baneful  bounty  first  began  : 
Though  some  there  were  who  would  not  further 
pass. 

And  his  alluring  baits  suspected  han. 
The  wise  distrust  the  too  fair-spoken  man. 
Yet  through  the  gate  they  cast  a  wishful  eye: 
Not  to  move  on,  perdie,  is  all  they  can : 
For  do  their  very  best  they  can  not  fly. 
But  often  each  way  look,  and  often  sorely  sigh. 

XXII. 

When  this  the  watchful  wicked  wizard  saw, 
With  sudden  spring  he  leap'd  upon  them 
straight; 

And  soon  as  touch'd  by  his  unhallow'd  paw. 
They  found  themselves  within  the  cursed  gate ; 
Full  hard  to  be  repass'd,  like  that  of  fate. 
Not  stronger  were  of  old  the  giant  crew, 
Who  sought  to  pull  high  Jove  from  regal  state; 
Though  feeble  wretch  he  seem'd,  of  sallow  hue: 
Certes,  who  bides  his  grasp,  will  that  encounter 
rue. 


56 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


xxiri. 

For  whomsoeer  the  villain  takes  in  hand, 
Their  joints  unknit,  their  sinews  melt  apace; 
As  lithe  tliey  grow  as  any  willow-wand, 
And  of  their  vanish'd  force  remains  no  trace: 
So  when  a  maiden  fair,  of  modest  grace. 
In  all  her  buxom  blooming  May  of  charms, 
Is  seized  in  some  losel's  hot  embrace. 
She  waxeth  very  weakly  as  she  warms. 
Then  sighing  yields  her  up  to  love's  delicious  harms. 

XIV. 

"Waked  by  the  crowd,  slow  from  his  bench  arose 
A  comely,  full-spread  porter,  swoln  with  sleep: 
His  calm,  broad^  thoughtless  aspect  breathed  re- 
pose ;  ' 
And  in  sweet  torpor  he  was  plunged  deep, 
Ne  could  himself  from  ceaseless  yawning  keep; 
While  o'er  his  eyes  the  drowsy  hquor  ran. 
Through  Which  his  half-waked  soul  would  faint- 
ly peep: 

Then  taking  his  black  staff,  he  call'd  his  man. 
And  roused  himself  as  much  as  rouse  himself  he  can. 

XXV. 

The  lad  leap'd  lightly  at  his  master's  call: 
He  was,  to  weet,  a  httle  roguish  page. 
Save  sleep  and  play  who  minded  nought  at  all, 
Like  most  the  untaught  striplings  of  his  age. 
This  boy  he  kept  each  band  to  disengage, 
Garters  and  buckles,  task  for  him  unfit, 
But  ill  becoming  his  grave  personage, 
And  which  his  portly  paunch  would  not  permit; 
So  this  same  limber  page  to  all  performed  it. 

xxvr. 

Meantime,  the  master-porter  wide  display'd 
Great  store  of  caps,  of  slippers,  and  of  gowns; 
Wherewith  he  those  who  enter'd  in  array'd 
Loose,  as  the  breeze  that  plays  along  the  downs. 
And  waves  the  summer-woods  when  evening 
frowns: 

O  fair  undress,  best  dress!  it  checks  no  vein, 
But  every  flowing  limb  in  pleasure  drowns, 
And  heightens  ease  with  grace.    This  done, 
right  fain. 

Sir  porter  sat  him  down,  and  turn'd  to  sleep  again, 
xxvr  I. 

Thus  easy  robed,  they  to  the  fountain  sped 
That  in  the  middle  of  the  court  up-threw 
A  stream,  high  spouting  from  its  liquid  bed. 
And  falling  back  again  in  drizzly  dew; 
There  each  deep  draughts,  as  deep  he  thirsted, 
drew; 

It  was  a  fountain  of  nepenthe  rare; 
Whence,  as  Dan  Homer  sings,  huge  pleasance 
Slew, 


And  sweet  obHvion  of  vile  earthly  care ; 
Fair  gladsome  waking  thoughts,  and  joyous  dreams 
more  fair, 

XXVIII. 

This  right  perform'd,  all  inly  pleased  and  still, 
Withouten  tromp,  was  proclamation  made : 
'  Ye  sons  of  Indolence,  do  what  you  will; 
And  wander  where  you  list,  through  hall  or 
glade ; 

Be  no  man's  pleasure  for  another  staid ; 
Let  each  as  likes  him  best  his  hours  employ, 
And  cursed  be  he  who  minds  his  neighbour's 
trade ! 

Here  dwells  kind  ease  and  unreproving  joy: 
He  little  merits  bliss  who  others  can  annoy.' 

XXIX. 

Straight  of  these  endless  numbers,  swarming 
round. 

As  thick  as  idle  motes  in  sunny  ray, 
Not  one  eftsoons  in  view  was  to  be  found, 
But  every  man  stroU'd  off  his  own  glad  way, 
Wide  o'er  this  ample  court's  blank  area. 
With  all  the  lodges  that  thereto  pertain 'd, 
No  living  creature  could  be  seen  to  stray; 
While  solitude,  and  perfect  silence  reign'd; 
So  that  to  think  you  dreamt  you  almost  was  con- 
strain'd. 

XXX. 

As  when  a  shepherd  of  the  Hebrid-Isles,* 
Placed  far  amid  the  melancholy  main, 
(Whether  it  be  lone  fancy  him  beguiles; 
Or  that  aerial  beings  sometimes  deign 
To  stand,  embodied,  to  our  senses  plain) 
Sees  on  the  naked  hill,  or  valley  low, 
^  The  whilst  in  ocean  Phoebus  dips  his  wain, 

A  vast  assembly  moving  to  and  fro  ; 
Then  all  at  once  in  air  dissolves  the  wondrous  show. 

XXXI. 

Ye  gods  of  quiet,  and  of  sleep  profound ! 
Whose  soft  dominion  o'er  this  castle  sways, 
And  all  the  widely  silent  places  round, 
Forgive  me,  if  my  trembling  pen  displays 
What  never  yet  was  sung  in  mortal  lays. 
But  how  shall  I  attempt  such  arduous  string  1 
I  who  have  spent  my  nights,  and  nightly  days 
In  this  soul-deadening  place  loose-loitering  : 
Ah!  how  shall  I  for  this  uprear  my  moulted  wingi 

XXXII. 

Come  on,  my  muse,  nor  stoop  to  low  despair, 
Thou  imp  of  Jove,  tpuch'd  by  celestial  fire ! 

*  Ttiose  isles  on  the  west  coast  of  Scotland,  called  the  He- 
brides. 


THE  CASTLE  OP  INDOLENCE. 


57 


Thou  yet  shall  sing  of  war,  and  actions  fair, 
Which  the  bold  sons  of  Britain  will  inspire  ; 
Of  ancient  bards  thou  yet  shall  sweep  the  lyre; 
Thou  yet  shall  tread  in  tragic  pall  the  stage, 
Paint  love's  enchanting  woes,  the  hero's  ire, 
The  sage's  calm,  the  patriots  noble  rage, 
Dashing  corruption  down  through  every  worthless 
age. 

XXXIII. 

The  doors,  that  knew  no  shrill  alarming  bell ; 
Ne  cursed  knocker  plied  by  villain's  hand, 
Self-open'd  into  halls,  where,  who  can  tell 
What  elegance  and  grandeur  wide  expand  ; 
The  pride  of  Turkey  and  of  Persia  landl 
Soft  quilts  on  quilts,  on  carpets  carpets  spread. 
And  couches  stretch'd  around  in  seemly  band ; 
And  endless  pillows  rise  to  prop  the  head; 
So  that  each  spacious  room  was  one  full-swelling 
bed ; 

XXXIV. 

And  every  where  huge  cover'd  tables  stood. 
With  wines  high-flavour'd  and  rich  viands 
crown'd; 

Whatever  sprightly  juice  or  tasteful  food 
On  the  green  bosom  of  this  earth  are  found, 
And  all  old  ocean  'genders  in  his  round  : 
Some  hand  unseen  these  silently  display'd, 
Even  undemanded  by  a  sign  or  sound ; 
You  need  but  wish,  and  instantly  obey'd. 
Fair  ranged  the  dishes  rose,  and  thick  the  glasses 
play'd. 

XXXV. 

Here  freedom  reign'd,  without  the  least  alloy ; 
Nor  gossip's  tale,  nor  ancient  maiden's  gall. 
Nor  saintly  spleen  durst  murmur  at  our  joy, 
And  with  envenom'd  tongue  our  pleasures  pall. 
For  why'?  there  was  but  one  great  rule  for  all; 
To  wit,  that  each  should  work  his  own  desire, 
And  eat,  drink,  study,  sleep,  as  it  may  fall. 
Or  melt  the  time  in  love,  or  wake  the  lyre, 
And  carol  what,  unhid,  the  muses  might  inspire. 

XXXVI. 

The  rooms  with  costly  tapestry  were  hung, 
Where  was  inwoven  many  a  gentle  tale; 
Such  as  of  old  the  rural  poets  sung, 
Or  of  Arcadian  or  Sicilian  vale : 
Reclining  lovers,  in  the  lonely  dale, 
Pour'd  forth  at  large  the  sweetly  tortured  heart. ; 
Or,  sighing  tender  passion,  swell'd  the  gale, 
And  taught  charm'd  echo  to  resound  their  smart ; 
While  flocks,  woods,  streams  around,  repose  and 
peace  impart. 


XXXVII. 

Those  pleased  the  most,  where,  by  a  cunning 
hand, 

Depainted  was  the  patriarchal  age ; 
What  time  Dan  Abraham  left  the  Chaldee  land, 
And  pastured  on  from  verdant  stage  to  stage. 
Where  fields  and  fountains  fresh  could  best  en- 
_  gage. 

Toil  was  not  then:  of  nothing  took  they  heed, 
But  with  wild  beasts  the  silvan  war  to  wage, 
And  o'er  vast  plains  their  herds  and  flocks  to 
feed: 

Bless'd  sons  of  nature  they !  true  golden  age  iii- 
deed! 

XXXVIII. 

Sometimes  the  pencil,  in  cool  airy  halls. 
Bade  the  gay  bloom  of  vernal  landscapes  rise, 
Or  Autumn's  varied  shades  imbrown  the  walls: 
Now  the  black  tempest  strikes  the  astonish'd 
eyes; 

Now  down  the  steep  the  flashing  torrent  flies ; 
The  trembling  sun  now  plays  o'er  ocean  blue, 
And  now  rude  mountains  frown  amid  the  skies ; 
Whate'er  Lorraine  light-touch'd  with  softening 
hue, 

Or  savage  Rosa  dash'd,  or  learned  Poussin  drew. 

XXXIX. 

Each  sound  too  here  to  languishment  inclined, 
LuU'd  the  weak  bosom,  and  induced  ease ; 
Aerial  music  in  the  warbling  wind. 
At  distance  rising  oft,  by  small  degrees. 
Nearer  and  nearer  came,  till  o'er  the  trees 
'It  hung,  and  breathed  such  soul-dissolving  airs, 
As  did,  alas!  with  soft  perdition  please: 
Entangled  deep  in  its  enchanting  snares. 
The  listening  heart  forgot  all  duties  and  all  cares. 

XL. 

A  certain  music,  never  known  before 
Here  luU'd  the  pensive,  melancholy  mind ; 
Full  easily  obtain'd.    Behoves  no  more. 
But  sidelong,  to  the  gently  waving  wind. 
To  lay  the  well  tuned  instrument  reclined ; 
From  which,  with  airy  flying  fingers  light, 
Beyond  each  mortal  touch  the  most  refined, 
The  god  of  winds  drew  sounds  of  deep  delight; 
Whence,  with  just  cause,  the  harp  of  ^olus  it 
hight.* 

XLI, 

Ah  me !  what  hand  can  touch  the  string  so  fine  ? 
Who  up  the  lofty  diapasan  roll 


•  The  JEolian  harp,  here  designated,  has  been  greatly  im- 
proved in  its  structure  by  a  kindred  poet,  the  author  of  '  The 
Farmer's  Boy,' 


58 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


\ 


Such  sweet,  such  sad,  such  solemn  airs  divine, 
Then  let  them  down  again  into  the  soul : 
Now  rising  love  they  fann'd ;  now  pleasing  dole 
They  breathed,  in  tender  musings,  thro'  the 
heart ; 

And  now  a  graver  sacred  strain  they  stole, 
As  when  seraphic  hands  a  hymn  impart : 
Wild  warbling  nature  all,  above  the  reach  of  art ! 

XLII. 

Such  the  gay  splendour,  the  luxurious  state, 
Of  Caliphs  old,  who  on  the  Tygris'  shore. 
In  mighty  Bagdat,  populous  and  great. 
Held  their  bright  court,  where  was  of  ladies 
store ; 

And  verse,  love,  mCusic,  still  the  garland  wore: 
When  sleep  was  coy,  the  bard,*  in  waiting 
there, 

Gheer'd  the  lone  midnight  with  the  muse's  lore ; 
Composing  music  bade  his  dreams  be  fair, 
And  music  lent  new  gladness  to  tlie  morning  air. 

XLIII. 

Near  the  pavilions  where  we  slept,  still  ran 
Soft  trinkling  streams,  and  dashing  waters  fell. 
And  sobbing  breezes  sigh'd,  and  oft  began 
(So  work'd  the  wizard)  wintry  storms  to  swell. 
As  heaven  and  earth  they  would  together  mell : 
At  doors  and  windows,  threatening,  seem'd  to 
call 

The  demons  of  the  tempest,  growling  fell. 
Yet  the  least  entrance  found  they  none  at  all; 
Whence  sweeter  grew  our  sleep,  secure  in  massy 
hall. 

XLIV, 

And  hither  Morpheus  sent  his  kindest  dreams, 
Raising  a  world  of  gayer  tinct  and  grace; 
O'er  which  were  shadowy  cast  elysian  gleams. 
That  play'd,  in  waving  lights,  from  place  to 
place, 

And  shed  a  roseate  smile  on  nature's  face. 
Not  Titian's  pencil  e'er  could  so  array, 
So  fleece  with  clouds  the  pure  ethereal  space; 
Ne  could  it  e'er  such  melting  forms  display, 
As  loose  on  flowery  beds  all  languishingly  lay. 

XLV. 

No,  fair  illusions !  artful  phantoms,  no ! 
My  Muse  will  not  attempt  your  fairy  land: 
She  has  no  colours  that  like  you  can  glow : 
To  catch  your  vivid  scenes  too  gross  her  hand. 
But  sure  it  is,  was  ne'er  a  subtler  band 
Than  these  same  guileful  angel-seeming  sprights. 
Who  thus  in  dreams  voluptuous,  soft,  and  bland. 


•  The  Arabian  Caliphs  had  poeta  among  the  officers  of 
(heir  court,  whose  office  it  was  to  do  what  is  here  described. 


Pour'd  all  the  Arabian  heaven  upon  our  nights, 
And  bless'd  them  oft  besides  with  more  refined 
delights. 

XLVI. 

They  were,  in  sooth,  a  most  enchanting  train, 
Even  feigning  virtue;  skilful  to  unite 
With  evil  good,  and  strew  with  pleasure  pain. 
But  for  those  fiends,  whom  blood  and  broils  de 
light; 

Who  hurl  the  wretch,  as  if  to  hell  outright, 
Down  down  black  gulfs,  where  sullen  waters 
sleep, 

Or  hold  him  clambering  all  the  fearful  night 
On  beetling  cliflTs,  or  pent  in  ruins  deep  ; 
They,  till  due  time  should  serve,  were  bid  far  hence 
to  keep. 

XLVII. 

Ye  guardian  spirits,  to  whom  man  is  dear, 
From  these  foul  demons  shield  the  midnight 
gloom : 

Angels  of  fancy  and  of  love,  be  near, 
And  o'er  the  blank  of  sleep  diffuse  a  bloom : 
Evoke  the  sacred  shades  of  Greece  and  Rome, 
And  let  them  virtue  with  a  look  impart: 
But  chief,  a  while,  O !  lend  us  from  the  tomb 
Those  long  lost  friends  for  whom  in  love  we 
smart, 

And  fill  with  pious  awe  and  joy-mix'd  wo  the 
heart. 

XLVI  . 

Or  are  you  sportive  Bid  the  morn  of  youth 

Rise  to  new  light,  and  beam  afresh  the  days 
Of  innocence,  simplicity,  and  truth ; 
To  cares  estranged,  and  manhood's  thorny  ways. 
What  transport,  to  retrace  our  boyish  plays, 
Our  easy  bliss,  when  each  thing  joy  supphed ; 
The  woods,  the  mountains,  and  the  warbUng 
maze 

Of  the  wild  brooks!— but,  fondly  wandering 
wide. 

My  Muse,  resume  the  task  that  yet  doth  thee 
abide. 

XLIX. 

One  great  amusement  of  our  household  was, 
In  a  huge  crystal  magic  globe  to  spy, 
Still  as  you  turn'd  it,  all  things  that  do  pass 
Upon  this  ant-hill  earth;  where  constantly 
Of  idly  busy  men  the  restless  fry 
Runs  bustling  to  and  fro  with  fooUsh  haste. 
In  search  of  pleasures  vain  that  from  them  fly, 
Or  which,  obtain'd,  the  caitiffs  dare  not  taste: — 
When  nothing  is  enjoy'd,  can  there  be  greater 
waste  1 


THE  CASTLE  OF  INDOLENCE. 


59 


L. 

'  Of  vanity  the  mirror,'  this  was  call'd : 
Here,  you  a  muckworm  of  the  town  might  see, 
At  his  dull  desk,  amid  his  ledgers  stall'd. 
Eat  up  with  carking  care  and  penury ; 
Most  like  to  carcase  parch'd  on  gallow-tree. 
'  A  penny  saved  is  a  penny  got:' 
Firm  to  this  scoundrel  maxim  keepeth  he, 
Ne  of  its  rigour  will  he  bate  a  jot, 
Till  it  has  quench'd  his  fire,  and  banished  his  pot. 

LI, 

Straight  from  the  filth  of  this  low  grub,  behold ! 
Comes  fluttering  forth  a  gaudy  spendthrift  heir. 
All  glossy  gay,  enamel'd  all  with  gold. 
The  silly  tenant  of  the  summer  air, 
In  folly  lost,  of  nothing  takes  he  care ; 
Pimps,  lawyers,  stewards,  harlots,  flatterers  vile, 
And  thieving  tradesmen  him  among  them  share: 
His  father's  ghost  from  limbo  lake,  the  while. 
Sees  this,  which  more  damnation  doth  upon  him 
pile. 

LII. 

This  globe  pourtray'd  the  race  of  learned  men, 
Still  at  their  books,  and  turning  o'er  the  page, 
Backwards  and  forwards :  oft  they  snatch  the 
pen. 

As  if  inspired,  and  in  a  Thespian  rage; 
Then  write,  and  blot,  as  would  your  ruth  en- 
gage: 

Why,  authors,  all  this  scrawl  and  scribbling 
sore'? 

To  lose  the  present,  gain  the  future  age. 
Praised  to  be  when  you  can  hear  no  more. 
And  much  enrich'd  with  fame,  when  useless  world- 
ly store. 

Liri. 

Then  would  a  splendid  city  rise  to  view. 
With  carts,  and  cars,  and  coaches  roaring  all : 
Wide-pour'd  abroad  behold  the  giddy  crew : 
See  how  they  dash  along  from  wall  to  wall ! 
At  every  door,  hark  how  they  thundering  call ! 
Good  lord  !  what  can  this  giddy  rout  excite  1 
Why,  on  each  other  with  fell  tooth  to  fall ; 
A  neighbour's  fortune,  fame,  or  peace,  to  blight. 
And  make  new  tiresome  parties  for  the  coming  night. 

LIV. 

The  puzzling  sons  of  party  next  appear'd, 
In  dark  cabals  and  nightly  juntos  met ; 
And  now  they  whisper'd  close,  now  shrugging 
rear'd 

The  important  shoulder ;  then,  as  if  to  get 
New  light,  their  twinkling  eyes  were  inward  set. 
,  No  sooner  Lucifer*  recalls  affairs, 


*  The  Morning  stai*. 

2s  2 


Than  forth  they  various  rush  in  mighty  fret; 
When  lo !  push'd  up  to  power,  and  crown'd  theii 
cares, 

In  comes  another  set,  andkieketh  them  down  stairs. 

LV. 

But  what  most  show'd  the  vanity  of  life 
Was  to  behold  the  nations  all  on  fire. 
In  cruel  broils  engaged,  and  deadly  strife : 
Most  christian  kings,  inflamed  by  black  desire, 
With  honourable  ruffians  in  their  hire,  ' 
Cause  war  to  rage,  and  blood  around  to  pour; 
Of  this  sad  work  when  each  begins  to  tire, 
Then  sit  them  down  just  where  they  were  before, 
Till  for  new  scenes  of  wo  peace  shall  their  force 
restore. 

LVI. 

To  number  up  the  thousands  dwelling  here, 
A  useless  were,  and  eke  an  endless  task ; 
From  kings,  and  those  who  at  the  helm  appear, 
To  gipsies  brown  in  summer-glades  who  bask. 
Yea  many  a  man,  perdie,  T  could  unmask. 
Whose  desk  and  table  make  a  solemn  show^ 
With  tape- tied  trash,  and  suits  of  fools  that  ask 
For  place  or  pension  laid  in  decent  row ; 
But  these  I  passen  by,  with  nameless  numbers  moe. 

LVII. 

Of  all  the  gentle  tenants  of  the  place. 
There  was  a  man  of  special  grave  remark ; 
A  certain  tender  gloom  o'erspread  his  face, 
Pensive,  not  sad ;  in  thought  involved,  not  dark  , 
As  soot  this  man  could  sing  as  morning  lark, 
And  teach  the  noblest  morals  of  the  heart : 
But  these  his  talents  were  yburied  stark ; 
Of  the  fine  stores  he  nothing  would  impart, 
Which  or  boon  nature  gave,  or  nature-painting  art. 

Lvin. 

To  noontide  shades  incontinent  he  ran, 
Where  purls  the  brook  with  sleep-inviting  sound ; 
Or  when  Dan  Sol  to  slope  his  wheels  began, 
Amid  the  broom  he  bask'd  him  on  the  ground, 
Where  the  wild  thyme  and  camomile  are  foundf. 
There  would  he  finger,  till  the  latest  ray 
Of  light  sat  trembling  on  the  welkin's  bound ; 
Then  homeward  through  the  twilight  shadows, 
stray, 

Sauntering  and  slow.    So  had  he  passed  many  a 
day. 

LIX. 

Yet  not  in  thoughtless  slumber  were  they  past : 
For  oft  the  heavenly  fire,  that  lay  conceal'd 
Beneath  the  sleeping  embers,  mounted  fast, 
And  all  its  native  light  anew  reveal'd : 
Oft  as  he  traversed  the  cerulean  field, 


60 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


And  mark'd  the  clouds  that  drove  before  the  wind, 
Ten  thousand  glorious  systems  would  he  build, 
Ten  thousand  great  ideas  fiU'd  his  mind ; 
Rut  with  the  clouds  they  fled,  and  left  no  trace  be- 
hind. 


With  him  was  sometimes  join'd,  in  silent  walk, 
(Profoundly  silent,  for  they  ncA^er  spoke) 
One*  shyer  still,  who  quite  detested  talk : 
Oft,  stung  by  spleen,  at  once  away  he  broke. 
To  groves  of  pine,  and  broad  o'ershadowing  oak ; 
There,  inly  thrill'd,  he  wander'd  all  alone, 
And  on  himself  his  pensive  fury  wroke, 
Ne  ever  utter'd  word,  save  wh.ei\  first  shone 
The  guttering  star  of  eve — '  Thank  heaven !  the 
day  is  done,' 


Here  lurk'd  a  wretch,  who  had  not  crept  abroad 
For  forty  years,  ne  face  of  mortal  seen ; 
In  chamber  brooding  like  a  loathly  toad : 
And  sure  his  linen  was  not  very  clean. 
Through  secret  loop  holes,  that  had  practised  been 
Near  to  his  bed,  his  dinner  vile  he  took ; 
Unkempt,  and  rough,  of  squalid  face  and  mien, 
Our  Castle's  shame !  whence,  from  his  filthy  nook. 
We  drove  the  villain  out  for  fitter  lair  to  look. 


One  day  there  chanced  into  these  halls  to  rove 
A  joyous  youth,  who  took  you  at  first  sight ; 
Him  the  wild  wave  of  pleasure  hither  drove, 
Before  the  sprightly  tempest  tossing  light : 
Certes,  he  was  a  most  engaging  wight. 
Of  social  glee,  and  wit  humane  though  keen. 
Turning  the  night  to  day  and  day  to  night : 
For  him  the  merry  bells  had  rung,  I  ween, 
If  m  this  nook  of  quiet  bells  had  ever  been. 


But  not  e'en  pleasure  to  excess  is  good : 
What  most  elates,  then  sinks  the  soul  as  low : 
When  springtide  joy  pours  in  with  copious  flood. 
The  higher  still  the  exulting  billows  flow, 
The  further  back  again  they  flagging  go, 
And  leave  us  groveling  on  the  dreary  shore : 
Taught  by  this  son  of  joy,  we  found  it  so ; 
Who,  whilst  he  staid,  he  kept  in  gay  uproar 
i  )ur  madden'd  castle  all,  the  abode  of  sleep  no  more. 


A  s  when  in  prime  of  June  a  burnish'd  fly, 
Sprung  from  the  meads,  o'er  which  he  sweeps 
along, 

Cheer'd  by  the  breathing  bloom  and  vital  sky, 
Tunes  up  amid  these  airy  halls  his  song. 


Soothing  at  first  the  gay  reposing  throng  : 
And  oft  he  sips  their  bowl ;  or  nearly  drown'd, 
He,  thence  recovering,  drives  their  beds  among, 
And  scares  their  tender  sleep,  with  trump  pro- 
found ; 

Then  out  again  he  flies,  to  wing  his  mazy  round, 

LXV. 

Another  guest*  there  was,  of  sense  refined, 
Who  felt  each  worth,  for  every  worth  he  had; 
Serene  yet  warm,  humane  yet  firm  his  mind, 
As  little  touch'd  as  any  man's  with  bad: 
Him  through  their  inmost  walks  the  Muses  lad, 
To  him  the  sacred  love  of  nature  lent. 
And  sometimes  would  he  make  our  valley  glad; 
When  as  we  found  he  would  not  here  be  pent, 
To  him  the  better  sort  this  friendly  message  sent: 


Come,  dwell  with  us !  true  son  of  virtue,  come! 
But  if,  alas !  we  can  not  thee  persuade 
To  he  content  beneath  our  peaceful  dome, 
Ne  ever  more  to  quit  our  quiet  glade; 
Yet  when  at  last  thy  toils  but  ill  apaid 
Shall  dead  thy  fire,  and  damp  its  heavenly  spark, 
Thou  wilt  be  glad  to  seek  the  rural  shade. 
There  to  indulge  the  muse,  and  nature  mark: 
We  then  a  lodge  for  thee  will  rear  in  Hagley 
Park." 


Conjecture  has  applied  this  to  Dr.  Armstrong,  the  poet. 


Here  whilom  ligg'd  the  Esopust  of  the  age : 
But  call'd  by  fame,  in  soul  ypricked  deep, 
A  noble  pride  restored  him  to  the  stage, 
And  roused  him  like  a  giant  from  his  sleep. 
Even  from  his  slumbers  we  advantage  reap:  ' 
With  double  force  the  enliven'd  scene  he  wakes, 
Yet  quits  not  nature's  bounds.    He  knows  to 
keep 

Each  due  decorum :  now  the  heart  he  shakes, 
And  now  with  well  earn'd  sense  the  enlighten'd 
judgment  takes. 

LXVIII. 

A  bard  here  dwelt,  more  fat  than  bard  beseems- 
Who,3:  void  of  envy,  guile,  and  lust  of  gain. 
On  virtue  still,  and  nature's  pleasing  themes, 
Pour'd  forth  his  unpremeditated  strain: 
The  world  forsaking  with  a  calm  disdain. 
Here  laugh'd  he  careless  in  his  easy  seat; 
Here  quaff^'d,  encircled  with  the  joyous  train, 
Oft  moralizing  sage:  his  ditty  sweet 
He  loathed  much  to  write,  ne  cared  to  repeat. 


•  George,  Lord  Lyttelton. 
t  Mr,  Quin. 

J  The  following  lines  of  this  stanza  were  writ  by  9  fr-^nd 
of  the  author  (since  understood  to  have  been  Lord  Lyttelton), 
and  were  designed  to  portray  the  character  of  Thomson. 


THE  CASTLE  OF  INDOLENCE. 


LXIX. 

Full  oft  by  holy  feet  our  ground  was  trod, 
Of  clerks  good  plenty  here  you  mote  espy. 
A  little,  round,  fat,  oily  man*  of  God, 
Was  one  I  chiefly  mark'd  among  the  fry: 
He  had  a  roguish  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
And  shone  all  glittering  with  ungodly  dew, 
If  a  tight  damsel  chanced  to  trippen  by ; 
Which  when  observed,  he  shrunk  into  his  mew, 
And  straight  would  recollect  his  piety  anew. 

LXX. 

Nor  be  forgot  a  tribe,  who  minded  nought 
(Old  inmates  of  the  place)  but  state-affairs: 
They  look'd,  perdie,  as  if  they  deeply  thought; 
And  on  their  brow  set  every  nation's  cares ; 
The  world  by  them  isparcel'd  out  in  shares. 
When  in  the  Hall  of  Smoke  they  congress  hold. 
And  the  sage  berry,  sun-burnt  Mocha  bears. 
Has  clear'd  their  inward  eye :  then,  smoke-en- 
roU'd, 

Their  oracles  break  forth  mysterious  as  of  old. 

LXXI. 

Here  languid  Beauty  kept  her  pale-faced  court: 
Bevies  of  dainty  dames,  of  high  degree. 
From  every  quarter  hither  made  resort ; 
Where,  from  gross  mortal  care  and  business 
free. 

They  lay,  pour'd  out  in  ease  and  luxury. 
Or  should  they  a  vain  show  of  work  assume, 
Alas!  and  well-a-day!  what  can  it  be? 
To  knot,  to  twist,  to  range  the  vernal  bloom; 
But  far  is  cast  the  distaff,  spinning-wheel,  and  loom. 

Lxxn. 

Their  only  labour  was  to  kill  the  time ; 
(And  labour  dire  it  is,  and  weary  wo) 
They  sit,  they  loll,  turn  o'er  some  idle  rhyme; 
Then,  rising  sudden,  to  the  glass  they  go, 
Or  saunter  forth,  with  tottering  step  and  slow: 
This  soon  too  rude  an  exercise  they  find; 
Straight  on  the  couch  their  limbs  again  they 
throw, 

Where  hours  on  hours  they  sig.hing  lie  reclined. 
And  court  the  vapoury  god,  soft  breathing  in  the 
wind.t 


*  The  Rev.  Mr.  Murdoch,  Thomson's  friend  and  bio- 
grapher. 

t  After  this  stanza,  the  following  one  was  introduced,  in 
the  edition  of  1746 : 

One  nymph  there  was,  methought,  in  bloom  of  May, 
On  whom  the  idle  Fiend  glanced  many  a  look, 
In  hopes  to  lead  her  down  the  sli  ppery  way 
To  taste  of  Pleasure's  deep  deceitful  brook : 
No  virtues  yet  her  gentle  mind  forsook : 
No  idle  whims,  no  vapours  fiU'd  her  brain, 
xini  Prudence  for  her  youthful  guide  she  took, 
Ana  iioodness.  which  no  earthly  vice  could  stain, 

Dw^i  in  her  mind;  she  was  ne  proud  I  ween  or  vain. 
G 


61 


LXXIII, 

Now  must  I  mark  the  villany  we  found. 
But  ah !  too  late,  as  shall  eftsoons  be  shown, 
A  place  here  was,  deep,  dreary,  under  ground; 
Where  still  our  inmates,  when  unpleasing 
grown. 

Diseased,  and  loathsome,  privily  were  thrown: 
Far  from  the  light .  of  heaven,  they  languish'd 
there: 

Unpitied  uttering  many  a  bitter  groan ; 
For  of  these  wretches  taken  was  no  care: 
Fierce  fiends,  and  hags  of  hell,  their  only  nurses 
were. 

LXXIV. 

Alas!  the  change!  from  scenes  of  joy  and  rest, 
To  this  dark  den,  where  sickness  toss'd  alway. 
Here  Lethargy,  with  deadly  sleep  oppress'd, 
Stretch'd  on  his  back,  a  mighty  lubbard,  lay. 
Heaving  his  sides,  and  snored  night  and  day; 
To  stir  him  from  his  traunce  it  was  not  eath. 
And  his  half-open'd  eyne  he  shut  straightway ; 
He  led,  I  wot,  the  softest  way  to  death. 
And  taught  withouten  pain  and  strife  to  yield  the 
breath. 

LXXV. 

.  Of  limbs  enormous,  but  withal  unsound, 
Soft-swoln  and  pale,  here  lay  the  Hydropsy: 
Unwieldy  man;  with  belly  monsti'ous  round, 
For  ever  fed  with  watery  supply ; 
For  still  he  drank,  and  yet  he  still  was  dry. 
And  moping  here  did  Hypochondria  sit. 
Mother  of  spleen,  in  robes  of  various  dye, 
Who  vexed  was  full  oft  with  ugly  fit; 

And  some  her  frantic  deem'd,  and  some  her  deem'd 
a  wit.  ^ 

LXXVI. 

A  lady  proud  she  was,  of  ancient  blood, 
Yet  oft  her  fear  her  pride  made  crouchen  low : 
She  felt,  or  fancied  in  her  fluttering  mood, 
All  the  diseases  which  the  spittles  know, 
And  sought  all  physics  which  the  shops  bestow, 
And  still  new  leaches  and  new  drugs  would 
try, 

Her  humour  ever  wavering  to  and  fro: 
For  sometimes  she  would  laugh,  and  sometimes 
cry, 

Then  sudden  waxed  wroth,  and  all  she  knew  not 
why. 

LXXVII. 

Fast  by  her  side  a  listless  maiden  pined, 
With  aching  head,  and  squeamish  heart-burn- 
ings; 

Pale,  bloated,  cold,  she  seem'd  to  hate  mankind. 

Yet  loved  in  secret  all  forbidden  things. 

And  here  the  Tertian  shakes  his  chilling  wings  ] 


6Q 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


The  sleepless  Gout  here  counts  the  crowing 
cocks, 

A  wolf  now  gnaws  him,  now  a  serpent  stings ; 
Whilst  Apoplexy  cramm'd  Intemperance  knocki 
Down  to  the  ground  at  once,  as  butcher  felleth  ox.' 


CANTO  II. 


The  knight  of  arts  and  industry, 

And  his  achievements  fair ; 
That,  by  this  Castle's  overthrow, 

Secured,  and  crowned  were. 
I. 

Escaped  the  castle  of  the  sire  of  sin, 
Ah!  where  shall  I  so  sweet  a  dwelling  find'? 
For  all  around,  without,  and  all  within. 
Nothing  save  what  delightful  was  and  kind. 
Of  goodness  savouring  and  a  tender  niind. 
E'er  rose  to  view.    But  now  another  strain, 
Of, doleful  note,  alas!  remains  behind; 
I  now  must  sing  of  pleasure  turn'd  to  pain, 
And  of  the  false  enchanter  Indolence  complain. 


Is  there  no  patron  to  protect  the  Muse, 
And  fence  for  her  Parnassus'  barren  soil 
To  every  labour  its  reward  accrues. 
And  they  are  sure  of  bread  who  swink  and  moil; 
But  a  fell  tribe  the  Aonian  hive  despoil. 
As  ruthless  wasps  oft  rob  the  painful  bee : 
Thus  while  the  laws  not  guard  that  noblest  toil, 
Ne  for  the  Muses  other  meed  decree. 
They  praised  are  alone,  and  starve  right  merrily. 


I  care  not,  Fortune,  what  thou  me  deny  : 
You  can  not  rob  me  of  free  Nature's  grace ; 
You  can  not  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky, 
Through  which  Aurora  shows  her  brightening 
face; 

•You  can  not  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 
The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  stream  at  eve: 
Let  health  my  nerves  and  finer  fibres  brace, 
And  I  their  toys  to  the  great  children  leave  : 
Of  fancy,  reason,  virtue,  nought  can  me  bereave. 


Come  then,  my  Muse,  and  raise  a  bolder  song; 
Come,  lig  no  more  upon  the  bed  of  sloth. 
Dragging  the  lazy  languid  line  along. 
Fond  to  begin,  but  still  to  finish  loath, 
Thy  half- writ  scrolls  all  eaten  by  the  moth: 
Arise,  and  sing  that  generous  imp  of  fame. 
Who  with  the  sons  of  softness  nobly  wroth, 
To  sweep  away  this  human  lumber  came. 
Or  in  a  chosen  few  to  rouse  the  slumbering  flame. 

*  The  four  concluding  stanzas  were  claimed  by  Doctor 
Armstrong,  and  inserted  in  his  Miscellanies. 


In  Fairy  Land  there  lived  a  knight  of  old, 
Of  feature  stern,  Selvaggio  well  yclep'd, 
A  rough  unpolish'd  man,  robust  and  bold. 
But  wondrous  poor:  he  neither  sow'd  nor  reapVJ^ 
Ne  stores  in  summer  for  cold  winter  heap'd ; 
In  hunting  all  his  days  away  he  wore ; 
Now  scorch'd  by  June,  now  in  Novembei 
steep'd. 

Now  pinch'd  by  biting  .January  sore, 
He  still  in  woods  pursued  the  libbard  and  the  boar. 


As  he  one  morning,  long  before  the  dawn. 
Prick 'd  through  the  forest  to  dislodge  his  prey, 
Deep  in  the  winding  bosom  of  a  lawn, 
With  wood  wild  fringed,  he  mark'd  a  taper's  ray, 
That  from  the  beating  rain,  and  wintry  fray 
Did  to  a  lonely  cot  his  steps  decoy ; 
There,  up  to  earn  the  needments  of  the  day. 
He  found  dame  Poverty,  nor  fair  nor  coy : 
Her  he  compress'd,  and  fiU'd  her  with  a  lusty  boy. 


Amid  the  greenwood  shade  this  boy  was  bred, 
And  grew  at  lasta  knight  of  muchel  fame. 
Of  active  mind  and  vigorous  lustyhed. 
The  Knight  of  Arts  and  Industry  by  name : 
Earth  was  his  bed,  the  boughs  his  roof  did  frame: 
He  knew  no  beverage  but  the  flowing  stream; 
His  tasteful  well  earn'd  food  the  sylvan  game, 
Or  the  brown  fruit  with  which  the  woodlands 
teem : 

The  same  to  him  glad  summer,  or  ^he  winter 
breme. 


So  pass'd  his  youthful  morning,  void  of  care, 
Wild  as  the  colts  that  through  the  commons  run : 
For  him  no  tender  parents  troubled  were, 
He  of  the  forest  seem'd  to  be  the  son. 
And,  certes,  had  been  utterly  undone ; 
But  that  Minerva  pity  of  him  took. 
With  all  the  gods  that  love  the  rural  wonne. 
That  teach  to  tame  the  soil  and  rule  the  crook ; 
He  did  the  sacred  Nine  disdain  a  gentle  look. 


Of  fertile  genius  him  they  nurtured  well, 
In  every  science,  and  in  every  art, 
By  which  mankind  the  thoughtless  brutes  excel, 
That  can  or  use,  or  joy,  or  grace  impart, 
Disclosing  all  the  powers  of  head  and  heart: 
Ne  were  the  goodly  exercises  spared, 
That  brace  the  nerves,  or  make  the  limbs  alert, 
And  mix  elastic  force  with  firmness  hard : 
Was  never  knight  on  ground  mote  be  with  him 
compared. 


THE  CASTLE  OP  INDOLENCE. 


63 


Sometimes,  with  early  morn,  he  mounted  gay 
The  hunter  steed,  exulting  o'er  the  dale, 
And  drew  the  roseate  breath  of  orient  day ; 
Sometimes,  retiring  to  the  secret  vale. 
Yclad  in  steel,  and  bright  with  burnish'd  mail, 
He  strain'd  the  bow,  or  toss'd  the  sounding  spear. 
Or  darting  on  the  goal,  outstripp'd  the  gale, 
Or  wheel'd  the  chariot  in  its  mid  career, 
Or  strenuous  wrestled  hard  with  many  a  tough 
compeer. 

XI. 

At  other  times  he  pried  through  nature's  store, 
Whate'er  she  in  the  ethereal  round  contains, 
Whate'er  she  hides  beneath  her  verdant  floor. 
The  vegetable  and  the  mineral  reigns: 
Or  else  he  scanned  the  globe,  those  small  do- 
mains, 

-  Where  restless  mortals  such  a  turmoil  keep, 
Its  seas,  its  floods,  its  mountains,  and  its  plains ; 
But  more  he  search'd  the  mind,  and  roused  from 
sleep, 

Those  moral  seeds  whence  we  heroic  actions  reap. 

XII. 

Nor  would  he  scorn  to  stoop  from  high  pursuits 
Of  heavenly  truth,  and  practice  what  she  taught: 
Vain  is  the  tree  of  knowledge  without  fruits ! 
Sometimes  in  hand  the  spade  or  plough  he 
caught, 

Forth  calling  all  with  which  boon  earth  is 
fraught  ; 

Sometimes  he  plied  the  strong  mechanic  tool. 
Or  rear'd  the  fabric  from  the  finest  draught ; 
And  oft  he  put  himself  to  Neptune's  school, 
/ighting  with  winds  and  waves  on  the  vex'd  ocean 
pool, 

xni. 

To  solace  then  these  rougher  toils,  he  tried 
To  touch  the  kindling  canvass  into  life; 
With  nature  his  creating  pencil  vied. 
With  nature  joyous  at  the  mimic  strife  : 
Or,  to  such  shapes  as  graced  Pygmalion's  wife 
He  hew'd  the  marble  ;  or,  with -varied  fire, 
He  roused  the  trumpet,  and  the  martial  fife, 
Or  bad  the  lute  sweet  tenderness  inspire. 
Or  verses  framed  that  well  might  wake  Apollo's 
lyre, 

XIV. 

AccompUsh'd  thus,  he  from  the  woods  issued, 
Full  of  great  aims,  and  bent  on  bold  emprise ; 
The  work,  which  long  he  in  his  breast  had 
brew'd. 

Now  to  perform  he  ardent  did  devise ; 
To  wit,  a  barbarous  world  to  civilize. 
33 


Earth  was  till  then  a  boundless  forest  wild; 
Nought  to  be  seen  but  savage  wood,  and  skies; 
No  cities  nourish'd  arts,  no  culture  smiled. 
No  government,  no  laws,  no  gentle  manners  mild. 

XV. 

,      A  rugged  wight,  the  worst  of  brutes,  was  man; 
On  his  own  wretched  kind  he,  ruthless,  prey'd: 
The  strongest  still  the  weakest  overran ; 
I      In  every  country  mighty  robbers  sway'd. 

And  guile  and  ruffian  force  were  all  their  trade. 
Life  was  a  scene  of  rapine,  want,  and  wo; 
Which  this  brave  knight,  in  noble  anger,  made 
To  swear  he  would  the  rascal  rout  o'erthrow, 
For,  by  the  powers  divine,  it  should  no  more  be  so! 

XVI. 

It  would  exceed  the  purport  of  my  song 
To  say  how  this  best  sun,  from  orient  climes, 
Came  beaming  Hfe  and  beauty  all  along. 
Before  him  chasing  indolence  ^nd  crimes. 
Still  as  he  pass'd,  the  nations  he  sublimes, 
And  calls  forth  arts  and  virtues  with  his  ray: 
Then  Egypt,  Greece,  and  Rome  their  golden 
times. 

Successive,  had;  but  now  in  ruins  gray 
They  lie,  to  slavish  sloth  and  tyranny  a  prey. 

XVII. 

To  crown  his  toils,  Sir  Industry  then  spread 
The  swelling  sail,  and  made  for  Britain's  coast. 
A  silvan  life  till  then  the  natives  led, 
^  In  the  brown  shades  and  green-wood  forest  lost, 
All  careless  rambling  where  it  liked  them  most: 
Their  wealth  the  wild  deer  bouncing  through 
the  glade ; 

They  lodged  at  large,  and  lived  at  nature's  co»t; 
Save  spear  and  bow,  withouten  other  aid; 
Yet  not  the  Roman  steel  their  naked  breast  dis- 
may'd. 

XVIII. 

He  liked  the  soil,  he  liked  the  clement  skies, 
He  liked  the  verdant  hills  and  flowery  plains. 
'  Be  this  my  great,  my  chosen  isle,  (he  cnes) 
This,  whilst  my  labours  Liberty  sustains, 
This  queen  of  ocean  all  assault  disdains.' 
Nor  liked  he  less  the  genius  of  the  land, 
To  freedom  apt  and  persevering  pains. 
Mild  to  obey,  and  generous  to  command, 
Temper'd  by  forming  Heaven  with  kindest  firmest 
hand. 

XIX. 

Here,  by  degrees,  his  master-work  arose, 
Whatever  arts  and  industry  can  frame: 
Whatever  finish'd  agriculture  knows, 
Fair  queen  of  arts !  from  heaven  itself  who  came, 
When  Eden  flourish'd  in  unspotted  fame; 


64 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


And  still  with  her  sweet  innocence  we  find, 
And  tender  peace,  and  joys  without  a  name, 
That,  while  they  ravish,  tranquillize  the  mind: 
Nature  and  art  at  once,  delight  and  use  com  • 
bin'd. 

XX. 

Then  towns  he  quicken'd  by  mechanic  arts. 
And  bade  the  fervent  city  glow  with  toil ; 
Bade  social  commerce  raise  renowned  marts, 
Join  land  to  land,  and  marry  soil  to  soil; 
Unite  the  poles,  and  without  bloody  spoil 
Bring  home  of  either  Ind  the  gorgeous  stores ; 
Or,  should  despotic  rage  the  world  embroil, 
Bade  tyrants  treiipble  on  remotest  shores. 
While  o'er  the  encircling  deep  Britannia's  thunder 
roars. 

XXI. 

The  drooping  muses  then  he  westward  call'd, 
From  the  famed  city*  by  Propontic  sea. 
What  time  the  Turk  the  enfeebled  Grecian 
thrall'd; 

Thence  from  their  cloister'd  walks  he  set  them 
free. 

And  brought  them  to  another  Castalie, 
Where  Isis  many  a  famous  nursling  breeds; 
Or  where  old  Cam  soft-paces  o'er  the  lea 
In  pensive  mood,  and  tunes  his  doric  reeds. 
The  whilst  his  flocks  at  large  the  lonely  shepherd 
feeds. 

XXII. 

Yet  the  fine  arts  were  what  he  finished  least. 
For  why  1  They  are  the  quintessence  of  all, 
The  growth  labouring  time,  and  slow  increas- 
ed; 

Unless,  as  seldom  chances,  it  should  fall 
That  mighty  patrons  of  the  coy  sisters  call 
Up  to  the  sunshine  of  uncumber'd  ease. 
Where  no  rude  care  the  mounting  thought  may 
thrall. 

And  where  they  nothing  have  to  do  but  please : 
Ah!  gracious  God!  thou  know'st  they  ask  no 
other  fees. 

XXIII. 

But  now,  alas  !  we  live  too  late  in  time : 
Our  patrons  now  e'en  grudge  that  little  claim. 
Except  to  such  as  sleek  the  soothing  rhyme ; 
And  yet,  forsooth,  they  wear  Mescenas'  name,  " 
Poor  sons  of  puft-up  vanity,  no't  fame. 
Unbroken  spirits,  cheer'  still,  still  remains 
The  eternal  patron,  Liberty;  whose  flame, 
"W  hile  she  ]M-otects,  inspires  the  noblest  strains : 
The  best  and  sweetest  far,  are  toil-created  gains. 


*  Consiaiitinople. 


XXIV. 

When  as  the  knight  had  framed,  in  Britain- 
land, 

A  matchless  form  of  glorious  government. 
In  which  the  sovereign  laws  alone  command, 
Laws  stablish'd  by  the  public  free  consent, 
Whose  majesty  is  to  the  sceptre  lent; 
When  this  great  plan,  with  each  dependent  art, 
Was  settled  firm,  and  to  his  heart's  content, 
Then  sought  he  from  the  toilsome  scene  to  part, 
And  let  life's  vacant  eve  breathe  quiet  through  the 
heart. 

XXV. 

For  this  he  chose  a  farm  in  Deva's  vale. 
Where  his  long  alleys  peep'd  upon  the  main: 
In  this  calm  seat  he  dre\^  the  healthful  gale. 
Here  mix'd  the  chief,  the  patriot,  and  the  swain. 
The  happy  monarch  of  his  silvan  train, 
Here,  sided  by  the  guardians  of  the  fold, 
He  walk'd  his  rounds,  and  cheer'd  his  blest  do- 
main : 

His  days,  the  days  of  unstain'd  nature,  roll'd 
Replete  with  peace  and  joy,  like  patriarchs  of 
old. 

XXVI, 

Witness,  ye  lowing  herds,  who  gave  him  milk ; 
Witness,  ye  flocks,  whose  woolly  vestments  far 
Exceed  soft  India's  cotton,  or  her  silk; 
Witness,  with  Autumn  charged  the  nodding  car, 
That  homeward  came  beneath  sweet  evening's 
star. 

Or  of  September-moons  the  radiance  mild. 
O  hide  thy  head,  abominable  war ! 
Of  crimes  and  ruffian  idleness  the  child ! 
From  Heaven  this  life  y sprung,  from  hell  thy  glo- 
ries viled ! 

XXVII. 

Nor  from  his  deep  retirement  banish'd  was 
The  amusing  care  of  rural  industry. 
Still,  as  with  grateful  change  the  seasons  pass, 
New  scenes  arise,  new  landscapes  strike  the 
eye. 

And  all  the  enlivened  country  beautify: 
Gay  plains  extend  where  marshes  slept  before ; 
O'er  recent  meads  the  exulting  streamlets  fly; 
Dark  frowning  liieaths  grow  bright  with  Ceres 
store, 

And  woods  imbrown  the  steep,  or  wave  along  the 
shore. 

XXVIII, 

As  nearer  to  his  farm  you  made  approach, 
He  polish'd  Nature  with  a  finer  hand : 
Yet  on  her  beauties  durst  not  art  encroach ; 
'Tis  Art's  alone  these  beauties  to  expand. 


THE  CASTLE  OP  INDOLENCE. 


65 


In  graceful  dance  immingled,  o'er  the  land, 
Pan,  Pales,  Flora,  and  Pomona  play'd: 
Here,  too,  brisk  gales  the  rude  wild  common 
fann'd, 

A  happy  place ;  where  free,  and  unafraid, 
Amid  the  flowering  brakes  each  coyer  creature 
stray 'd. 

xxtx. 

But  in  prime  vigour  what  can  last  for  aye'? 
That  soul  enfeebhng  wizard  Indolence, 
I  whilom  sung,  wrought  in  his  works  decay: 
Spread  far  and  wide  was  his  cursed  influence; 
Of  public  virtue  much  he  duU'd  the  sense. 
E'en  much  of  private ;  eat  our  spirit  out, 
And  fed  our  rank  luxurious  vices :  whence 
The  laud  was  overlaid  with  many  a  lout; 
Not,  as  old  fame  reports,  wise,  generous,  bold,  and 
stout. 

XXX. 

A  rage  of  pleasure  madden 'd  every  breast, 
Down  to  the  lowest  lees  the  ferment  ran: 
To  his  licentious  wish  each  must  be  bless'd. 
With  joy  be  fever'd  ;  snatch  it  as  he  can. 
Thus  Vice  the  standard  rear'd ;  her  arrier-ban 
Corruption  call'd,  and  loud  she  gave  the  word, 
'  Mind,  mind  yourselves  !  why  should  the  vul- 
gar man, 

The  lacquey  be  more  virtuous  than  his  lord  1 
Enjoy  this  span  of  hfe !  'tis  all  the  gods  aftbrd.' 

XXX], 

The  tidings  reach'd  to  where,  in  quiet  hall, 
The  good  old  knight  enjoy'd  well  earn'd  repose: 
'  Come,  come.  Sir  Knight!  thy  children  on  thee 
call; 

Come,  save  us  yet,  ere  ruin  round  us  close ! 
The  demon  Indolence  thy  toils  o'erthrows.' 
On  this  the  noble  colour  stain 'd  his  cheeks, 
Indignant,   glowing  through  the  whitening 
snows 

Of  venerable  eld ;  his  eye  full  speaks 
His  ardent  soul,  and  from  his  couch  at  once  he 
breaks. 

XXXII, 

'  I  will,  (he  cried)  so  help  me,  God !  destroy 
That   villain  Archimage.' — His    page  then 
straight 

He  to  him  call'd ;  a  fiery-footed  boy, 
Benempt  Dispatch:—'  My  steed  be  at  the  gate ; 
My  bard  attend ;  quick,  bring  the  net  of  fate.' 
This  net  was  twisted  by  the  sisters  three ; 
Which,  when  once  cast  o'er  harden'd  wretch, 
too  late 

Repentance  comes :  replevy  can  not  be 
From  the  strong  iron  grasp  of  vengeful  destiny. 


XXXIII, 

He  came,  the  bard,  a  little  druid  wight. 
Of  wither'd  aspect ;  but  his  eye  was  keen. 
With  sweetness  mix'd.  In  russet  brown  bedight. 
As  is  his  sister*  of  the  copses  green, 
He  kept  along,  unpromising  of  mien. 
Gross  he  who  judges  so.    His  soul  was  fair, 
Bright  as  the  children  of  yon  azure  sheen  ! 
True  comehness,  which  nothing  can  impair, 
Dwells  in  the  mind:  all  else  is  vanity  and  glare, 

XXXIV. 

'  Come,  (quoth  the  knight)  a  voice  has  reach'd 
mine  ear; 

The  demon  Indolence  threats  overflow 
To  all  that  to  mankind  is  good  and  dear : 
Come,  Philomelus;  let  us  instant  go, 
O'erturn  his  bowers,  and  lay  his  castle  low. 
Those  men,  those  wretched  men !  who  will  be 
slaves. 

Must  drink  a  bitter  wrathful  cup  of  wo: 
But  some  there  be,  thy  song,  as  from  their  graves 
Shall  raise.'  Thrice  happy  he !  who  without  rigour 
saves. 

XXXV. 

Issuing  forth,  the  knight  bestrode  his  steed, 
Of  ardent  bay,  and  on  whose  front  a  star 
Shone  blazing  bright:  sprung  from  the  generous 
breed. 

That  whirl  of  active  day  the  rapid  car, 
He  pranced  along,  disdaining  gate  or  bar. 
Meantime,  the  bard  on  milk-white  palfrey  rode; 
An  honest  sober  beast,  that  did  not  mar 
His  meditations,  but  full  softly  trode: 
And  much  they  moralized  as  thus  yfere  they  yode. 

xxxvi. 

They  talk'd  of  virtue,  and  of  human  bliss, 
What  else  so  fit  for  man  to  settle  well "? 
And  still  their  long  researches  met  in  this. 
This  Truth  of  Truths,  which  nothing  can  refel: 
'  From  virtue's  fount  the  purest  joys  outwell, 
Sweet  rills  of  thought  that  cheer  the  conscious 
soul ; 

While  vice  pours  forth  the  troubled  streams  of 
hell, 

The  which,  howe'er  disguised,  at  last  with  dole 
Will  through  the  tortured  breast  the  fiery  torrent 
roll.' 

XXXVII. 

At  length  it  dawn'd,  that  fatal  valley  gay, 
O'er  which  high  wood-crown'd  hills  their  sum- 
mits rear : 

On  the  cold  height  awhile  our  palmers  stay, 
And  spite  even  of  themselves  their  senses  cheer: 

'  The  Nightingale. 


66 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Then  to  the  vizard's  wonne  their  steps  they  steer. 
Like  a  green  isle,  it  broad  beneath  them  spread, 
With  gardens  round,  and  wandering  currents 
clear, 

And  tufted  groves  to  shade  the  meadow-bed, 
Sweet  airs  and  song;  and  without  hurry  all  seem'd 
glad. 

XXXVIII, 

'As  God  shall  judge  me  knight!  we  must  forgive 
(The  half-enraptured  Philomelus  cried) 
The  frail  good  man  deluded  here  to  live, 
And  in  these  groves  his  musing  fancy  hide. 
Ah !  nought  is  pure.    It  can  not  be  denied, 
That  virtue  still  some  tincture  has  of  vice, 
And  vice  of  virtue.    What  should  then  betide, 
But  that  our  charity  be  not  too  nice? 
Come,  let  us  those  we  can,  to  real  bliss  entice,' 


'Ay,  sicker,  (quoth  the  knight)  all  flesh  is  frail 
To  pleasant  sin  and  joyous  dalhance  bent ; 
But  let  not  brutish  vice  of  this  avail, 
And  think  to  'scape  deserved  punishment. 
Justice  were  cruel  weakly  to  relent ; 
From  Mercy's  self  she  got  her  secret  glaive: 
Grace  be  to  those  who  can,  and  will  repent ; 
But  penance  long,  and  dreary,  to  thv  slave, 
Who  must  in  floods  of  Are  his  gross  foul  spirit  lave.' 


Thus,  holding  high  discourse,  they  came  to 
where 

The  cursed  carle  was  at  his  wonted  trade ; 
Still  tempting  heedless  men  into  his  snare, 
In  witching  wise,  as  I  before  have  said. 
But  when  he  saw,  in  goodly  geer  array'd, 
The  grave  majestic  knight  approaching  nigh, 
And  by  his  side  the  bard  so  sage  and  staid, 
His  countenance  fell;  yet  oft  his  anxious  eye 
Mark'd  them,  like  wily  fox  who  roosted  cock  doth 

spy. 


Nathless,  with  feign'd  respect,  he  bade  give  back 
The  rabble  rout,  and  welcomed  them  full  kind ; 
Struck  with  the  noble  twain,  they  were  not  slack 
His  orders  to  obey,  and  fall  behind. 
Then  he  resumed  his  song;  and  unconfined, 
Pour'd  all  his  music,  ran  through  all  his  strings; 
With  magic  dust  their  eyne  he  tries  to  blind. 
And  virtue's  tender  airs  o'er  weakness  flings. 
What  pity  base  his  song  who  so  divinely  sings ! 


Elate  in  thought,  he  counted  them  his  own, 
They  listen'd  so  intent  with  fix'd  delight : 
But  they  instead,  as  if  transmew'd  to  stone, 
Marvel'd  he  could  with  such  sweet  art  unite 


The  lights  and  shades  of  manners,  wrong  and 
right. 

Meantime,  the  silly  crowd  the  charm  devour, 
Wide  pressing  to  the  gate.  Swift  on  the  knight 
He  darted  fierce  to  drag  him  to  his  bower. 
Who  backening  shunn'd  his  touch,  for  well  he  knew 
its  power. 

XLIII. 

As  in  throng'd  amphitheatre  of  old. 
The  wary  Retiarius*  trapp'd  his  foe ; 
E'en  so  the  knight,  returning  on  him  bold, 
At  once  involved  him  in  a  Net  of  Wo, 
Whereof  I  mention  made  not  long  ago. 
Inraged  at  first,  he  scorn'd  so  weak  a  jail, 
And  leap'd,  and  flew,  and  flounced  to  and  fro, 
But  when  he  found  that  notliing  could  avail, 
He  sat  him  felly  down,  and  gnaw'd  his  bitter  nail. 


Alarm'd,  the  inferior  demons  of  the  place 
Raised  rueful  shrieks  and  hideous  yells  around ; 
Black  stormy  clouds  deform'd  the  welkin's  face, 
And  from  beneath  was  heard  a  waihng  sound, 
As  of  infernal  sprights  in  cavern  bound ; 
A  solemn  sadness  every  creature  strook. 
And  lightnings  flash'd,  and  horror  rock'd  the 
ground : 

Huge  crowds  on  crowds  outpour'd,  with  ble- 
mish'd  look. 

As  if  on  Time's  last  verge  this  frame  of  things  had 
shook. 


Soon  as  the  short-lived  tempest  was  yspent, 
Steam'd  from  the  jaws  of  vex'd  Avernus'  hole, 
And  hush'd  the  hubbub  of  the  rabblement, 
Sir  Industry  the  first  calm  moment  stole: 
'  There  must  (he  cried)  amid  so  vast  a  shoal, 
Be  some  who  are  not  tainted  at  the  heart. 
Not  poison'd  quite  by  this  same  villain's  bowl: 
Come  then,  my  bard,  thy  heavenly  fire  impart; 
Touch  soul  with  soul  till  forth  the  latent  spirit 
start.' 


The  bard  obey'd;  and  taking  from  his  side, 
Where  it  in  seemly  sort  depending  hung. 
His  British  harp,  its  speaking  strings  he  tried, 
The  which  with  skilful  touch  he  deftly  strung, 
Till  tinkling  in  clear  symphony  they  rung. 
Then,  as  he  felt  the  Muses  come  along, 
Light  o'er  the  chords  his  raptured  hand  he  flung, 
And  play'd  a  prelude  to  his  rising  song : 
The  whilst,  like  midnight  mute,  ten  thousands 
round  him  throno-. 


*  A  gladiator,  who  made  use  of  a  net,  which  he  threw  ovei 
hig  adversary. 


THE  CASTLE  OF  INDOLENCE. 


67 


XLVII. 

Thus,  ardentjburst  his  strain, — 'Ye  hapless  race, 
Dire  labouring  here  to  smother  reason's  ray, 
That  lights  our  Maker's  image  in  our  face. 
And  gives  us  wide  o'er  earth  unquestion'd  sway; 
What  is  the  adored  Supreme  Perfection,  say 'J — 
What,  but  eternal  never  resting  soul, 
Almighty  Power,  and  all-directing  day; 
By  whom  each  atom  stirs,  the  planets  roll; 
Who  fills,  surrounds,  informs,  and  agitates  the 
whole. 

XLVIII, 

*  Come,  to  the  beaming  God  your  hearts  unfold ! 
Draw  from  its  fountain  lifel  'T  is  thence  alone, 
We  can  excel.    Up  from  unfeeling  mould. 
To  seraphs  burning  round  the  Almighty's  throne, 
Life  rising  still  on  life,  in  higher  tone. 
Perfection  forms,  and  with  perfection  bliss. 
In  universal  nature  this  clear  shown, 
Not  needeth  proof:  to  prove  it  were,  I  wis. 

To  prove  the  beauteous  world  excels  the  brute 
abyss. 

XLIX. 

'  Is  not  the  field  with  lively  culture  green, 
A  sight  more  joyous  than  the  dead  morass'? 
Do  not  the  skies,  with  active  ether  clean, 
And  fann'd  by  sprightly  zephyrs,  far  surpass 
The  foul  November  fogs,  and  slumbrous  mass 
With  which  sad  Nature  veils  her  drooping  face  1 
Does  not  the  mountain  stream,  as  clear  as  glass. 
Gay-dancing  on,  the  putrid  pool  disgrace  ] 
The  same  in  all  holds  true,  but  chief  in  human 
race. 

L. 

*  It  was  not  by  vile  loitering  in  ease, 
That  Greece  obtain'd  the  brigliter  palm  of  art ; 
That  soft  yet  ardent  Athens  learn'd  to  please, 
To  keen  the  wit,  and  to  subhme  the  heart. 
In  all  supreme!  complete  in  every  part! 
It  was  not  thence  majestic  Rome  arose, 
And  o'er  the  nations  shook  her  conquering  dart: 
For  sluggard's  brow  the  laurel  never  grows ; 

Renown  is  not  the  child  of  indolent  Repose. 

LI. 

'  Had  unambitious  mortals  minded  nought, 
But  in  loose  joy  their  time  to  wear  away ; 
Had  they  alone  the  lap  of  dalliance  sought. 
Pleased  on  her  pillow  their  dull  heads  to  lay, 
Rude  nature's  state  had  been  our  state  to-day; 
No  cities  e'er  their  towery  fronts  had  raised, 
No  arts  had  made  us  opulent  and  gay ;  ' 
With  brother  brutes  the  human  race  had  grazed ; 
None  e'er  had  soar'd  to  fame,  none  honour'd  been, 
none  praised.  I 
2  T 


LII. 

'  Great  Homer's  song  had  never  fired  the  breast 
To  thirst  of  glory,  and  heroic  deeds ; 
Sweet  Maro's  muse,  sunk  in  inglorious  rest, 
Had  silent  slept  amid  the  Mincian  reeds : 
The  wits  of  modern  time  had  told  their  beads, 
And  monkish  legends  been  their  only  strains; 
Our  Milton's  Eden  had  lain  wrapt  in  weeds. 
Our  Shakspeare  stroll'd  and  laughed  with  War- 
wick swains, 
Ne  had  my  master  Spenser  charm'd  his  Mulla's 
plains. 

LIII. 

'  Dumb  too  had  been  the  sage  historic  muse, 
And  perish'd  all  the  sons  of  ancient  fame 
Those  starry  lights  of  virtue,  that  diffuse 
Through  the  dark  depth  of  time  their  vivid  flame, 
Had  all  been  lost  with  such  as  have  no  name. 
Who  then  had  scorn'd  his  ease  for  others'  good? 
Who  then  had  toil'd  rapacious  men  to  tamel 
Who  in  the  public  breach  devoted  stood, 
And  for  his  country's  cause  been  prodigal  of  bloods 

LIV. 

'  But  should  to  fame  your  hearts  unfeeling  be, 
If  right  I  read,  you  pleasure  all  require: 
Then  hear  how  best  may  be  obtain'd  this  fee, 
How  best  enjoy 'd  this  nature's  wide  desire. 
Toil  and  be  glad !  let  industry  inspire 
Into  your  quicken'd  limbs  her  buoyant  breath! 
Who  does  not  act  is  dead ;  absorpt  entire 
In  miry  sloth,  no  pride,  no  joy  he  hath : 
O  leaden-hearted  men,  to  be  in  love  with  death' 

LV. 

'  Ah!  what  avail  the  largest  gifts  of  Heaven, 
When  drooping  health  and  spirits  go  amiss*? 
How  tasteless  then  whatever  can  be  given  1 
Health  is  the  vital  principle  of  bliss. 
And  exercise  of  health.    In  proof  of  this, 
Behold  the  wretch  who  slugs  his  life  away, 
Soon  swallow'd  in  disease's  sad  abyss; 
While  he  whom*  toil  has  braced,  or  manly  play, 
Has  light  as  air  each  limb,  each  thought  as  clear 
as  day. 

LVI. 

'  O  who  can  speak  the  vigorous  joys  of  health  I 
Unclogg'd  the  body,  unobscured  the  mind: 
The  morning  rises  gay,  with  pleasing  stealth, 
The  temperate  evening  falls  serene  and  kind. 
In  health  the  wiser  brutes  true  gladness  find. 
See !  how  the  younglings  frisk  along  the  meads, 
As  May  comes  on,  and  wakes  the  balmy  wind; 
Rampant  with  life,  their  joy  all  joy  exceeds: 
Yet  what  but  high-strung  health  this  dancing  plea/ 
saunce  breeds'? 


68 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


LVII. 

'  But  here,  instead,  is  foster'd  every  ill, 
Which  or  distemper'd  minds  or  bodies  know. 
Come  then,  my  kindred  spirits!  do  not  spill 
Your  talents  here :  this  place  is  but  a  show, 
Whose  charms  delude  you  to  the  den  of  wo. 
Come,  follow  me,  I  will  direct  you  right, 
Where  pleasure's  roses,  void  of  serpents,  grow, 
Sincere  as  sweet ;  come,  follow  this  good  knight, 
And  you  will  bless  the  day  that  brought  him  to 
your  sight. 

LVIII, 

'  Some  he  will  lead  to  courts,  and  some  to  camps ; 
To  senates  some,  and  public  sage  debates. 
Where,  by  the  solemn  gleam  of  midnight  lamps, 
The  world  is  poised,  and  managed  mighty  states; 
To  high  discovery  some,  that  new  creates 
The  face  of  earth;  some  to  the  thriving  mart; 
Some  to  the  rural  reign,  and  softer  fates; 
Tf )  the  sweet  muses  some,  who  raise  the  heart : 
All  glory  shall  be  yours,  all  nature,  and  all  art ! 

LIX. 

*  There  are,  I  see,  who  listen  to  my  lay, 
Who  wretched  sigh  for  virtue,  but  despair : 
"All  may  be  done,  (methinks  I  hear  them  say) 
E'en  death  despised  by  generous  actions  fair ; 
All,  but  for  those  who  to  these  bowers  repair. 
Their  every  power  dissolved  in  luxury, 
To  quit  of  torpid  sluggishness  the  lair. 
And  from  the  powerful  arms  of  sloth  get  free: 
''Tis  rising  from  the  dead — Alas ! — it  can  not  be  1" 

LX. 

'  Would  you  then  learn  to  dissipate  the  band 
Of  the  huge  threatening  difficulties  dire. 
That  in  the  weak  man's  way  like  lions  stand, 
His  soul  appal,  and  damp  his  rising  firel 
Resolve,  resolve,  and  to  be  men  aspire. 
Exert  that  noblest  privilege,  alone, 
Here  to  mankind  indulged;  control  desire: 
Let  god-like  reason,  from  her  sovereign  throne. 
Speak  the  commanding  word  "I  will!"  and  it  is 
done. 

LXI. 

'  Heavens!  can  you  then  thus  waste,  in  shame- 
ful wise, 

Your  few  important  days  of  trial  here  1 
Heirs  of  eternity !  yborn  to  raise 
Through  endless  states  of  being,  still  more  near 
To  bliss  approaching,  and  perfection  clear; 
Can  you  renounce  a  fortune  so  subUme, 
Such  glorious  hopes,  your  back  ward  steps  to  steer. 
And  roll,  with  vilest  brutes,  through  mud  and 
slime  1 

No!  no! — Your  heaven-touch'd  hearts  disdain  the 
sordid  crime !' 


LXII. 

'Enough!  enough!'  they  cried — straight,  from 

the  crowd, 
The  better  sort  on  wings  of  transport  fly : 
As  when  amid  the  lifeless  summits  proud 
Of  Alpine  cliffs  where  to  the  gelid  sky 
Snows  piled  on  snows  in  wintry  torpor  lie, 
The  rays  divine  of  vernal  Phoebus  play; 
The  awaken'd  heaps,  in  streamlets  from  on 

high, 

Roused  into  action,  lively  leap  away. 
Glad  warbling  through  the  vales,  in  their  new  be- 
ing gay. 

Lxnt. 

Not  less  the  life,  the  vivid  joy  serene. 
That  lighted  up  these  new  created  men, 
Than  that  which  wings  the  exulting  spirit 
clean, 

When,  just  deliver'd  from  this  fleshly  den, 
It  soaring  seeks  its  native  skies  agen : 
How  light  its  essence !  how  unclogg'd  its  powers, 
Beyond  the  blazon  of  my  mortal  pen! 
E'en  so  we  glad  forsook  these  sinful  bowers, 
E'en  such  enraptured  life,  such  energy  was  ours. 

LXIV. 

But  far  the  greater  part,  with  rage  inflamed, 
Dire-mutter'd  curses,  and  blasphemed  high  Jove: 
'  Ye  sons  of  hate  I  (they  bitterly  exclaim'd) 
What  brought  you  to  this  seat  of  peace  and  love  1 
While  with  kind  nature,  here  amid  the  grove, 
We  pass'd  the  harmless  sabbath  of  our  time, 
What  to  disturb  it  could,  fell  men,  emove 
Your  barbarous  hearts  1  Is  happiness  a  crime  1 
Then  do  the  fiends  of  hell  rule  in  yon  Heaven, 
sublime.' 

LXV. 

'  Ye  impious  wretches,  (quoth  the  knight  in 
wrath) 

Your  happiness  behold !' — Then  straight  a  wand 
He  waved,  an  anti-magic  power  that  hath, 
Truth  from  illusive  falsehood  to  command. 
Sudden  the  landscape  sinks  on  every  hand; 
The  pure  quick  streams  are  marshy  puddles 
found ; 

On  baleful  heaths  the  grove  all  blacken'd  stand; 
And  o'er  the  weedy  foul  abhorred  ground, 
Snakes,  adders,  toads,  each  loathsome  creature 
crawls  around, 

LXVI. 

And  here  and  there,  on  trees  by  lightning  scath- 
ed, 

Unhappy  wights  who  loathed  Hfe  yhung ; 
Or,  in  fresh  gore  and  recent  murder  bathed^ 
They  weltering  lay ;  or  else,  infuriate  flung 
Into  the  gloomy  flood,  while  ravens  sung 


/ 


THE  CASTLE  OF  INDOLENCE. 


69 


The  funeral  dirge,  they  down  the  torrent  roU'd 
These,  by  distemper'd  blood  to  madness  stung. 
Had  doom'd  themselves;  whence  oft,  when  night 
control  d 

The  world,  returning  hither  their  sad  spirits 
howl'd. 

LXVII. 

Meantime  a  moving  scene  was  open  laid; 
That  lazar-house  I  whilom  in  my  lay 
Depainted  have,  its  horrors  deep  display'd, 
And  gave  unnumber'd  wretches  to  the  day, 
Who  tossing  there  in  squalid  misery  lay. 
Soon  as  of  sacred  light  the  unwonted  smile 
Pour'd  on  these  living  catacombs  its  ray. 
Through  the  drear  caverns  stretching  many  a 
mile. 

The  sick  upraised  their  heads,  and  dropp'd  their 
woes  awhile. 


'  O  Heaven!  (they  cried)  and  do  we  once  more 
see 

Yon  blessed  sun,  and  this  green  earth  so  fair'? 
Are  we  from  noisome  damps  of  pesthouse  free'? 
And  drink  our  souls  the  sweet  ethereal  air  1 
O  thou!  or  Knight,  or  God?  who  boldest  there 
That  fiend,  oh  keep  him  in  eternal  chains ! 
But  what  for  us,  the  children  of  despair. 
Brought  to  the  brink  of  hell,  what  hope  re- 
mains '? 

Repentance  does  itself  but  aggravate  our  pains. 


The  gentle  Knight,  who  saw  their  rueful  case, 
Let  fall  adown  his  silver  beard  some  tears. 
"  Certes  (quoth  he)  it  is  not  e'en  in  grace, 
To  undo  the  past,  and  eke  your  broken  years: 
Nathless,  to  nobler  worlds  repentance  rears. 
With  humble  hope,  her  eye;  to  her  is  given 
A  power  the  truly  contrite  heart  that  cheers; 
She  quells  the  brand  by  which  the  rocks  are 
riven : 

She  more  than  merely  softens,  she  rejoices  Hea- 
ven. 


"  Then  patient  bear  the  sufferings  you  have 
earn'd, 

And  by  these  sufferings  purify  the  mind; 
Let  wisdom  be  by  paat  misconduct  learn'd: 
Or  pious  die,  with  penitence  resign'd ; 
And  to  a  life  more  happy  and  refined. 
Doubt  not,  you  shall,  new  creatures,  yet  arise. 
Till  then,  you  may  expect  in  me  to  find 
One  who  will  wipe  your  sorrow  from  your 
eyes. 

One  who  will  sooth  your  pangs,  and  wing  you 
to  the  skies." 


LXXI, 

They  silent  heard,  and  pour'd  their  thanks  in 
tears: 

"  For  you  (resumed  the  knight  with  sterner 
tone) 

Whose  hard  dry  hearts  the  obdurate  demon 
sears. 

That  villain's  gifts  will  cost  you  many  a  groan; 
In  dolorous  mansion  long  you  must  bemoan 
His  fatal  charms,  and  weep  your  stains  away; 
Till,  soft  and  pure  as  infant  goodness  grown, 
You  feel  a  perfect  change :  then,  who  can  say 
What  grace  may  yet  shine  forth  in  Heaven's 
eternal  day'?" 


This  said,  his  powerful  wand  he  waved  anew: 
Instant  a  glorious  angel-train  descends, 
The  Charities,  to  wit,  of  rosy  hue; 
Sweet  Love  their  looks  a  gentle  radiance  lends, 
And  with  seraphic  flame  compassion  blends. 
At  once,  delighted,  to  their  charge  they  fly : 
When  lo !  a  goodly  hospital  ascends 
In  which  they  bade  each  lenient  aid  be  nigh. 
That  could  the  sick-bed  smooth  of  that  sad  com- 
pany. 


It  was  a  worthy  edifying  sight, 
And  gives  to  human  kind  peculiar  grace, 
To  see  kind  hands  attending  day  and  night, 
With  tender  ministry  from  place  to  place. 
Some  prop  the  head;  some,  from  the  pallid  face 
Wipe  off  the  faint  cold  dews  weak  nature  sheds; 
Some  reach  the  healing  draught:  the  whilst,  to 
chase 

The  fear  supreme,  around  their  soften'd  beds, 
Some  holy  man  by  prayer  all  opening  Heaven 
dispreds. 


Attended  by  a  glad  acclaiming  train. 
Of  those  he  rescued  had  from  gaping  hell. 
Then  turn'd  the  Knight ;  and,  to  his  hall  again 
Soft-pacing,  sought  of  peace  the  mossy  cell: 
Yet  down  his  cheeks  the  gems  of  pity  fell, 
To  see  the  helpless  wretches  that  remain'd. 
There  left  through'  delves  and  deserts  dire  to 
yell; 

Amazed,  their  looks  with  pale  dismay  were 
stain'd, 

And  spreading  wide  their  hands  they  meek  re- 
pentance feigned. 


But  ah  !  their  scorned  day  of  grace  was  past: 
For  (horrible  to  tell !)  a  desert  wild 
Before  them  stretch'd,  bare,  comfortless,  andvastc 
With  gibbets,  bones,  and  carcasses  defile^, 


70 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


There  nor  trim  field,  nor  lively  culture  smiled : 
Nor  waving  shade  was  seen,  nor  fountain  fair; 
But  sands  abrlipt  on  sands  lay  loosely  piled, 
Through  which  they  floundering,  toil'd  with 
painful  care, 

Whilst  Phcebus  smote  them  sore,  and  fired  the 
cloudless  air. 


Then,  varying  to  a  joyless  land  of  bogs, 
The  sadden'd  country  a  gray  waste  appear'd; 
Where  nought  but  putrid  streams  and  noisome 
fogs 

For  ever  hung  on  drizzly  Auster's  beard; 
Or  else  the  ground,  by  piercing  Caurus  sear'd, 
Was  jagg'd  with'  frost,  or  heap'd  with  glazed 
snow; 

Through  these  extremes  a  ceaseless  round  they 
steer 'd, 

By  cruel  fiends  still  hurried  to  and  fro, 
Gaunt  Beggary,  and  Scorn,  with  many  hell-hounds 


The  first  was  with  base  dunghill  rags  yclad. 
Tainting  the  gale,  in  which  they  flutter'd  light; 
Of  morbid  hue  his  features,  sunk  and  sad ; 
His  hollow  eyne  shook  forth  a  sickly  light; 
And  o'er  his  lank  jawbone,  in  piteous  phght. 
His  black  rough  beard  was  matted  rank  and 
vile ; 

Direful  to  see !  a  heart-appalling  sight ! 
Meantime  foul  scurf  and  blotches  him  defile; 
And  dogs,  where'er  he  went,  still  barked  all  the 
while. 


The  other  was  a  fell  despightful  fiend; 
Hell  holds  none  worse  in  baleful  bower  below: 
By  pride,  and  wit,  and  rage,  and  rancour,  keen'd; 
Of  man  alike,  if  good  or  bad,  the  foe: 
With  nose  upturn'd,  he  always  made  a  show 
As  if  he  smelt  some  nauseous  scent ;  his  eye 
Was  cold,  and  keen,  like  blast  from  boreal  snow; 
And  taunts  he  casten  forth  most  bitterly. 
Such  were  the  twain  that  oflT  drove  this  ungodly  fry. 


E'en  so  through  Brentford  town,  a  town  of  mud, 
A  herd  of  bristly  swine  is  prick'd  along; 
The  filthy  beasts,  that  never  chew  the  cud, 
Still  grunt,  and  squeak,  and  sing  their  troublous 
song. 

And  oft  they  plunge  themselves  the  mire  among: 
But  aye  the  ruthless  driver  goads  them  on, 
And  aye  of  barking  dogs  the  bitter  throng 
Makes  them  renew  their  unmelodious  moan ; 
Ne  ever  find  they  rest  from  their  unresting  fone. 


GLOSSARY. 
Arch  image,  the  chief,  or  greatest  of  magicians 

and  enchanters. 
Apaid,  paid. 
Appal,  affright. 
Atween,  between. 
Ay,  always. 

Bale,  sorrow,  trouble,  misfortune. 

Benempt,  named. 

Blazon,  painting,  displaying, 

Breme,  cold,  raw. 

Carol,  to  sing  songs  of  joy. 

Caucus,  the  north-east  wind. 

Certes,  certainly. 

Dan,  a  word  prefixed  to  names. 

Deftly,  skilfully. 

Depainted,  painted. 

Drowsy-head,  Drowsiness. 

Eath,  easy. 

Eftsoons,  immediately,  often,  afterwards. 
Eke,  also. 
Fays,  fairies. 

Gear  or  Geer,  furniture,  equipage,  dress. 
Glaive,  sword.  (Fr.) 
Glee,  joy,  pleasure. 
Han,  have. 

Hight,  named,  called;  and  sometimes  it  is  used  for 

is  called.    See  stanza  vii. 
Idless,  idleness. 

Imp,  child  or  oflJspring;  from  the  Saxon  impan, 

to  graft  or  plant. 
Rest,  for  cast. 
Lad,  for  led. 

Lea,  a  piece  of  land,  or  meadow. 
Libbard,  leopard. 
Lig,  to  lie. 

Losel,  a  loose  idle  fellow. 

Louting,  bowing,  bending. 

Lithe,  loose,  lax. 

Mell,  mingle. 

Moe,  more. 

Moil,  to  labour. 

Mote,  might. 

Muchel,  or  Mochel,  much,  great. 
Nathless,  nevertheless. 
Ne,  nor. 

Needments,  necessaries. 
Noursling,  a  child  that  is  nursed. 
Noyance,  harm. 

Prankt,  coloured,  adorned,  gayly. 

Perdie,  (Fr.  par  Dieu)  an  old  oath. 

Pricked  through  the forest^  rode  through  the  forest. 

Sear,  dry,  burnt  up. 

Sheen,  bright,  shining. 

Sicker,  surely. 

Soot,  sweet,  or  sweetly. 

Sooth,  true,  or  truth. 


BRITANNIA. 


71 


Stound,  misfortune,  pang. 

Sweltry,  sultry,  consuming  with  heat. 

Swink,  to  labour. 

Smackt,  savoured. 

Thrall,  slave, 

Transmew'd,  transformed. 

Vild,  vUe. 

Unkempt,  (Lai.  incomptus)  unadorned. 
Ween,  to  think,  be  of  opinion. 
Weet,  to  know,  to  weet,  to  wit. 
Whilom,  ere-while,  formerly. 
Wight,  man. 

Wis,  for  Wist,  to  know,  think,  understand. 
Wonne,  (a  noun)  dwelling. 


Wroke,  wreakt. 
Yborn,  born. 

Yblent,  or  blent,  blended,  mingled. 

Yclad,  clad. 

Ydeped,  called,  named. 

Yfere,  together. 

Ymolten,  melted. 

Yode,  (preter  tense  of  yede)  went. 

N.  B.  The  letter  Y  is  frequently  placed  in  the 
beginning  of  a  word,  by  Spenser,  to  lengthen  it  a 
syllable,  and  en  at  the  end  of  a  word,  for  the  same 
reason,  as  withouten,  casten,  &c. 


 Et  tantas  audetis  tollere  moles  1 

Q,uo3  ego — sed  motos  proestat  componere  fluctus. 
Post  mihi  non  simili  posna  commissa  luetis. 
Maturate  fugam,  regique  h^c  dicite  vestro  : 
Non  illi  imperium  pelagi,  ssBVumque  tridentem, 
Sed  mihi  sorte  datum.  Virgil. 


AS  on  the  sea-beat  shore  Britannia  sat, 
Of  her  degenerate  sons  the  faded  fame. 
Deep  in  her  anxious  heart,  revolving  sad: 
Bare  was  her  throbbing  bosom  to  the  gale, 
That,  hoarse  and  hollow,  from  the  bleak  surge  blew; 
Loose  flowed  her  tresses;  rent  her  azure  robe. 
Hung  o'er  the  deep  from  her  majestic  brow 
She  tore  the  laurel,  and  she  tore  the  bay. 
Nor  ceased  the  copious  grief  to  bathe  her  cheek ; 
Nor  ceased  her  sobs  to  murmur  to  the  main. 
Peace  discontented  nigh,  departing,  stretch'd 
Her  dove-like  wings:  and  War,  tho'  greatly  roused. 
Yet  mourns  his  fetter'd  hands.  While  thus  the 
queen 

Of  nations  spoke ;  and  what  she  said  the  muse 
Recorded,  faithful,  in  unbidden  verse. 

'  E'en  not  yon  sail,  that  from  the  sky-mixt  wave, 
Dawns  on  the  sight,  and  wafts  the  Royal  Youth,* 


•  Frederick  Prince  of  Wales,  then  lately  arrived.  I 
2  T  2 


Whence  this  unwonted  patiencel  this  weak  doubt 
This  tame  beseeching  of  rejected  peace  1 
This  meek  forbearance  1  this  unnative  fear  1 
To  generous  Britons  never  known  before  ? 
And  sail'd  my  fleets  for  this ;  on  Indian  tides 
To  float,  inactive,  with  the  veering  winds  ? 
The  mockery  of  war !  while  hot  disease, 
And  sloth  distemper'd,  swept  off  burning  crowds, 
For  action  ardent;  and  amid  the  deep, 
Inglorious,  sunk  them  in  a  watery  grave. 
There  now  they  lie  beneath  the  rolling  flood, 
Far,  from  their  friends,  and  country,  unavenged ; 
And  back  the  drooping  war  ship  comes  again, 
Dispirited  and  thin ;  her  sons  ashamed 
Thus  idly  to  review  their  native  shore; 
With  not  one  glory  sparkling  in  their  eye. 
One  triumph  on  their  tongue.    A  passenger. 
The  violated  merchant  comes  along; 
That  far  sought  wealth,  for  which  the  noxious  gale 
He  drew,  and  sweat  beneath  equator  suns, 
By  lawless  force  detain'd;  a  force  that  soon 
Would  melt  away,  and  every  spoil  resign. 
Were  once  the  British  lion  heard  to  roar. 
Whence  is  it  that  the  proud  Iberian  thus 
In  their  own  well  asserted  element. 
Dares  rouse  to  wrath  the  masters  of  the  main  1 
Who  told  him,  that  the  big  incumbent  war 
Would  not,  ere  this,  have  roll'd  his  trembUng  port*} 
In  smoky  ruin  1  and  his  guilty  stores, 
Won  by  the  ravage  of  a  butcher'd  world. 
Yet  unatoned,  sunk  in  the  swallowing  deep, 
Or  led  the  ghttering  prize  into  the  Thames'? 


E'en  not  the  flattering  view  of  golden  days, 
And  rising  periods  yet  of  bright  renown, 
Beneath  the  parents,  and  their  endless  line 
Through  late  revolving  time,  can  sooth  my  rage; 
While,  unchastised,  the  insulting  Spaniard  dares 
Infest  the  trading  flood,  full  of  vain  war 
Despise  my  navies,  and  my  merchants  seize; 
As,  trusting  to  false  peace,  they  fearless  roam 
The  world  of  waters  wild ;  made,  by  the  toil. 
And  liberal  blood  of  glorious  ages,  mine: 
Nor  bursts  my  sleeping  thunder  on  their  head. 


72 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


*  There  was  a  time  (Oh  let  my  languid  sons 
Resume  their  spirit  at  the  rousing  thought !) 
When  all  the  pride  of  Spain,  in  one  dread  fleet, 
Swell'd  o'er  the  labouring  surge;  like  a  whole 
heaven 

Of  clouds,  wide  roll'd  before  the  boundless  breeze. 
Gaily  the  splendid  armament  along 
Exultant  plough'd,  reflecting  a  red  gleam, 
As  sunk  the  sun,  o'er  all  the  flaming  Vast; 
Tall,  gorgeous,  and  elate ;  drunk  with  the  dream 
Of  easy  conquest ;  while  their  bloated  war, 
Stretch'd  out  from  sky  to  sky,  the  gather'd  force 
Of  ages  held  in  its  capacious  womb. 
But  soon,  regardless  of  the  cumbrous  pomp, 
My  dauntless  Brit9ns  came,  a  gloomy  few. 
With  tempests  black,  the  goodly  scene  deform'd, 
And  laid  their  glory  waste.    The  bolts  of  fate 
Resistless  thunder'd  through  their  yielding  sides; 
Fierce  o'er  their  beauty  blazed  the  lurid  flame ; 
And  seized  in  horrid  grasp,  or  shatter'd  wide, 
Amid  the  mighty  waters,  deep  they  sunk. 
Then  too  from  every  promontory  chill. 
Rank  fen,  and  cavern  where  the  wild  wave  works, 
I  swept  confederate  winds,  and  swell'd  a  storm. 
Round  the  glad  isle,  snatch'd  by  the  vengeful  blast, 
The  scatter'd  remnants  drove;  on  the  blind  shelve. 
And  pointed  rock,  that  marks  the  indented  shore. 
Relentless  dash'd,  where  loud  the  northern  main 
Howls  through  the  fractured  Caledonian  isles. 

'  Such  were  the  dawnings  of  my  watery  reign; 
But  since  how  vast  it  grew,  how  absolute, 
E'en  in  those  troubled  times,  when  dreadful  Blake 
Awed  angry  nations  with  the  British  name, 
Let  every  humbled  state,  let  Europe  say, 
Sustain'd,  and  balanced,  by  my  naval  arm. 
Ah,  what  must  those  immortal  spirits  think 
Of  your  poor  shifts  1  Those,  for  their  country's 
good, 

Who  faced  the  blackest  danger,  knew  no  fear, 
No  mean  submission,  but  commanded  peace. 
Ah,  how  with  indignation  must  they  burn'? 
(If  aught,  but  joy,  can  touch  ethereal  breasts) 
With  shame  1  with  grief?  to  see  their  feeble  sons 
Shrink  from  that  empire  o'er  the  conquer'd  seas, 
For  which  their  wisdom  plann'd,  their  councils 
glow'd. 

And  their  veins  bled  through  many  a  toiling  age. 

'  Oh,  flrst  of  human  blessings !  and  supreme! 
Fair  Peace !  how  lovely,  how  delightful  thou ! 
By  whose  wide  tie  the  kindred  sons  of  men 
Like  brothers  live,  in  amity  combined 
And  unsuspicious  faith ;  while  honest  toil 
Gives  every  joy,  and  to  those  joys  a  right, 
Which  idle,  barbarous  rapine  but  usurps. 
Pure  is  thy  reign ;  when,  unaccursed  by  blood, 
Nought,  save  the  sweetness  of  indulgent  showers, 
Trickling  distils  into  the  vcrnant  glebe  ; 
Instead  of  mangled  carcasses,  sad-seen, 
When  the  blithe  sheaves  lie  scatter'd  o'er  the  field ; 


When  only  shining  shares,  the  crooked  knife, 
And  hooks  imprint  the  vegetable  wound ; 
When  the  land  blushes  with  the  rose  alone, 
The  faUing  fruitage  and  the  bleeding  vine. 
Oh,  Peace !  thou  source  and  soul  of  social  life; 
Beneath  whose  calm  inspiring  influence, 
Science  his  views  enlarges.  Art  refines, 
And  swelling  Commerce  opens  all  her  ports ; 
Bless'd  be  the  man  divine  who  gives  us  thee ! 
Who  bids  the  trumpet  hush  his  horrid  clang, 
Nor  blow  the  giddy  nations  into  rage ; 
Who  sheaths  the  murderous  blade ;  the  deadly  gun 
Into  the  well  piled  armory  returns; 
And  evety  vigour,  from  the  work  of  death, 
To  grateful  industry  converting,  makes 
The  country  flourish,  and  the  city  smile. 
Unviolated,  him  the  virgin  sings ; 
And  him  the  smiling  mother  to  her  train. 
Of  him  the  shepherd,  in  the  peaceful  dale. 
Chants ;  and,  the  treasures  of  his  labour  sure, 
The  husbandman  of  him,  as  at  the  plough, 
Or  team,  he  toils.    With  him  the  sailor  sooths. 
Beneath  the  trembUng  moon,  the  midnight  wave; 
And  the  full  city,  warm,  from  street  to  street. 
And  shop  to  shop,  responsive,  rings  of  him. 

Nor  joys  one  land  alone :  his  praise  extends 
Far  as  the  sun  rolls  the  diflfusive  day ; 
Far  as  the  breeze  can  bear  the  gifts  of  peace. 
Till  all  the  happy  nations  catch  the  song. 
'What  would  not.  Peace!  the  patriot  bear  for 
thee  1 

What  painful  patience.    What  incessant  care  1 
What  mix'd  anxiety"?  What  sleepless  toil] 
E'en  from  the  nish  protected  what  reproach] 
For  he  thy  value  knows ;  thy  friendship  he 
To  human  nature :  but  the  better  thou. 
The  richer  of  delight,  sometimes  the  more 
Inevitable  war  ;  when  ruffian  force 
Awakes  the  fiiry  of  an  injured  state. 
E'en  the  good  patient  man,  whom  reason  rules. 
Roused  by  bold  insult,  and  injurious  rage. 
With  sharp  and  sudden  check  the  astonish'd  sons 
Of  violence  confounds ;  firm  as  his  cause. 
His  bolder  heart;  in  awful  justice  clad; 
His  eyes  effulging  a  peculiar  fire : 
And,  as  he  charges  thi^ough  the  prostrate  war, 
Plis  keen  arm  teaches  faithless  men,  no  more 
To  dare  the  sacred  vengeance  of  the  just. 

'  And  what,  my  thoughtless  sons,  should  fire 
you  more 

Than  when  your  well  earn'd  empire  of  the  deep 
The  least  beginning  injury  receives  1 
What  better  cause  can  call  your  lightning  forth  % 
Your  thunder  wake  1  3'our  dearest  life  demand] 
What  better  cause,  than  when  your  country  sees 
The  sly  destruction  at  her  vitals  aim'd] 
For  oh :  it  much  imports  you,  'tis  your  all, 
To  keep  your  trade  entire,  entire  the  force 
And  honour  of  your  fleets;  o'er  that  to  watch, 


BRITANNIA. 


73 


E'en  with  a  hand  severe,  and  jealous  eye. 
In  intercourse  be  gentle,  generous,  just, 
By  wisdom  polished,  and  of  manners  fair; 
But  on  the  sea  be  terrible,  untamed, 
Unconquerable  still :  let  none  escape, 
Who  shall  but  aim  to  touch  your  glory  there. 
Is  there  the  man  into  the  lion's  den 
Who  dares  intrude,  to  snatch  his  young  awayl 
And  is  a  Briton  seized  1  and  seized  beneath 
The  slumbering  terrors  of  a  British  fleet  1 
Then  ardent  rise !    Oh,  great  in  vengeance  rise  ! 
O'erturn  the  proud,  teach  rapine  to  restore : 
And  as  you  ride  sublimely  round  the  world, 
Make  every  vessel  stoop,  make  every  state 
At  once  their  welfare  and  their  duty  know. 
This  is  your  glory  :  this  your  wisdom ;  this 
The  native  power  for  which  you  were  design'd 
By  fate,  when  fate  designed  the  firmest  state 
That  e'er  was  seated  on  the  subject  sea ; 
A  state,  alone,  where  Liberty  should  live, 
In  these  late  times,  this  evening  of  mankind, 
When  Athens,  Rome,  and  Carthage  are  no  more, 
The  world  almost  in  slavish  sloth  dissolved. 
For  this,  these  rocks  around  your  coast  were 
thrown ; 

For  this,  your  oaks,  peculiar  harden'd,  shoot 

Strong  into  sturdy  growth;  for  this,  your  hearts 

Swell  with  a  sullen  courage,  growing  still 

As  danger  grows ;  and  strength,  and  toil  for  this 

Are  liberal  pour'd  o'er  all  the  fervent  land. 

Then  cherish  this,  this  unexpensive  power, 

Undangerous  to  the  public,  ever  prompt, 

By  lavish  nature  thrust  into  your  hand: 

And,  unencumber'd  with  the  bulk  immense 

Of  conquest,  whence  huge  empires  rose,  and  fell 

Self-crush'd,  extend  your  reign  from  shore  to  shore, 

Where'er  the  wind  your  high  behests  can  blow ; 

And  fix  it  deep  on  this  eternal  base. 

For  should  the  sliding  fabric  once  give  way. 

Soon  slacken'd  quite,  and  past  recovery  broke, 

It  gathers  ruin  as  it  rolls  along, 

Steep  rushing  down  to  that  devouring  gulf, 

Where  many  a  mighty  empire  buried  lies. 

And  should  the  big  redundant  flood  of  trade. 

In  which  ten  thousand  thousand  labours  join 

Their  several  currents,  till  the  boundless  tide 

Rolls  in  a  radiant  deluge  o'er  the  land  ; 

Should  this  bright  stream,  the  least  inflicted,  point 

Its  course  another  way,  o'er  other  lands 

The  various  treasure  would  resistless  pour, 

Ne'er  to  be  won  again ;  its  ancient  tract 

Left  a  vile  channel,  desolate,  and  dead, 

V/lth  all  around  a  miserable  waste. 

Not  Egypt,  were  her  better  heaven,  the  Nile, 

Turn'd  in  the  pride  of  flow;  when  o'er  his  rocks, 

And  roaring  cataracts,  beyond  the  reach 

Of  dizzy  vision  piled,  in  one  wide  flash 

An  Ethiopian  deluge  foams  amain ; 

(Whence  wondering  fable  traced  him  from  the  sky) 


E'en  not  that  prime  of  earth,  where  harvests  crowd 
On  untill'd  harvests,  all  the  teeming  year, 
If  of  the  fat  o'erflowing  culture  robb'd, 
Were  then  a  more  uncomfortable  wild, 
Steril,"  and  void ;  than  of  her  trade  deprived, 
Britons,  your  boasted  isle :  her  princes  sunk ; 
Her  high  built  honour  moulder'd  to  the  dust; 
Unnerved  her  force ;  her  spirit  vanish'd  quite ; 
With  rapid  wing  her  riches  fled  away; 
Her  unfrequented  ports  alone  the  sign 
Of  what  she  was ;  her  merchants  scatter'd  wide; 
Her  hollow  shops  shut  up;  and  in  her  streets, 
Her  fields,  Avoods,  markets,  villages,  and  roads, 
The  cheerful  voice  of  labour  heard  no  more. 

'  Oh,  let  not  then  waste  luxury  impair 
That  manly  soul  of  toil  which  strings  your  nerves, 
And  your  own  proper  happiness  creates  ! 
Oh,  let  not  the  soft,  penetrating  plague 
Creep  on  the  freeborn  mind !  and  working  there, 
With  the  sharp  tooth  of  many  a  new-form'd  want, 
Endless,  and  idle  all,  eat  out  the  heart 
Of  liberty;  the  high  conception  blast; 
The  noble  sentiment,  the  impatient  scorn 
Of  base  subjection,  and  the  swelhng  wish 
For  general  good,  erasing  from  the  mind  : 
While  nought  save  narrow  selfishness  succeeds, 
And  low  design,  the  sneaking  passions  all 
Let  loose,  and  reigning  in  the  rankled  breast. 
Induced  at  last,  by  scarce  perceived  degrees, 
Sapping  the  very  frame  of  government, 
And  life,  a  total  dissolution  comes; 
Sloth,  ignorance,  dejection,  flattery,  fear. 
Oppression  raging  o'er  the  waste  he  makes; 
The  human  being  almost  quite  extinct; 
And  the  whole  state  in  broad  corruption  sinks. 
Oh,  shun  that  gulf:  that  gaping  ruin  shun! 
And  countless  ages  roll  it  far  away 
From  you,  ye  heaven-beloved !    May  liberty, 
The  Ught  of  life !  the  sun  of  humankind  ! 
Whence  heroes,  bards,  and  patriots  borrow  flame, 
E'en  where  the  keen  depressive  north  descends, 
Still  spread,  exalt,  and  actuate  your  powers! 
While  slavish  southern  climates  beam  in  vain. 
And  may  a  public  spirit  from  the  throne, 
Where  every  virtue  sits,  go  copious  forth , 
Live  o'er  the  land  !  the  finer  arts  inspire ; 
Make  thoughtful  Science  raise  his  pensive  head, 
Blow  the  fresh  bay,  bid  Industry  rejoice, 
And  the  rough  sons  of  lowest  labour  smile. 
As  when,  profuse  of  Spring,  the  loosen 'd  West 
Lifts  up  the  pining  year,  and  balmy  breathes 
Youth,  life,  and  love,  and  beauty,  o'er  the  world, 

'  But  haste  we  from  these  melancholy  shores, 
Nor  to  deaf  winds,  and  waves,  our  fruitless  plaint 
Pour  weak ;  the  country  claims  our  active  aid ; 
That  let  us  roam;  and  where  we  find  a  spark 
Of  public  virtue,  blow  it  into  flame. 
Lo!  now,  my  sons,  the  sons  of  freedom!  meet 


74 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


In  awful  senate;  thither  let  us  fly; 
Burn  in  the  patriot's  thought,  flow  from  his  tongue 
In  fearless  truth;  myself,  transform'd,  preside, 
And  shed  the  spirit  of  Britannia  round.' 


This  said ;  her  fleeting  form  and  airy  train 
Sunk  in  the  gale ;  and  nought  but  ragged  rocks 
Rush'd  on  thd  broken  eye;  and  nought  was  heard 
But  the  rough  cadence  of  the  dashing  wave. 


2L(tirtrtfi* 


TO  HIS  ROYAL  HIGHNESS  FREDERICK, 

PRINCE  OF  WALES. 

Sir — When  I  reflect  upon  that  ready  condescen- 
sion, that  preventing  generosity,  with  which  your 
Royal  Highness  received  the  following  poem  under 
your  protection;  I  can  alone  ascribe  it  to  the  re- 
commendation and  influence  of  the  subject.  In  you 
the  cause  and  concerns  of  Liberty  have  so  zealous 
a  patron,  as  entitles  whatever  may  have  the  least 
tendency  to  promote  them,  to  the  distinction  of 
your  favour.  And  who  can  entertain  this  delight- 
ful reflection,  without  feeUng  a  pleasure  far  supe- 
rior to  that  of  the  fondest  author ;  and  of  which 
all  true  lovers  of  their  country  must  participate 
To  behold  the  noblest  dispositions  of  the  prince, 
and  of  the  patriot,  united :  an  overflowing  benevo- 
lence, generosity,  and  candour  of  heart,  joined  to 
an  enlightened  zeal  for  Liberty,  an  intimate  per- 
suasion that  on  it  depends  the  happiness  and  glory 
both  of  king  and  people:  to  see'these  shining  out 
in  public  virtues,  as  they  have  hitherto  smiled  in 
all  the  social  lights  and  private  accomplishments 
of  life,  is  a  prospect  that  can  not  but  inspire  a  ge- 
neral sentiment  of  satisfaction  and  gladness,  more 
easy  to  be  felt  than  expressed. 

If  the  following  attempt  to  trace  Liberty,  from 
the  first  ages  down  to  her  excellent  establishment 
in<Great  Britain,  can  at  all  merit  your  approba- 
tion, and  prove  an  entertainment  to  your  Royal 
Highness;  if  it  can  in  any  degree  answer  the  dig- 
nity of  the  subject,  and  of  the  name  under  which 
I  presume  to  shelter  it;  I  have  my  best  reward: 
particularly  as  it  aflTords  me  an  opportunity  of  de- 
claring that  I  am,  with  the  greatest  zeal  and  re- 
spect, Sir, 

Your  Royal  Highness's 
most  obedient 

and  most  devoted  servant, 

James  Thomson. 


LIBERTY. 

PART  I. 

ANCIENT  AND  MODERN  ITALY  COMPARED. 

contents. 

The  following  Poem  is  thrown  into  the  form  of  a  Poetical 
Vision.  Its  scene,  the  ruins  of  ancient  Rome.  The  Goddess 
of  Liberty,  who  is  supposed  to  speak  through  the  whole, 
appears,  characterized  as  British  Liberty.  Gives  a  view  of 
ancient  Italy,  and  particularly  of  republican  Rome,  in  all  her 
magnificence  and  glory.  This  contrasted  by  modern  Italy ; 
its  valleys,  mountains,  culture,  cities,  people :  the  difference 
appearing  strongest  in  the  capital  city  Rome.  The  ruins  of 
the  great  works  of  Liberty  more  magnificent  than  the  bor- 
rowed pomp  of  Oppression ;  and  from  them  revived  Sculp- 
ture, Painting,  and  Architecture.  The  old  Romans  apostro- 
phized, ■  with  regard  to  the  several  melancholy  changes  in 
Italy :  Horace,  Tully,  and  Virgil,  with  regard  to  their  Tibur, 
Tusculum,  and  Naples.  That  once  finest  and  most  orna- 
mented part  of  Italy,  all  along  the  coast  of  Baioe,  how  changed. 
This  desolation  of  Italy  applied  to  Britain.  Address  to  the 
Goddess  of  Libert,y,  that  she  would  deduce  from  the  first  ages, 
her  chief"  e.-^tablishments,  the  description  of  which  constitute 
the  subject  of  the  following  parts  of  this  Poem.  She  assents, 
and  commands  what  she  says  to  be  sung  in  Britain;  whose 
happiness,  arising  from  freedom,  and  a  limited  monarchy, 
she  marks.  An  immediate  Vision  attends,  and  paijits  her 
words.  Invocation. 


O  MY  lamented  Talbot!  while  with  thee 
The  Muse  gay  roved  the  glad  Hesperian  round, 
And  drew  the  inspiring  breath  of  ancient  arts; 
Ah !  little  thought  she  her  returning  verse 
Should  sing  our  darling  subject  to  thy  Shade. 
And  does  the  mystic  veil,  from  mortal  beam, 
Involve  those  eyes  where  every  virtue  smiled, 
And  all  thy  Father's  candid  spirit  shone  1 
The  light  of  reason,  pure,  without  a  cloud ; 
Full  of  the  generous  heart,  the  mild  regard ; 
Honour  disdaining  blemish,  cordial  faith, 
And  limpid  truth,  that  looks  the  very  soul. 
But  to  the  death  of  mighty  nations  turn 
My  strain  ;  be  there  absorpt  the  private  tear. 

Musing,  I  lay ;  warm  from  the  sacred  walks, 
Where  at  each  step  imagination  burns : 
While  scatter'd  wide  around,  awful,  and  hoar, 
Lies,  a  vast  monument,  once  glorious  Rome 


LIBERTY. 


75 


The  tomb  of  empire  1  Ruins !  that  eftace 
"Whate'er,  of  finished,  modern  pomp  can  boast. 
Snatch'd  by  these  wonders  to  that  world  where 
thought 

Unfetter'd  ranges,  Fancy's  magic  hand 
Led  me  anew  o'er  all  the  solemn  scene, 
Still  in  the  m.nd's  pure  eye  more  solemn  dress'd : 
"When  straight,  methought,  the  fair  majestic  Power 
Of  Liberty  appear'd.    Not,  as  of  old, 
Extended  in  her  hand  the  cap,  and  rod, 
Whose  slave-enlarging  touch  gave  double  life : 
But  hex  bright  temples  bound  with  British  oak, 
And  naval  honours  nodded  on  her  brow. 
SubUme  of  port:  loose  o'er  her  shoulder  flow'd 
Her  sea-green  robe,  with  constellations  gay. 
An  island-goddess  now ;  and  her  high  care 
The  Glueen  of  Isles,  the  mistress  of  the  main. 
My  heart  beat  filial  transport  at  the  sight; 
And,  as  she  moved  to  speak,  the  awaken'd  Muse 
Listen'd  intense.    Awhile  she  look'd  around, 
With  mournful  eye  the  well  known  ruins  mark'd. 
And  then,  her  sighs  repressing,  thas  began: 

"  Mine  are  these  wonders,  all  thou  seest  is  mine; 
But  ah,  how  changed !  the  falling  poor  remains 
Of  what  exalted  once  the  Ausonian  shore. 
Look  back  through  time:  and,  rising  from  the 
gloom, 

Mark  the  dread  scene,  that  paints  whate'er  I  say. 

"  The  great  Republic  see !  that  glow'd,  sublime. 
With  the  mix'd  freedom  of  a  thousand  states ; 
Raised  on  the  thrones  of  kings  her  curule  chair. 
And  by  her  fasces  awed  the  subject  world. 
See  busy  millions  quickening  all  the  land. 
With  cities  throng'd,  and  teeming  culture  high:  , 
For  Nature  then  smiled  on  her  free-born  sons, 
And  pour'd  the  plenty  that  belongs  to  men. 
Behold,  the  country  cheering,  villas  rise. 
In  lively  prospect ;  by  the  secret  lapse 
Of  brooks  now  lost,  and  streams  renown'd  in  song ; 
In  Umbria's  closing  vales,  or  on  the  brow 
Of  her  brown  hills  that  breathe  the  scented  gale : 
On  Baife's  viny  coast ;  where  peaceful  seas, 
Fann'd  by  kind  zephyrs,  ever  kiss  the  shore ; 
And  suns  unclouded  shine,  through  purest  air: 
Or  in  the  spacious  neighbourhood  of  Rome; 
Far  shining  upward  to  the  Sabine  hills. 
To  Anio's  roar,  and  Tibur's  olive  shade; 
To  where  Preneste  Hfts  her  airy  brow: 
Or  downward  spreading  to  the  sunny  shore. 
Where  Alba  breathes  the  freshness  of  the  main. 

"  See  distant  mountains  leave  their  valleys  dry, 
And  o'er  the  proud  Arcade  their  tribute  pour, 
To  lave  imperial  Rome.    For  ages  laid, 
Deep,  massy,  firm,  diverging  every  way, 
With  tombs  of  heroes  sacred,  see  her  roads; 
By  various  nations  trod,  and  suppliant  kings; 
With  legions  flaming,  or  with  triumph  gay. 

"  Full  in  the  centre  of  these  wondrous  works, 
The  pride  of  earth !  Rome  in  her  glory  see ! 


Behold  her  demigods,  in  »enate  met ; 
All  head  to  counsel,  and  all  heart  to  act: 
The  commonweal  inspiring  every  tonwue 
With  fervent  eloquence,  unbribed,  and  bold; 
Ere  tame  Corruption  taught  the  servile  herd 
To  rank  obedient  to  a  master's  voice. 

"  Her  Forum  see,  warm,  popular,  and  loud. 
In  trembhng  wonder  hush'd,  when  the  two  Sires,* 
As  they  the  private  father  greatly  quell'd, 
Stood  up  the  public  fathers  of  the  state. 
See  Justice  judging  there,  in  human  shape. 
Hark  !  how  with  freedom's  voice  it  thunders  high, 
Or  in  soft  murmurs  sinks  to  TuUy's  tongue. 

"  Her  tribes,  her  census,  see ;  her  generous 
troops. 

Whose  pay  was  glory,  and  their  best  reward 
Free  for  their  country  and  for  me  to  die; 
Ere  mercenary  murder  grew  a  trade. 

"  Mark,  as  the  purple  triumph  waves  along, 
The  highest  pomp  and  lowest  fall  of  life. 

"  Her  festive  games,  the  school  of  heroes,  see: 
Her  Circus,  ardent  with  contending  youth : 
Her  streets,  her  temples,  palaces,  and  baths, 
Full  of  fair  forms,  of  Beauty's  eldest  born, 
And  of  a  people  cast  in  virtue's  mould : 
While  sculpture  hves  around,  and  Asian  hills 
Lend  their  best  stores  to  heave  the  pillar'd  dome. 
All  that  to  Roman  strength  the  softer  touch 
Of  Grecian  art  can  join.    But  language  fails 
To  paint  this  sun,  this  centre  of  mankind; 
Where  every  virtue,  glory,  treasure,  art, 
Attracted  strong,  in  heighten'd  lustre  meet. 

"  Need  I  the  contrast  mark?  unjoyous  view! 
A  land  in  all,  in  government  and  arts. 
In  virtue,  genius,  earth,  and  heaven,  reversed, 
Who  but  these  far  famed  ruins  to  behold, 
Proofs  of  a  people,  whose  heroic  aims 
Soar'd  far  above  the  little  selfish  sphere 
Of  doubting  modern  life;  who  but  inflamed 
With  classic  zeal,  these  consecrated  scenes 
Of  men  and  deeds  to  trace;  unhappy  land, 
Would  trust  thy  wilds,  and  cities  loose  of  sway*? 

"  Are  these  the  vales,  that,  once,  exulting  states 
In  their  warm  bosom  fed?   The  mountains  these, 
On  whose  high-blooming  sides  my  sons,  of  old, 
I  bred  to  glory?    These  dejected  towns. 
Where,  mean  and  sordid,  life  can  scarce  subsist, 
The  scenes  of  ancient  opulence  and  pomp  ? 

"Come!  by  whatever  fiacred  name  disguised, 
Oppression,  come!  and  in  thy  works  rejoice! 
See  nature's  richest  plains  to  putrid  fens 
Turn'd  by  thy  fury.   From  their  cheerful  bounds. 
See  razed  the  enlivening  village,  farm,  and  seat. 
First,  rural  toil,  by  thy  rapacious  hand 
Robb'd  of  his  poor  reward,  resign'd  the  plough; 
And  now  he  dares  not  turn  the  noxious  glebe. 
'Tis  thine  entire.    The  lonely  swain  himself, 


'  Lucius  Junius  Brutus,  and  Virginius. 


76 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Who  loves  at  large  along  the  grassy  downs 
His  flocks  to  pasture,  thy  drear  champaign  flies. 
Far  as  the  sickening  eye  can  sweep  around, 
'Tis  all  one  desert,  desolate,  and  gray, 
Grazed  by  the  sullen  bufialo  alone ; 
And  where  the  rank  uncultivated  growth 
Of  rotting  ages  taints  the  passing  gale. 
Beneath  the  baleful  blast  the  city  pines. 
Or  sinks  enfeebled,  or  infected  burns. 
Beneath  it  mourns  the  solitary  road, 
Roll'd  in  rude  mazes  o'er  the  abandon'd  waste; 
While  ancient  ways,  ingulf 'd,  are  seen  no  more. 

,  "  Such  thy  dire  plains,  thou  self-destroyer!  foe 
To  human  kind !  thy  mountains  too,  profuse, 
Where  savage  nature  blooms,  seem  their  sad  plaint 
To  raise  against  thy  desolating  rod. 
There  on  the  breezy  brow,  where  thriving  states 
And  famous  cities,  onfte,  to  the  pleased  sun, 
Far  other  scenes  of  rising  culture  spread, 
Pale  shine  thy  ragged  towns.    Neglected  round. 
Each  harvest  pines;  the  livid,  lean  produce 
Of  heartless  labour:  while  thy  hated  joys, 
Not  proper  pleasure,  lift  the  lazy  hand. 
Better  to  sink  in  sloth  the  woes  of  life, 
Than  wake  their  rage  with  unavailing  toil. 
Hence,  drooping  art  almost  to  nature  leaves 
The  rude  unguided  year.    Thin  wave  the  gifts 
Of  yellow  Ceres,  thin  the  radiant  blush 
Of  orchard  reddens  in  the  warmest  ray. 
To  weedy  wiidness  run,  no  rural  wealth 
(Such  as  dictators  fed)  the  garden  pours. 
Crude  the  wild  ohve  flows,  and  foul  the  vine; 
Nor  juice  Caecubian,  or  Falernian,  more. 
Streams  Ufe  and  joy,  save  in  the  Muse's  bowl. 
TJnseconded  by  art,  the  spinning  race 
Draw  the  bright  thread  in  vain,  and  idly  toil 
In  vain,  forlorn  in  wilds,  the  citron  blows ; 
And  flowering  plants  perfume  the  desert  gale. 
Through  the  vile  thorn  the  tender  myrtle  twines: 
Inglorious  droops  the  laurel,  dead  to  song, 
And  long  a  stranger  to  the  hero's  brow. 

"Nor  half  thy  triumph  this:  cast,  from  brute 
fields. 

Into  the  haunts  of  men  thy  ruthless  eye. 
There  buxom  Plenty  never  turns  her  horn ; 
The  grace  and  virtue  of  exterior  life, 
No  clean  convenience  reigns;  e'en  sleep  itself, 
Least  delicate  of  powers,  reluctant,  there, 
Lays  on  the  bed  impure  his  heavy  head. 
Thy  horrid  walk!  dead,  empty,  unadorn'd. 
See  streets  whose  echoes  never  know  the  voice 
Of  cheerful  hurry,  commerce  many-tongued. 
And  art  uicchanic  at  his  various,  task, 
Fervent,  employ'd.    Mark  the  desponding  race. 
Of  occupation  void,  as  void  of  hope; 
Hope,  the  glad  ray,  glanced  from  Eternal  Good 
That  life  enhvens,  and  exalts  its  powers, 
With  views  of  fortune— madness  all  to  them! 
By  thee  relentless  seized  their  better  joys, 


To  the  soft  aid  of  cordial  airs  they  fly. 
Breathing  a  kind  oblivion  o'er  their  woes. 
And  love  and  music  melt  their  souls  away. 
From  feeble  Justice,  see  how  rash  Revenge, 
Trembling,  the  balance  snatches;  and  the  sword 
Fearful  himself,  to  venal  ruffians  gives.  ' 
See  where  God's  altar,  nursing  murder,  stands, 
With  the  red  touch  of  dark  assassins  stain'd. 

"  But  chief  let  Rome,  the  mighty  city!  speak 
The  full-exerted  genius  of  thy  reign. 
Behold  her  rise  amid  the  lifeless  waste, 
Expiring  nature  all  corrupted  round; 
While  the  lone  Tiber,  through  the  desert  plain,  * 
Winds  his  waste   stores,   and   sullen  sweeps 
along. 

Patch'd  from  my  fragments,  in  unsolid  pomp, 
Mark  how  the  temple  glares;  and  artful  dress 'd, 
Amusive,  draws  the  superstitious  train. 
Mark  how  the  palace  Ufts  a  lying  front, 
ConceaUng  often,  in  magnific  jail, 
Proud  want;  a  deep  unanimated  gloom! 
And  oft  adjoining  to  the  drear  abode 
Of  misery,  whose  melancholy  walls 
Seem  its  voracious  grandeur  to  reproach. 
Within  the  city  bounds  the  desert  see. 
See  the  rank  vine  o'er  subterranean  roofs, 
Indecent,  spread ;  beneath  whose  fretted  gold 
It  once,  exulting,  flow'd.    The  people  mark, 
Matchless,  while  fired  by  me;  to  public  good 
Inexorably  firm,  just,  generous,  brave, 
Afraid  of  nottung  but  unworthy  life. 
Elate  with  glory,  an  heroic  soul 
Known  to  the  vulgar  breast :  behold  them  now 
A  thin  despairing  number,  all-subdued, 
The  slaves  of  slaves,  by  superstition  fool'd. 
By  vice  unmann'd  and  a  licentious  rule; 
In  guile  ingenious,  and  in  murder  brave; 
Such  in  one  land,  beneath  the  same  fair  clime. 
Thy  sons,  Oppression,  are;  and  such  were  mine. 
"  E'en  with  thy  labour'd  Pomp,  for  whose  vain 
show  , 
Deluded  thousands  starve;  all  age-begrimed, 
Torn,  robb'd,  and  scatter'd  in  unnumber'd  sacks, 
And  by  the  tempest  of  two  thousand  years 
Continual  shaken,  let  my  ruins  vie. 
These  roads  that  yet  the  Roman  hand  assert. 
Beyond  the  weak  repair  of  modern  toil. 
These  fractured  arches,  that  the  chiding  stream 
No  more  delighted  hear;  these  rich  remains 
Of  marbles  now, unknown,  where  shines  imbibed 
Each  parent  ray;  these  massy  columns,  hew'd 
From  Afric's  farthest  shore;  one  granite  all. 
These  obelisks  high-towering  to  the  sky, 
Mysterious  mark'd  with  dark  Egyptian  lore ; 
These  endless  wonders  that  this  sacred*  way 
Illumine  still,  and  consecrate  to  fame  ; 
These  fountains,  vases,  urns,  and  statues,  charged 


Via  Sacra. 


LIBERTY. 


77 


With  the  fine  stores  of  art-completing  G  reece. 
Mine  is,  besides,  thy  every  later  boast : 
Thy  Buonarotis,  thy  Palladios  mine; 
And  mine  the  fair  designs,  which  Raphael's*  soul 
O'er  the  Hve  canvass,  emanating,  breathed. 

"  What  vi^ould  ye  say,  ye  conquerors  of  earth! 
Ye  Romans,  could  you  raise  the  laurel's  head ; 
Could  you  the  country  see,  by  seas  of  blood, 
And  the  dread  toil  of  ages,  won  so  dear ; 
Your  pride,  your  triumph,  your  supreme  delight ! 
For  w^hose  defence  oft,  in  the  doubtful  hour, 
You  rush'd  with  rapture  down  the  gulf  of  fate. 
Of  death  ambitious !  till  by  awful  deeds. 
Virtues,  and  courage,  that  amaze  mankind, 
The  queen  of  nations  rose ;  possess'd  of  all 
Which  nature,  art,  and  glory  could  bestow : 
What  would  you  say,  deep  in  the  last  abyss 
Of  slavery,  vice,  and  unambitious  want, 
Thus  to  behold  her  sunk  1  your  crowded  plains, 
Void  of  their  cities ;  unadorn'd  your  hills ; 
Ungraced  your  lakes;  your  ports  to  ships  un- 
known; 

Your  lawless  floods,  and  your  abandon'd  streams; 
These  could  you  know ;  these  could  you  love 
again  1 

Thy  Tiber,  Horace,  could  it  now  inspire, 
Content,  poetic  ease,  and  rural  joy, 
Soon  bursting  into  song :  while  through  the  groves 
Of  headlong  Anio,  dashing  to  the  vale. 
In  many  a  tortured  stream,  you  mused  along  ] 
Yon  wild  retreat,!  where  superstition  dreams, 
Could,  Tully,  you  your  Tuseulum  beheve? 
And  could  you  deem  yon  naked  hills  that  fonn, 
Famed  in  old  song,  the  ship-forsaken  bay,? 
Your  Formian  shore  7  Once  the  delight  of  earth, 
Where  art  and  nature,  ever  smiUng,  join'd 
On  the  gay  land  to  lavish  all  their  stores. 
How  changed,  how  vacant,  Virgil,  wide  ai'ound, 
Would  now  your  Naples  seem?  disaster'd  less 
By  Black  Vesuvius  thundering  o'er  the  coast 
His  midnight  earthquakes,  and  his  mining  fires, 
Than  by  despotic  rage:§  that  inward  gnaws 
A  native  foe ;  a  foreign,  tears  without. 
First  from  your  flattered  Caesars  this  began : 
Tillj  doomed  to  tyrants  an"  eternal  prey. 
Thin  peopled  spreads,  at  last,  the  syren  plain,  II 
That  the  dire  soul  of  Hannibal  disarm 'd , 


•  Michael  Angelo  Buonaroti,  Palladio,  and  Raphael  d'Ur- 
bino;  the  three  great  modern  masters  in  sculpture,  arcliitec- 
ture,  and  painting. 

t  Tuseulum  is  reckoned  to  have  stood  at  a  place  now  called 
Grotta  Ferrata,  a  convent  of  monks. 

I  The  bay  of  Mola,  fanciently  Formiae)  into  which  Homer 
brings  Uly^es  and  his  companions.  Near  Formiae  Cicero 
had  a  villa. 

§  Naples,  then  under  the  Austrian  government. 

II  Campagna  Fslice,  adjoining  to  Capua. 

H 


And  wrapt  in  weeds  the  shore*  of  Venus  lies. 
There  Baise  sees  no  more  the  joyous  throng; 
Her  bank  all  beaming  with  the  pride  of  Rome: 
No  generous  vines  now  bask  along  the  hills, 
Where  sport  the  breezes  of  the  Tyrrhene  main: 
With  baths  and  temples  mix'd,  no  villas  rise; 
Nor,  art  sustain'd  amid  reluctant  waves, 
Draw  the  cool  m.urmurs  of  the  breathing  deep : 
No  spreading  ports  their  sacred  arms  extend: 
No  mighty  moles  the  big  intrusive  storm, 
From  the  calm  station,  roll  resounding  back. 
An  almost  total  desolation  sits. 
A  dreary  stillness  saddening  o'er  the  coast ; 
Where,t  when  soft  suns  and  tepid  winters  rose, 
Rejoicing  crowds  inhaled  the  balm  of  peace; 
Where  citied  hill  to  hill  reflected  blaze ; 
And  where,  with  Ceres  Bacchus  wont  to  hold 
A  genial  strife.    Her  youthful  form,  robust, 
E'en  Nature  yields;  by  fire  and  earthquake  rent: 
Whole  stately  cities  in  the  dark  abrupt 
Swallow'd  at  once,  or  vile  in  rubbish  laid, 
A  nest  for  serpents;  from  the  red  abyss 
New  hills,  explosive,  thrown;  the  Lucrine  lake 
A  reedy  pool:  and  all  to  Cuma's  point. 
The  sea  recovering  his  usurp'd  domain, 
And  p6ur'd  triumphant  o'er  the  buried  dome 

'  Hence  Britain,  learn;  my  best  establish' d,  last, 
And  more  than  Greece,  or  Rome,  my  steady  reign ; 
The  land  where,  King  and  People  equal  bound 
By  guardian  laA^s,  my  fullest  blessings  flow ; 
And  where  my  jealous  unsubmitting  soul, 
The  dread  of  tyrants!  burns  in  every  breast, 
Learn  hence,  if  such  the  miserable  fate 
Of  an  heroic  race,  the  masters  once 
Of  huriiankind ;  what,  when  deprived  of  me, 
How  grievous  must  be  thine?  in  spite  of  climes, 
Whose  sun-enlivened  ether  wakes  the  soul 
To  higher  powers;  in  spite  of  happy  soils. 
That,  but  by  labour's  slightest  aid  impell'd,  ■ 
With  treasures  teem  to  thy  cold  cUme  unknown; 
If  there  desponding  fail  the  common  arts, 
And  sustenance  of  Hfe:  could  life  itself, 
Far  less  a  thoughtless  tyrant's  hollow  pomp, 
Subsist  with  thee?  against  depressing  skies, 
Join'd  to  full  spread  oppression's  cloudy  brow, 
How  could  thy  spirits  hold?  where  vigour  find 
Forced  fruits  to  tear  from  their  unnative  soil? 
Or,  storing  every  harvest  in  thy  ports, 
To  plough  the  dreadful  all  producing  wave?' 

Here  paused  the  Goddess.  By  the  cause  assured, 
In  trembling  accents  thus  I  moved  my  prayer: 


*  The  coast  of  Baiae,  which  was  formerly  adorned  with  the 
works  mentioned  in  the  following  lines ;  and  v/here,  amidsl 
many  magnificent  ruins,  those  of  a  temple  erected  to  Venus 
are  still  to  be  seen. 

t  All  along  this  coast  the  ancient  Romans  had  their  wintey 
retreats ;  and  several  populous  cities  stood 


78 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


'  Oh  first,  and  most  benevolent  of  powers ! 
Come  from  eternal  splendours  here  on  earth. 
Against  despotic  pride,  and  rage,  and  lust, 
To  shield  mankind;  to  raise  them  to" assert 
The  native  rights  and  honour  of  their  race: 
Teach  me  thy  lowest  subject,  but  in  zeal 
Yielding  to  none,  the  progress  of  thy  reign, 
And  with  a  strain  from  thee  enrich  the  Muse. 
As  thee  alone  she  serves,  her  patron  thou, 
And  great  inspirer  be!  then  will  she  joy, 
Though  narrow  life  her  lot,  and  private  shade : 
And  when  her  venal  voice  she  barters  vile, 
Or  to  thy  open  or  thy  secret  foes ; 
May  ne'er  tliose  sacred  raptures  touch  her  more. 
By  slavisli  hearts  unfelt!  and  may  her  song 
Sink  in  oblivion  with  the  nameless  crew ! 
Vermin  of  state !  to  thy  o'erflowing  light 
That  owe  their  being,  yet  betray  thy  cause.' 
Then,  condescending  kind,  the  heavenly  Power 

Return'd:  '  What  here,  suggested  by  the  scene, 

I  slight  unfold,  record  and  sing  at  home. 
In  that  bless'd  isle,  where  (so  we  spirits  move) 
With  one  quick  elfort  of  my  will  I  am. 
There  Truth,  unlicensed,  walks;  and  dares  accost 
E'en  kings  themselves,  the  monarchs  of  the  free ! 
Fix'd  on  my  rock,  there  an  indulgent  race 
O'er  Britons  wield  the  sceptre  of  their  choice: 
And  there,  to  finish  what  his  sires  began, 
A  Prince  behold !  for  me  who  burns  sincere, 
E'en  with  a  subject's  zeal.    He  my  great  work 
Will  parent-like  sustain;  and  added  give 
The  touch  the  Graces  and  the  Muses  owe. 
For  Britain's  glory  swells  his  panting  breast; 
And  ancient  arts  he  emulous  revolves: 
His  pride  to  let  the  smihng  heart  abroad, 
Through  clouds  of  pomp,  that  but  conceal  the  man; 
To  please  his  pleasure;  bounty  his  delight; 
And  all  the  soul  of  Titus  dwells  in  him.' 

Hail,  glorious  theme !  but  how,  alas !  shall  verse. 
From  the  crude  stores  of  mortal  language  drawn. 
How  faint  and  tedious,  sing,  what,  piercing  deep. 
The  Goddess  flash'd  at  once  upon  my  soul. 
For,  clear  precision  all,  the  tongue  of  gods 
Is  harmony  itself;  to  every  ear 
Familiar  known,  like  light  to  every  eye. 
Meantime,  disclosing  ages,  as  she  spoke. 
In  long  succession  pour'd  their  empires  forth; 
Scene  after  scene  the  human  drama  spread; 
And  still  the  embodied  picture  rose  to  sight. 

Oh  thou!  to  whom  the  Muses  owe  their  flame; 
Who  bid'st  beneath  the  pole,  Parnassus  rise. 
And  Hippocrene  flow:  with  thy  bold  ease, 
The  striking  force,  the  lightning  of  thy  thought, 
And  thy  strong  phrase,  that  rolls  profound  and 
clear; 

Oh,  gracious  Goddess!  rcinspire  my  song; 
While  I,  to  nobler  than  po(!tic  fame 
Aspiring,  thy  commands  to  Britons  bear. 


PART  II. 


GREECE. 


CONTENTS. 

Liberty  traced  from  the  pastoral  ages,  and  the  first  uniting 
of  neighbouring  families  into  civil  government.  Tlie  several 
establishments  of  Liberty,  in  Egypt,  Persia,  Phoenicia,  Pales 
tine,  slightly  touched  upon,  down  to  her  great  establishment 
in  Greece.  Geographical  description  of  Greece.  Sparta  and 
Athens,  the  two  principal  states  of  Greece,  described.  Influ- 
ence of  Liberty  over  all  the  Grecian  states ;  with  regard  to 
their  Government,  their  Politeness,  their  Virtues,  their  Arts, 
and  Sciences.  The  vast  superiority  it  gave  them,  in  point  of 
force  and  bravery,  over  the  Persians,  exemplified  by  the  action 
of  Thermopylffi,  the  battle  of  Marathon,  and  the  retreat  of  the 
Ten  Thousand.  Its  full  exertion,  and  most  beautiful  effects 
in  Athens.  Liberty  the  source  of  free  Philosophy.  The  va- 
rious schools  which  took  their  rise  from  Socrates.  Emnnera- 
tion  of  Fine  Arts ;  Eloquence,  Poetry,  Music,  Sculpture, 
Painting,  and  Architecture;  the  effects  of  Liberty  in  Greece, 
and  brought  to  their  utmost  perfection  there.  Transition  to 
the  modern  state  of  Greece.  Why  Liberty  declined,  and  was 
at  last  entirely  lost  among  the  Greeks.  Concluding  Reflec- 
tion. 


Thus  spoke  the  Goddess  of  the  fearless  eye; 
And  at  her  voice,  renew'd  the  Vision  rose: 

'First,  in  the  dawn  of  time,  with  eastern  swains, 
In  woods,  and  tents,  and  cottages,  I  lived ; 
While  on  from  plain  to  plain  they  led  their  flocks, 
In  search  of  clearer  spring,  and  fresher  field. 
These,  as  increasing  families  disclosed 
The  tender  state,  I  taught  an  equal  sway. 
Few  were  offences,  properties,  and  laws. 
Beneath  the  rural  portal,  palm-o'erspread. 
The  fether  senate  met.   There  Justice  dealt, 
With  reason  then  and  equity  the  same, 
Free  as  the  common  air,  her  prompt  decree ; 
Nor  yet  had  stain'd  her  sword  with  subjects'  blood. 
The  simpler  arts  were  all  their  simple  wants 
Had  urged  to  light.    But  instant,  these  supplied, 
Another  set  of  fonder  wants  arose, 
And  other  arts  with  them  of  finer  aim;. 
Till,  from  refining  v/ant  to  want  impell'd, 
The  mind  by  thinking  push'd  her  latent  powers, 
And  life  began  to  glow,  and  arts  to  shine. 

'  At  first,  on  brutes  alone  the  rustic  war 
Launch'd  the  rude  spear;  swift,  as  he  glared  along, 
On  the  grim  lion,  or  the  robber  wolf. 
For  then  young  sportive  life  was  void  of  toil,  / 
Demanding  little,  and  with  little  pleased : 
But  when  to  manhood  grown,  and  endlt 
Led  on  by  equal  toils,  the  bosom  fired ; 
Lewd  lazy  rapine  broke  primeval  peace. 
And,  hid  in  caves  and  idle  forests  drear,  ' 
From  the  lone  pilgrim,  and  the  wandering  swain 
Seized  what  he  durst  not  (^arn.    Then  brotiier's 

blood  * 
First,  horrid,  smoked  on  the  polluted  skies. 
Awful  in  justice,  then  tlic  burning  youth, 


LIBERTY. 


79 


Led  by  their  temper'd  sires,  on  lawless  men, 
The  last  worst  monsters  of  the  shaggy  wood, 
Turn'd  the  keen  arrow,  and  the  sharpen'd  spear. 
Then  war  grew  glorious.    Heroes  then  arose; 
Who,  scorning  coward  self,  for  others  lived, 
Toil'd  for  their  ease,  and  for  their  safety  bled. 
West,  with  the  living  day,  to  Greece  I  came  : 
Earth  smiled  beneath  my  beam:  the  Muse  before 
Sonorous  flew,  that  low  till  then  in  woods 
Had  tuned  the  reed,  and  sigh'd  the  shepherd's 
pain; 

But  now,  to  sing  heroic  deeds,  she  swell'd 
^  A  nobler  note,  and  bade  the  banquet  burn. 
'  For  Greece  my  sons  of  Egypt  I  forsook; 
A  boastful  race,  that  in  the  vain  abyss 
Of  fabling  ages  loved  to  lose  their  source. 
And  with  their  river  traced  it  from  the  skies. 
While  there  my  laws  alone  despotic  reign'd, 
And  king,  as  well  as  people,  proud  obey'd ; 
I  taught  them  science,  virtue,  wisdom,  arts ; 
By  poets,  sages,  legislators  sought ; 
The  school  of  poHsh'd  life,  and  human  kind. 
But  when  mysterious  Superstition  came. 
And,  with  her  Civil  Sister*  leagued,  involved 
In  studied  darkness  the  desponding  mind; 
Then  Tyrant  Power  the  righteous  scourge  un- 
loosed : 

For  yielded  reason  speaks  the  soul  a  slave.  / 
Instead  of  useful  works,  like  nature's,  great. 
Enormous,  cruel  wonders  crush'd  the  land ; 
And  round  a  tyrant's  tomb,t  who  none  deserved. 
For  one  vile  carcass  perish'd  countless  lives. 
Then  the  great  Dragon,t  couch'd  amid  his  floods, 
Swell'd  his  fierce  heart,  and  cried,  "  This  flood  is 
mine, 

'Tis  T  that  bid  it  flow."    But,  undeceived. 
His  frenzy  soon  the  proud  blasphemer  felt ; 
Felt  that,  without  my  fertilizing  power. 
Suns  lost  their  force,  and  Niles  o'erflow'd  in  vain. 
Nought  could  retard  me:  nor  the  frugal  state 
Of  rising  Persia,  sober  in  extreme, 
Beyond  the  pitch  of  man,  and  thence  reversed 
Into  luxurious  waste :  nor  yet  the  ports 
Of  old  Phoenicia;  first  for  letters  famed, 
That  paint  the  voice,  and  silent  speak  to  sight ; 
Of  arts  prime  source,  and  guardian !  by  fair  stars, 
First  tempted  out  into  the  lonely  deep; 
To  whom  I  first  disclosed  mechanic  arts. 
The  winds  to  conquer,  to  subdue  the  waves. 
With  all  the  peaceful  power  of  ruling  trade ; 
Earnest  of  Britain.    Nor  by  these  retain'd ; 
Nor  by  t!ie  neighbouring  land,  whose  palmy  shore 
The  silver  Jordan  laves.    Before  me  lay 
The  promised  Land  of  Arts,  and  urged  my  flight. 

'Hail,  Nature's  utmost  boast!  unrival'd  Greece  ! 
My  fairest  reign !  where  every  power  benign 


*  Civil  Tyranny.  t  The  Pyramids, 

t  Tlie  Tyrants  of  Egypt. 
34  2  U 


Conspired  to  blow  the  flower  of  human  kind, 
And  lavish'd  all  that  genius  can  inspire. 
Clear,  unny  climates,  by  the  breezy  main, 
Ionian  or  ^gean,  temper'd  kind : 
Light,  airy  soils  :  a  country  rich,  and  gay 
Broke  into  hills  with  balmy  odours  crown'd, 
And,  bright  with  purple  harvest,  joyous  vales: 
Mountains,  and  streams,  where  verse  spontaneous 
flow'd ; 

Whence  deem'd  by  wondering  men  the  seat  of 
gods. 

And  still  the  mountains  and  the  streams  of  song. 
All  that  boon  Nature  could  luxuriant  pour 
Of  high  materials,  and  my  restless  Arts 
Frame  into  finish'd  life.    How  many  states, 
And  clustering  towns,  and  monuments  of  fame, 
And  scenes  of  glorious  deeds,  in  little  bounds  ? 
From  the  rough  tract  of  bending  mountains,  beat 
By  Adria's  here,  there  by  iEgean  waves ; 
To  where  the  deep  adorning  Cyclade  Isles 
In  shining  prospect  rise,  and  on  the  shore 
Of  farthest  Crete  resounds  the  Libyan  main, 

'  O'er  all  two  rival  cities  rear'd  the  brow, 
And  balanced  all.    Spread  on  Eurotas'  bank, 
Amid  a  circle  of  soft  rising  hills. 
The  patient  Sparta  one :  the  sober,  hard, 
And  man-subduing  city;  which  no  shape 
Of  pain  could  conquer,  nor  of  pleasure  charm. 
Lycurgus  there  built,  on  the  solid  base 
Of  equal  life,  so  well  a  temper'd  state; 
Where  mix'd  each  government,  in  such  just  poise  j 
Each  power  so  checking,  and  supporting  each; 
That  firm  for  ages,  and  unmoved,  it  stood. 
The  fort  of  Greece  !  without  one  giddy  hour, 
One  shock  of  faction,  or  of  party  rage. 
For,  drain'd  the  springs  of  wealth.  Corruption 
there 

Lay  wither'd  at  the  root.    Thrice  happy  land  I 
Had  not  neglected  art,  with  weedy  vice 
Confounded,  sunk.    But  if  Athenian  arts 
Loved  not  the  soil ;  yet  there  the  calm  abode 
Of  wisdom,  virtue,  philosophic  ease, 
Of  manly  sense  and  wu,  in  frugal  phrase 
Confined,  and  press'd  into  Laconic  force. 
There  too,  by  rooting  thence  still  treacherous  sel^ 
The  Public  and  the  Private  grew  the  same. 
The  children  of  the  nursing  Public  all. 
And  at  its  table  fed ;  for  that  they  toil'd, 
For  that  they  lived  entire,  and  even  for  that 
The  tender  mother  urged  her  son  to  die. 

'  Of  softer  genius,  but  not  less  intent 
To  seize  the  palm  of  empire,  Athens  rose. 
Where,  with  bright  marbles  big  and  future  poraf^ 
Hymettus*  spread,  amid  the  scented  sky, 
His  thymy  treasures  to  the  labouring  bee. 
And  to  botanic  hand  the  stores  of  health ; 
Wrapt  in  a  soul-attenuating  clime. 


*  A  mountain  near  Athens. 


80 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Between  Ilissus  and  Cephissus*  glow'd 
This  hive  of  science,  shedding  sweets  divine, 
Of  active  arts,  and  animated  arms. 
There,  passionate  for  me,  an  easy  moved, 
A  quick,  refined,  a  delicate,  humane, 
Enhghten'd  people  leign'd.    Oft  on  the  brink 
Of  ruin,  hurried  by  the  charm  of  speech, 
Inforcing  hasty  counsel  immature, 
Totter'd  the  rash  Democracy;  unpoised, 
And  by  the  rage  devour'd,  that  ever  tears 
A  populace  unequal;  part  too  rich. 
And  part  or  fierce  with  want  or  abject  grown. 
Solon  at  last,  their  mild  restorer,  pse : 
Allay'd  the  tempest ;  to  the  calm  of  laws 
Reduced  the  settling  whole ;  and,  with  the  weight 
Which  the  two  ^enatest  to  the  public  lent, 
As  with  an  anchor  fix'd  the  driving  state. 

'  Nor  was  my  forming  care  to  these  confin'd. 
For  emulation  through  the  whole  I  pour'd, 
Nobfe  contention !  who  should  most  excel 
In  government  well  poised,  adjusted  best 
To  public  weal ;  in  countries  cultured  high : 
In  ornamented  towns,  where  order  reigns, 
Free  social  life,  and  polish'd  manners  fair 
In  exercise,  and  arms ;  arms  only  drawn 
For  common  Greece,  to  quell  the  Persian  pride : 
In  moral  science,  and  in  graceful  arts. 
Hence,  as  for  glory  peacefully  they  strove. 
The  prize  grew  greater,  and  the  prize  of  all. 
By  contest  brighten'd,  hence  the  radiant  youth, 
Pour'd  every  lieam ;  by  generous  pride  inflamed, 
Felt  every  ardour  burn :  their  great  reward 
The  verdant  wreath,  which  sounding  Pisa$  gave. 

*  Hence  flourish'd  Greece ;  and  hence  a  race  of 

men, 

As  gods  by  conscious  future  times  adored: 
In  whom  each  virtue  wore  a  smiling  air, 
Each  science  shed  o'er  life  a  friendly  light, 
Each  art  was  nature.    Spartan  valour  hence. 
At  the  famed  pass,§  firm  as  an  isthmus  stood; 
And  the  whole  eastern  ocean,  waving  far 
As  eye  could  dart  its  vision,  nobly  check'd. 
While  in  extended  battle,  at  the  field 
Of  Marathon,  my  keen  Athenians  drove 
Before  their  ardent  band  a  host  of  slaves. 

*  tience  through  the  continent  ten  thousand 

Greeks 

Urged  a  retreat,  whose  glory  not  the  prime 
Of  victories  can  reach.    Deserts,  in  vain, 
Opposed  their  course;  and  hostile  lands,  unknown; 


And  deep  rapacious  floods,  dire  bank'd  with  death  : 
And  mountains,  in  whose  jaws  destruction  grinn'd; 
Hunger,  and  toil ;  Armenian  snows,  and  storms; 
And  circling  myriads  still  of  barbarous  foes. 
Greece  in  their  view,  and  glory  yet  untouch'd. 
Their  steady  column  pierced  the  scattering  herds, 
Which  a  whole  empire  pour'd ;  and  held  its  way  ' 
Triumphant,  by  the  sage-exalted  Chief* 
Fired  and  sustain'd.  Oh  light  and  force  of  mind, 
Almost  almighty  in  severe  extremes  ! 
The  sea  at  last  from  Colchian  mountains  seen. 
Kind-hearted  transport  round  their  captains  threw 
The  soldiers'  fond  embrace ;  o'erflow'd  their  eyes 
With  tender  floods,  and  loosed  the  general  voice 
To  cries  resounding  loud — "  The  sea !  The  sea  i" 

'  In  Attic  bounds  hence  heroes,  sages,  wits. 
Shone  thick  as  stars,  the  milky  way  of  Greece ! 
And  though  gay  wit,  and  pleasing  grace  was  theirs, 
All  the  soft  modes  of  elegance,  and  ease ; 
Yet  was  not  courage  less,  the  patient  touch 
Of  toiling  art,  and  disquisition  deep. 

'  My  spirit  pours  a  vigour  through  the  soul, 
The  unfetter'd  thought  with  energy  inspires, 
Invincible  in  arts,  in  the  bright  field 
Of  nobler  Science,  as  in  that  of  Arms. 
Athenians  thus  not  less  intrepid  burst 
The  bonds  of  tyrant  darkness,  than  they  spurn'd 
The  Persian  chains :  while  through  the  city  full 
Of  mirthful  quarrel  and  of  witty  war, 
Incessant  struggled  taste  refining  taste, 
And  friendly  free  discussion,  calling  forth 
From  the  fair  jewel  Truth  its  latent  ray. 
O'er  all  shone  out  the  great  Athenian  Sage,t 
And  Father  of  Philosophy ;  the  sun. 
From  whose  white  blaze  emerged,  each  various 
sect 

Took  various  tints,  but  with  diminish'd  beam. 
Tutor  of  Athens  !  he,  in  every  street, 
Dealt  priceless  treasure :  goodness  his  delight, 
Wisdom  his  wealth,  and  glory  his  reward. 
Deep  through  the  human  heart,  with  playful  art, 
His  simple  question  stole :  as  into  truth. 
And  serious  deeds,  he  smiled  the  laughing  race; 
Taught  moral  happy  life,  whate'er  can  bless. 
Or  grace  mankind;  and  what  he  taught  he  was. 
Compounded  high,  though  plain,  his  doctrine  broke 
In  different  Schools:  the  bold  poetic  phrase 
Of  figured  Plato;  Zenophon's  pure  strain, 
Like  the  clear  brook  that  steals  along  the  vale; 
Dissecting  truth,  the  Stagyrite's  keen  eye ; 
The  exalted  Stoic  pride;  the  Cynic  sneer; 
The  slow-consenting  Academic  doubt ; 
And,  joining  bliss  to  virtue,  the  glad  ease 


*  Two  rivers,  betwixt  which  Athens  was  situated. 

tThe  Areopagus,  or  Supreme  Court  of  Judicature,  which 
Solon  reformed  and  improved:  and  the  council  of  Four  ^f  Epicurus,  seldom  understood 
.Hundred,  by  him  instituted.   In  this  council  all  aflaira  of  They,  ever  candid,  reason  still  opposed 
Ktate  were  deliberated,  before  they  came  to  be  voted  in  the  To  reason;  and.  since  virtue  was  their  aim 
assembly  of  the  people.  I  tt"    i.  i  ,  . 

XOr  Olympia,  the  city  where  the  Olympic  games  were  F^^^  P^''^^^^^^  ^""'^  P'"^^^  ^^^^ 
celebrated.   •  —  

*The  Straits  of  ThermopyljB.  '         'Xenophon.  tSocratea 


LIBERTY. 


The  best.    Then  stood  untouch'd  the  sohd  base 
Of  Liberty,  the  Uberty  of  mind : 
For  systems  yet,  and  soul-enslaving  creeds, 
Slept  with  the  monsters  of  succeeding  times. 
From  priestly  darkness  sprung  the  enlightening 
arts 

Of  fire,  and  sword,  and  rage,  and  horrid  names. 

'  O  G  reece !  thou  sapient  nurse  of  finer  arts ! 
Which  to  bright  science  blooming  fancy  bore ; 
Be  this  thy  praise,  that  thou,  and  thou  alone, 
In  these  hast  led  the  way,  in  these  excell'd, 
Crown 'd  with  the  laurel  of  assenting  Time. 

'In  thy  full  language,  speaking  mighty  things; 
Like  a  clear  torrent  close,  or  else  diftuset^ 
A  broad  majestic  stream,  and  rolling  on 
Through  all  the  winding  harmony  of  sound: 
In  it  the  power  of  Eloquence,  at  large. 
Breathed  the  persuasive  or  pathetic  soul ; 
Still'd  by  degrees  the  democratic  storm. 
Or  bade  it  threatening  rise,  and  tyrants  shook, 
Flush'd  at  the  head  of  their  victorious  troops. 
In  it  the  Muse,  her  fury  never  quench'd. 
By  mean  unyielding  phrase,  or  jarring  sound, 
Her  untonfined  divinity  display'd; 
And,  still  harmonious,  form'd  it  to  her  will : 
Or  soft  depress'd  it  to  the  shepherd's  moan, 
Or  raised  it  swelUng  to  the  tongue  of  gods. 

'  Heroic  song  was  thine;  the  Fountain  Bard,* 
Whence  each  poetic  stream  derives  its  course. 
Thine  the  dread  moral  scene,  thy  chief  dcUght ! 
Where  idle  Fancy  durst  not  fix  her  voice, 
When  Reason  spoke  august;  the  fervent  heart 
Or  plain'd,  or  storm 'd;  and  in  the  impassioned 
man. 

Concealing  art  with  art,  the  poet  sunk. 
This  potent  school  of  manners,  but  when  left 
To  loose  neglect,  a  land-corrupting  plague, 
Was  not  unworthy  deem'd  of  public  care, 
And  boundless  cost,  by  thee ;  whose  every  son, 
E'en  last  mechanic,  the  true  taste  possess'd 
Of  what  had  flavour  to  the  nourish'd  soul. 

'  The  sweet  enforcer  of  the  poet's  strain, 
Thine  was  the  meaning  music  of  the  heart. 
Not  the  vain  trill,  that,  void  of  passion,  runs 
In  giddy  mazes,  tickling  idle  ears; 
But  that  deep-searching  voice,  and  artful  hand. 
To  which  respondent  shakes  the  varied  soul, 

'  Thy  fair  ideas,  thy  delightful  forms, 
By  Love  imagined,  by  the  Graces  touch'd, 
The  boast  of  well  pleased  Nature !  Sculpture 
seized, 

And  bade  them  ever  smile  in  Parian  stone. 
Selecting  Beauty's  choice,  and  that  again 
Exalting,  blending  in  a  perfect  whole. 
Thy  workmen  left  e'en  Nature's  self  behind. 
From  those  far  difi^erent,  whose  prolific  hand 
Peoples  a  nation;  they  for  years  on  years, 


*  Homer. 


By  the  cool  touches  of  judicious  toil, 
Their  rapid  genius  curbing,  pour'd  it  all 
Through  the  live  features  of  one  breathing  stone. 
There,  beaming  full,  it  shone;  expressing  gods: 
Jove's  awful  brow,  Apollo's  air  divine. 
The  fierce  atrocious  frown  of  sinewed  Mars, 
Or  the  sly  graces  of  the  Cyprian  Glueen. 
Minutely  perfect  all !    Each  dimple  sunk. 
And  every  muscle  swell'd,  as  nature  taught. 
In  tresses,  braided  gay,  the  marble  waved ; 
Flow'd  in  loose  robes,  or  thin  transparent  veils  ) 
Sprung  into  motion  ;  softened  into  flesh ; 
Was  fired  to  passion,  or  refined  to  soul. 

'  Nor  less  thy  pencil,  with  creative  touch. 
Shed  mimic  life,  when  all  thy  brightest  dames, 
Assembled,  Zeuxis  in  his  Helen  mix'd. 
And  when  Apelles,  who  peculiar  knew 
To  give  a  grace  that  more  than  mortal  smiled, 
The  soul  of  beauty  !  call'd  the  Glueen  of  Love, 
Fresh  from  the  billows,  blushing  orient  charms. 
E'en  such  enchantment  then  thy  pencil  pour'd, 
That  cruel-thoughted  War  the  impatient  torch 
Dash'dto  the  ground;  and,  rather  than  destroy 
The  patriot  picture,*  let  the  city  scape. 

"  First,  elder  Sculpture  taught  her  sister  art 
Correct  design ;  where  great  ideas  shone, 
And  in  the  secret  trace  expression  spoke : 
Taught  her  the  graceful  attitude ;  the  turn. 
And  beauteous  airs  of  head  ;  the  native  act, 
Or  bold,  or  easy  ;  and,  cast  free  behind, 
The  swelling  mantle's  well  adjusted  flow. 
Then  the  bright  Muse,  their  elder  sister,  came; 
And  bade  her  follow  where  she  led  the  way: 
Bade  earth,  and  sea,  and  air,  in  colours  rise  ; 
And  copious  action  on  the  canvass  glow . 
Gave  her  gay  Fable  ;  spread  Inventions's  store  ; 
Enlarged  her  view  ;  taught  composition  high, 
And  just  arrangement,  circling  round  one  point, 
That  starts  to  sight,  binds  and  commands  the 
whole. 

Caught  from  the  heavenly  Muse  a  nobler  aim, 
And  scorning  the  soft  trade  of  mere  delight. 
O'er  all  thy  temples,  porticos,  and  schools. 
Heroic  deeds  she  traced,  and  warm  display'd 
Each  moral  beauty  to  the  ravish 'd  eye. 
There,  as  the  imagined  presence  of  the  god 
Aroused  the  mind,  or  vacant  hours  induced 
Calm  contemplation,  or  assembled  youth 
Burn'd  in  ambitious  circle  round  the  sage. 
The  living  lesson  stole  into  the  heart. 
With  more  prevailing  force  than  dwells  in  wordg. 
These  rouse  to  gbry ;  while,  to  rural  life. 
The  softer  canvass  oft  reposed  the  soul. 
There  gaily  broke  the  sun-illumined  cloud ; 

*  When  Demetrius  besieged  Rhodes,  and  could  have  re  ■ 
duced  the  city,  by  setting  fire  to  that  quarter  of  it  where  stood 
the  house  of  the  celebrated  Protogenes;  he  chose  rather  to 
raise  the  siege,  than  hazard  the  burning  of  a  famous  picture 
called  Jasylus,  the  masterpiece  of  that  painter. 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


82 


The  lessening  prospect,  and  the  mountain  blue, 
Vanish'd  in  air;  the  precipice  trown'd,  dire; 
White,  down  the  rock,  the  rushing  torrent  dash'd; 
The  sun  shone,  trembling,  o'er  the  distant  main  ; 
The  tempest  fbam'd,  immense  ;  the  driving  storm 
Sadden'd  the  skies,  and,  from  the  doubling  glbom, 
On  the  scathed  oak  the  ragged  lightning  fell ; 
In  closing  shades,  and  where  the  current  strays, 
With  Peace,  and  Love,  and  innocence  around, 
Piped  the  lone  shepherd  to  his  feeding  flock  : 
Round  happy  parents  smiled  their  younger  selves ; 
And  friends  conversed,  by  death  divided  long. 

"  To  public  virtue  thus  the  smiUng  arts, 
Unblemish'd  handmaids,  served ;  the  Graces  they 
To  dress  this  fairest  Venus.    Thus  revered, 
And  placed  beyond  the  reach  of  sordid  care, 
The  high  awarders  of  immortal  fame, 
Alone  for  glory  thy  great  masters  strove ; 
Courted  by  kings,  and  by  contending  states 
Assumed  the  boasted  honour  of  their  birth. 

"  In  architecture  too  thy  rank  supreme  ! 
That  art  where  most  magnificent  appears 
The  little  builder  man ;  by  thee  refined. 
And,  smiling  high,  to  full  perfection  brought. 
Such  thy  sure  rules,  that  Goths  of  every  age. 
Who  scorn'd  their  aid,  have  only  loaded  earth 
With  labour'd  heavy  monuments  of  shame. 
INot  those  gay  domes  that  o'er  thy  splendid  shore 
Shot,  all  proportion,  up.    First  unadorn'd, 
And  nobly  plain,  the  manly  Doric  rose ; 
The  Ionic  then,  with  decent  matron  grace, 
Her  airy  pillar  heaved  ;  luxuriant  last. 
The  rich  Corinthian  spread  her  wanton  wreath. 
The  whole  so  measured  true,  so  lessen'd  off 
By  fine  proportion,  that  the  marble  pile, 
Form'd  to  repel  the  still  or  stormy  waste 
Of  rolling  ages,  light  as  fabrics  look'd 
That  from  the  magic  wand  aerial  rise. 

"  These  were  the  wonders  that  illumined 
Greece, 

From  end  to  end"  Here  interrupting  warm, 

"  Where  are  they  nowl  (I  cried)  say,  goddess, 
where  1 

And  what  the  land,  thy  darling  thus  of  old  V 

"Sunk!  (she  resumed)  deep  in  the  kindred  gloom 

Of  superstition,  and  of  slavery,  sunk  ! 

jN"©  glory  now  can  touch  their  hearts,  benumb'd 

By  loose  dejected  sloth  and  servile  fear: 

'No  science  pierce  the  darkness  of  their  minds; 

No  nobler  art  the  quick  ambitious  soul 

Of  imitation  in  their  breast  awake. 

E'en  to  supply  the  needful  arts  of  life, 

Mechanic  toil  denies  the  hopeless  hand. 

Scarce  any  trace  remaining,  vestige  gray, 

Or  nodding  column  on  the  desert  shore, 

To  point  where  Corinth,  or  where  Athens  stood. 

A  faithless  land  of  violence,  and  death  !  ' 

Where  commerce  parleys,  dubious,  on  the  shore; 

And  his  wild  impulse  curious  search  restrains, 


Afraid  to  trust  the  inhospitable  clime. 
Neglected  nature  fails;  in  sordid  want 
Sunk  and  debased,  their  beauty  beatns  no  more. 
The  sun  himself  seems,  angry,  to  regard, 
Of  light  unworthy,  the  degenerate  race; 
And  fires  them  oft  with  pestilential  rays: 
While  earth,  blue  poison  steaming  on  the  skies, 
Indignant,  shakes  them  from  her  troubled  sides. 
But  as  from  man  to  man,  Fate's  first  decree. 
Impartial  death  the  tide  of  riches  rolls. 
So  states  must  die  and  Liberty  go  round. 

Fierce  was  the  stand,  ere  Virtue,  Valour, 
Arts, 

And  the  soul  fired  by  me  (that  often,  stung 
With  thoughts  of  better  times  and  old  renown. 
From  hydra-tyrants  tried  to  clear  the  land) 
Lay  quite  extinct  in  Greece,  their  works  effaced 
And  gross  o'er  all  unfeeling  l)ondage  spread. 
Sooner  I  moved  my  much  reluctant  flight. 
Poised  on  the  doubtful  wing :  when  Greece  with 
Greece 

Erabroil'd  in  foul  contention  fought  no  more 
For  common  glory,  and  for  common  weal : 
But  false  to  Freedom,  sought  to  quell  the  free; 
Broke  the  firm  band  of  Peace,  and  sacred  Love, 
That  lent  the  whole  irrefragable  force ; 
And,  as  around  the  partial  trophy  blush'd, 
Prepared  the  way  for  total  overthrow. 
Then  to  the  Persian  power,  whose  pride  they 
scorn'd. 

When  Xerxes  pour'd  his  millions  o'er  the  land, 
Sparta,  by  turns,  and  Athens,  vilely  sued; 
Sued  to  be  venal  parricides,  to  spill 
Their  country's  bravest  blood,  and  on  themselves 
To  turn  their  matchless  mercenary  arms. 
Peaceful  in  Susa,  then,  sat  the  Great  King;* 
And  by  the  trick  of  treaties,  the  still  waste 
Of  sly  corruption,  and  barbaric  gold, 
Effected  what  his  steel  could  ne'er  perform. 
Profuse  he  gave  them  the  luxurious  draught, 
Inflaming  all  the  land :  unbalanced  wide 
Their  tottering  states ;  their  wild  assemblies  ruled. 
As  the  winds  turn  at  every  blast  the  seas: 
And  by  their  listed  orators,  whose  breath 
Still  with  a  factious  storm  infested  Greece, 
Roused  them  to  civil  war,  or  dash'd  them  down 
To  sordid  peace — Peace  !t  that,  when  Sparta 
shook 

Astonish'd  Artaxerxes  on  his  throne, 
Gave  up,  fair-spread  o'er  Asia's  sunny  shore, 
Their  kindred  cities  to  perpetual  chains. 
What  could  so  base,  so  infamous  a  thought 
In  Spartan  hearts  inspire  1  Jealous,  they  saw 


'  So  the  kings  of  Persia  were  called  by  the  Greeks. 

TThe  peace  made  by  Antalcldas,  the  Lacedemonian  ad- 
miral, with  the  Persians ;  by  which  the  Lacedemonians  aban- 
doned  ail  the  Greeks  established  in  the  lesser  Asia,  to  the  do- 
minion of  the  King  of  Persia, 


LIBERTY. 


83 


Respiring  Athens*  rear  again  her  walls : 

And  the  pale  fury  fired  them,  once  again 

To  crush  this  rival  city  to  the  dust. 

For  now  no  more  the  noble  social  soul 

Of  Liberty  my  families  combined ; 

But  by  short  views,  and  selfish  passions,  broke, 

Dire  as  when  friends  are  rankled  into  foes, 

They  mix'd  severe,  and  waged  eternal  war: 

Nor  felt  they,  furious,  their  exhausted  force ; 

Nor,  with  false  glory,  discord,  madness  blind. 

Saw  how  the  blackening  storm  from  Thracia  came, 

Long  years  roll'd  on,t  by  many  a  battle  stain'd, 

The  blush  and  boast  of  Fame  !  where  courage,  art. 

And  military  glory  shone  supreme : 

But  let  detesting  ages,  from  the  scene 

Of  Greece  self-mangled,  turn  the  sickening  eye. 

At  last,  when  bleeding  from  a  thousand  wounds, 

She  felt  her  spirits  fail ,  and  in  the  dust 

Her  latest  heroes,  Nicias,  Conon,  lay, 

Agesilaus,  and  the  Theban  friends  :t 

The  Macedonian  vulture  mark'd  his  time, 

By  the  dire  scent  of  Cheronaeaf  lured, 

And,  fierce  descending,  seized  his  hapless  prey. 

"  Thus  tame  submitted  to  the  victor's  yoke 
Greece,  once  the  gay,  the  turbulent,  the  bold  ; 
For  every  grace,  and  muse,  and  science  born ; 
With  arts  of  War,  of  Government,  elate: 
To  tyrants  dreadful,  dreadful  to  the  best ; 
Whom  I  myself  could  scarcely  rule :  and  thus 
The  Persian  fetters,  that  inthrall'd  the  mind. 
Were  turn'd  to  formal  and  apparent  chains. 

"  Unless  Corruption  first  deject  the  pride, 
And  guardian  vigour  of  the  free-born  soul, 
All  crude  attempts  of  violence  are  vain ; 
For  firm  within,  and  while  at  heart  untouch'd, 
Ne'er  yet  by  force  was  freedom  overcome. 
But  soon  as  Independence  stoops  the  head, 
To  Vice  enslaved,  and  vice-created  wants; 
Then  to  some  foul  corrupting  hand,  whose  waste 
These  heighten'd  wants  with  fatal  bounty  feeds: 
From  man  to  man  the  slackening  ruin  runs. 
Till  the  whole  state  unnerved  in  Slavery  sinks.' 

PART  III. 
ROME. 

CONTENTS. 

As  this  part  contains  a  description  of  the  establishment  of 
Liberty  in  Rome,  it  begins  with  a  view  of  the  Grecian  Colo- 
nies settled  in  the  southern  parts  of  Italy,  which  with  Sicily 
constituted  the  Great  Greece  of  the  Ancients.  With  these  co- 
lonies, the  Spirit  of  Liberty  and  of  Republics,  spreads  over 

•  Athens  had  been  dismantled  by  the  Lacedemonians,  at 
the  end  of  the  first  Peloponnesian  war,  and  was  at  this  time 
restored  by  Conon  to  its  former  splendour. 

1  The  Peloponnesian  war. 

iPelopidas  and  Epaminondas. 

§  The  b^tle  of  Cheronaea,  in  which  Philip  of  Macedon  ut- 
terly  defealed  the  Greeks, 

2  Tj  2 


Italy.  Transition  to  Pythagoras  and  his  philosophy,  which 
he  taught  through  those  free  states  and  cities.  Amidst  the 
many  small  Republics  in  Italy,  Rome  the  destined  seat  of  Li- 
berty.  Her  establishment  there  dated  from  tiie  expulsion  of 
the  Tarquins.  How  differing  from  that  in  Greece.  Reference 
to  a  view  of  the  Roman  Republic  given  in  the  First  Part  of 
this  Poem :  to  mark  its  Rise  and  Fall  the  peculiar  purport  of 
this.  During  its  first  ages,  the  greatest  force  of  Liberty  and 
Virtue  exerted.  The  source  whence  derived  the  Heroic  Vir- 
tues of  the  Romans.  Enumeration  of  these  Virtues.  Thence 
their  security  at  home ;  their  glory,  success,  and  empire 
abroad.  Bounds  of  the  Roman  empire  geographically  de- 
scribed. The  states  of  Greece  restored  to  Liberty,  by  Titus. 
Quintus  Flaminius,  the  highest  instance  of  public  generosity 
and  beneficence.  The  loss  of  Liberty  in  Rome.  Its  causes, 
progress,  and  completion  in  the  death  of  Brutus.  Rome  under 
the  emperors.  From  Rome  the  Goddess  of  Liberty  goes 
among  the  Northern  Nations ;  where,  by  infusing  into  them 
her  Spirit  and  general  principles,  she  lays  the  groundwork  of 
her  future  establishments;  sends  them  in  vengeance  on  the 
Roman  empire,  now  totally  enslaved ;  and  then,  with  Arts 
and  Sciences  in  her  train,  quits  earth  during  the  dark  agea 
The  celestial  regions,  to  which  Liberty  retired,  not  proper  lo 
be  opened  to  the  view  of  mortals. 


Here  melting  mixed  with  air  the  ideal  forms 
That  painted  still  whate'er  the  goddess  sung. 
Then  I,  impatient.—'  From  extinguish'd  Greece, 
To  what  new  region  stream 'd  the  Human  Day?' 
She  softly  sighing,  as  when  Zephyr  leaves, 
Resign'd  to  Boreas,  the  declining  year, 
Resuined.— '  Indignant,  these  hast  scenes  I  fled:* 
And  long  ere  then,  Leucadia's  cloudy  cliff". 
And  the  Ceraunian  hills  behind  me  thrown, 
All  Latium  stood  aroused.    Ages  before, 
Great  mother  of  republics!  Greece  had  pour'd, 
Swarm  after  swarm,  her  ardent  youth  around. 
On  Asia,  Afric,  Sicily,  they  stoop'd. 
But  chief  on  fair  Hesperia's  winding  shore ; 
Where,  from  Laciniumt  to  Etrurian  vales, 
They  roll'd  increasing  colonies  along. 
And  lent  materials  for  my  Roman  reign. 
With  them  my  spirit  spread ;  and  numerous  statesj^ 
And  cities  rose,  on  Grecian  models  formed; 
As  its  parental  policy  and  arts 
Each  had  imbibed.    Besides,  to  each  assign'd 
A  guardian  Genius,  o'er  the  public  weal, 
Kept  an  unclosing  eye ;  tried  to  sustain, 
Or  more  sublime,  the  soul  infused  by  me: 
And  strong  the  battle  rose,  with  various  wave, 
Against  the  tyrant  demons  of  the  land. 
Thus  they  their  little  wars  and  triumphs  knew; 
Their  flows  of  fortune,  and  receding  times 
But  almost  all  below  the  proud  regard 
Of  story  vow'd  to  Rome,  on  deeds  intent 
That  truth  beyond  the  flight  of  Fable  bore. 

'  Not  so  the  Samian  sage  ;t  to  him  belongs 
The  brightest  witness  of  recording  Fame. 
For  these  free  states  his  native  isle§  forsook, 

*  The  last  struggles  of  Liberty  in  Greece, 
t  A  promontory  in  Calabria. 
J  Pythagoras. 

§  Samos,  over  which  then  reigned  the  tyrant  Polycratca 


84 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


And  a  vain  tyrant's  transitory  smile, 
He  sought  Crotona's  pure  salubrious  air; 
And  through  Great  Greece*  his  gentle  wisdom 
taught; 

Wisdom  thatcalm'd  for  listening  yearst  the  mind, 
Nor  ever  heard  amid  the  storm  of  zeal. 
His  mental  eye  first  launch'd  into  the  deeps 
Of  boundless  ether;  where  unnumber'd  orbs, 
Myriads  on  myriads,  through  the  pathless  sky 
Unerring  roll,  and  wind  their  steady  way. 
There  he  the  full  consenting  choir  beheld; 
There  first  discern'd  the  secret  band  of  love, 
The  kind  attraction  that  to  central  suns 
Binds  circling  earths,  and  world  with  world  unites. 
Instructed  thence,  he  great  ideas  form'd 
Of  the  whole-moving  all-informing  God, 
The  Sun  of  beings !  beaming  unconfined 
Light,  life,  and  love,  and  ever  active  power; 
Whom  nought  can  image,  and  who  best  approves 
The  silent  worship  of  the  moral  heart. 
That  joys  in  bounteous  Heaven,  and  spreads  the 
PJ- 

Nov  scorn'd  the  soaring  sage  to  stoop  to  life, 
And  bound  his  season  to  the  sphere  of  man. 
He  gave  the  four  yet  reigning  virtues?  name; 
Inspired  the  study  of  the  finer  arts, 
That  civilize  mankind,  and  laws  devised 
Where  with  enUghtened  justice  mercy  mix'd. 
He  e'en  into  his  tender  system,  took 
Whatever  shares  the  brotherhood  of  life: 
He  taught  that  life's  indissoluble  flame, 
From  brute  to  man,  and  man  to  brute  again, 
For  ever  shifting,  runs  the  eternal  round; 
Thence  tried  against  the  blood-polluted  meal. 
And  limbs  yet  quivering  with  some  kindred  soul, 
To  turn  the  human  heart.    Delightful  truth ! 
Had  he  beheld  the  living  chain  ascend. 
And  not  a  circling  form,  but  rising  whole. 

'  Amid  these  small  republics  one  arose 
On  yellow  Tiber's  bank,  almighty  Rome, 
Fated  for  me.    A  nobler  spirit  warm'd 
Her  sons;  and,  roused  by  tyrants,  nobler  still 
It  burn'd  in  Brutus ;  the  proud  Tarquins  chased, 


*  The  southern  parts  of  Italy  and  Sicily,  so  called  because 
©f  the  Orecian  colonies  there  settled. 
1  Ilia  scholars  were  enjoined  silence  for  five  yeara. 
I  The  four  cardinal  virtues. 


'  Already  have  I  given,  with  flying  touch, 
A  broken  view  of  this  my  amplest  reign. 
Now,  while  its  first,  last,  periods  you  survey, 
Mark  how  it  labouring  rose,  and  rapid  fell. 

'  When  Rome,  in  noon-tide  empire  grasp'd  the 
world. 

And,  soon  as  her  resistless  legions  shone, 
The  nations  stoop 'd  around;  though  then  appear'tl 
Her  grandeur  most;  yet  in  her  dawn  of  power, 
By  many  a  jealous  equal  people  press'd. 
Then  was  the  toil,  the  mighty  struggle  then; 
Then  for  each  Roman  I  a  hero  told ; 
And  every  passing  sun,  and  Latian  scene, 
Saw  patriot  virtues  then,  and  awful  deeds, 
That  or  surpass  the  faith  of  modern  times, 
Or,  if  believed,  with  sacred  horror  strike. 

'  For  then  to  prove  my  most  exalted  power, 
I  to  the  point  of  full  perfection  push'd. 
To  fondness  and  enthusiastic  zeal. 
The  great,  the  reigning  passion  of  the  free. 
That  godlike  passion!  which,  the  bounds  of  self 
Divinely  bursting,  the  whole  public  takes 
Into  the  heart,  enlarged,  and  burning  high 
With  the  mix'd  ardour  of  unnumber'd  selves ; 
Of  all  who  safe  beneath  the  voted  laws 
Of  the  same  parent  state,  fraternal,  live. 
From  this  kind  sun  of  moral  nature  flow'd 
Virtues,  that  shine  the  light  of  humankind. 
And,  ray'd  through  story,  warm  remotest  time. 
These  virtues  too,  reflected  to  their  source, 
Increased  its  flame.    The  social  charm  went 
ro'und. 

The  fair  idea,  more  attractive  still. 

As  more  by  virtue  mark'd;  till  Romans,  all 

One  band  of  friends,  unconquerable  grew. 

'  Hence,  when  their  country  raised  her  plaintive 
voice, 

The  voice  of  pleading  Nature  was  not  heard; 
And  in  their  hearts  the  fathers  throbb'd  no  morej 
Stern  to  themselves,  but  gentle  to  the  whole. 
Hence  sweeten'd  Pain,  the  luxury  of  toil; 
Patience,  that  baffled  fortune's  utmost  rage; 
High-minded  Hope,  which  at  the  lowest  ebb. 
When  Brennusconquer'd,  and  when  Cannae  bled, 
The  bravest  impulse  felt,  and  scorn'd  despair. 
Hence  Moderation  a  new  conquest  gain'd : 
As  on  the  vanquish'd,  like  descending  heaven, 
Their  dewy  mercy  dropp'd,  the  bounty  beam'd, 
And  by  the  labouring  hand  were  crowns  bestow'd. 
Fruitful  of  men,  hence  hard  laborious  life. 
Which  no  fatigue  can  quell,  no  season  pierce. 
Hence,  Independence,  with  his  little  pleased 
Serene,  and  self-sufficient,  like  a  god ; 
In  whom  Corruption  could  not  lodge  one  charm, 
While  he  his  honest  roots  to  gold  preferr'd; 
While  truly  rich,  and  by  his  Sabine  field, 
The  man  maintain'd,  the  Roman's  splendour  all 
Was  in  the  public  wealth  and  glory  placed: 
Or  ready,  a  rough  swain,  to  guide  the  pl^igh; 


With  all  their  crimes ;  bade  radiant  eras  rise, 
And  the  long  honours  of  the  Consul-line. 

'  Here,  from  the  fairer,  not  the  greater,  plan 
Of  Greece  I  varied;  whose  unmixing  states, 
By  the  keen  soul  of  emulation  pierced. 
Long  waged  alone  the  bloodless  war  of  arts, 
And  their  best  empire  gain'd.    But  to  diflfuse 
O'er  men  an  empire  vvas  my  purpose  now; 
To  let  my  martial  majesty  abroad ; 
Into  the  vortex  of  one  state  to  draw 
The  whole  mix'd  force,  and  liberty,  on  earth; 
To  conquer  tyrants,  and  set  nations  free. 


LIBERTY. 


85 


Or  else,  tlie  purple  o'er  his  shoulder  thrown, 
In  long  majestic  flow,  to  rule  the  state. 
With  Wisdom's  purest  eye ;  or,  clad  in  steel, 
To  drive  the  steady  battle  on  the  foe. 
Hence  every  passion,  e'en  the  proudest,  stoop'd 
To  common  good:  Camillus,  thy  revenge; 
Thy  glory,  Fabius.    All  submissive  hence, 
Consuls,  Dictators,  still  resign'd  their  rule, 
The  very  moment  that  the  laws  ordain'd. 
Though  Conquest  o'er  them  clapp'd  her  eagle- 
wings. 

Her  laurels  wreath'd,  and  yoked  her  snowy  steeds 

To  the  triumjthal  car;  soon  as  expired 

The  latest  hour  of  sway,  taught  to  submit, 

(A  harder  lesson  that  than  to  command) 

Into  the  private  Roman  sunk  the  chief. 

If  Rome  was  served,  and  glorious,  careless  they 

By  whom.    Their  country's  fame  they  deem'd 

their  own; 
And  above  envy,  in  a  rival's  train. 
Sung  the  loud  Ids  by  themselves  deserved. 
Hence  matchless  courage.    On  Cremera's  bank, 
Hence  fell  the  Fabii:  hence  the  Decii  died; 
And  Curtius  plunged  into  the  flaming  gulf. 
Hence  Regulus  the  wavering  fathers  flrm'd. 
By  dreadful  counsel  never  given  before ; 
For  Roman  honour  sued,  and  his  own  doom. 
Hence  he  sustain'd  to  dare  a  death  prepared 
By  Punic  rage.    On  earth  his  manly  look 
Relentless  fix'd,  he  from  a  last  embrace, 
By  chains  polluted,  put  his  wife  aside. 
His  little  children  climbing  for  a  kiss ; 


Then  dumb  through  rows  of  weeping,  wondering 
friends, 

A  new  illustrious  exile !  press'd  along. 
Nor  less  impatient  did  he  pierce  the  crowds 
Opposing  his  return,  than  if,  escaped 
From  long  litigious  suits,  he  glad  forsook 
The  noisy  town  a  while  and  city  cloud 
To  breathe  Venafrian,  or  Tarentine  air. 
Need  1  these  high  particulars  recount  1 
The  meanest  bosom  felt  a  thirst  for  fame ; 
Flight  their  worst  death,  and  shame  their  only  fear. 
Life  had  no  charms,  nor  any  terrors  fate, 
When  Rome  and  glory  call'd.    But,  in  one  view, 
Mark  the  rare  boast  of  these  unequal'd  times. 
Ages  revolved  unsuUied  by  a  crime: 
Astrea  reign'd,  and  scarcely  needed  laws 
To  bind  a  race  elated  with  the  pride 
Of  virtue,  and  disdaining  to  descend 
To  meanness,  mutual  violence,  and  wrongs. 
While  war  around  them  raged,  in  happy  Rome 
AH  peaceful  smiled,  all  save  the  passing  clouds 
That  often  hang  on  Freedom's  jealous  brow ; 
And  fair  unblemish'd  centuries  elapsed, 
When  not  a  Roman  bled  but  in  the  field. 
Their  virtue  such,  that  an  unbalanced  state, 
»5till  between  Noble  and  Plebeian  tost, 
As  flowed  the  wave  of  fluctuating  power, 


Was  then  kept  firm,  and  with  triumphant  prow 
Rode  out  the  storms.     Oft  though  the  native 
feuds. 

That  from  the  first  their  constitution  shook, 

(A  latent  ruin,  growing  as  it  grew,) 

Stood  on  the  threatening  point  of  civil  war 

Ready  to  rush :  yet  could  the  lenient  voice 

Of  wisdom,  soothing  the  tumultuous  soul. 

Those  sons  of  virtue  calm.  Their  generous  hearts 

Unpetrified  by  self,  so  naked  lay 

And  sensible  to  Truth,  that  o'er  the  rage 

Of  giddy  faction,  by  oppression  swell'd, 

Prevail'd  a  simple  fable,  and  at  once 

To  peace  recover'd  the  divided  state. 

But  if  their  often  cheated  hopes  refused 

The  soothing  touch ;  still,  in  the  love  of  Rome, 

The  dread  Dictator  found  a  sure  resource. 

Was  she  assaulted  1  was  her  glory  stain'd'? 

One  common  quarrel  wide  inflamed  the  whole. 

Foes  in  the  forum  in  the  field  were  friends, 

By  social  danger  bound ;  each  fond  for  each, 

And  for  their  dearest  country  all,  to  die. 

'  Thus  up  the  hill  of  empire  slow  they  toil'd : 
Till,  the  bold  summit  gain'd,  the  thousand  states 
Of  proud  Italia  blended  into  one  ; 
Then  o'er  the  nations  they  resistless  rush'd, 
And  touch'd  the  Umits  of  the  faiUng  world. 

'  Let  Fancy's  eye  the  distant  lines  unite. 
See  that  which  borders  wild  the  western  main, 
Where  storms  at  large  resound,  and  tides  im- 
mense ; 

From  Caledonia's  dim  cerulean  coast, 
And  moist  Hibernia,  to  where  Atlas,  lodged 
Amid  the  restless  clouds  and  leaning  heaven, 
Hangs  o'er  the  deep  that  borrows  thence  its  name. 
Mark  ftiat  opposed,  where  first  the  springing  morn 
Her  roses  sheds,  and  shakes  around  her  dews : 
From  the  dire  deserts  by  the  Caspian  laved. 
To  where  the  Tigris  and  Euprates,  join'd. 
Impetuous  tear  the  Babylonian  plain; 
And  bless'd  Arabia  aromatic  breathes. 
See  that  dividing  far  the  watery  north. 
Parent  of  floods !  from  the  majestic  Rhine, 
Drunk  by  Batavian  meads,  to  where  seven- 
mouth'd, 

InEuxine  waves  the  flashing  Danube  roars: 
To  where  the  frozen  Tanais  scarcely  stirs 
The  dead  Meotic  pool,  or  the  long  Rha,* 
In  the  black  Scythian  seat  his  torrent  throws. 
Last,  that  beneath  the  burning  zone  behold : 
See  where  it  runs,  from  the  deep-loaded  plains 
Of  Mauritania  to  the  Libyan  sands, 
Where  Ammon  lifts  amid  the  torrid  waste 
A  verdant  isle,  with  shade  and  fountain  freshj 
And  farther  to  the  full  Egyptian  shore, 
To  where  the  Nile  from  Ethiopian  clouds, 


*  The  ancient  name  of  the  Volga, 
t  The  Caspian  Sea. 


86 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


His  never  drain'd  ethereal  urn,  descends. 
In  this  vast  space  what  various  tongues  and  states ! 
What  bounding  rocks,  and  mountains,  floods,  and 
seas ! 

What  purple  tyrants  quell'd,  and  nations  freed! 
'O'er  Greece,  descended  chief,  with  stealth  di- 
vine, 

The  Roman  bounty  in  a  flood  of  day : 
As  at  her  Isthmian  games,  a  fading  pomp ! 
Her  full-assembled  youth  innumerous  swarm'd. 
On  a  tribunal  raised,  Flaminius  sat: 
A  victor  he,  from  the  deep  phalanx  pierced 
Of  iron-coated  Macedon,  and  back 
The  Grecian  tyrant*  to  his  bounds  repell'd. 
In  the  high  thoughtless  gaiety  of  game,  , 
While  sport  alone  their  unambitious  hearts 
Possess'd ;  the  sudden  trumpet,  sounding  hoarse, 
Bade  silence  o'er  the  bright  assembly  reign. 
Then  thus  a  herald  :— "  To  the  states  of  Greece 
The  Roman  people,  unconfined,  restore 
Their  countries,  cities,  liberties,  and  laws : 
Taxes  remit,  and  garrisons  withdraw." 
The  crowd  astonish'd  half,  and  half  inform'd, 
Stared  dubious  round;  some  question'd,  some  ex 
claim'd, 

(Like  one  who  dreaming,  between  hope  and  fear, 
Is  lost  in  anxious  joy,)  '  Be  that  again,  , 
Be  that  again  proclaim'd,  distinct,  and  loud.' 
Loud,  and  distinct,  it  was  again  proclaim'd ; 
And  still  as  midnight  in  the  rural  shade, 
When  the  gale  slumbers,  they  the  words  devour'd 
A  while  severe  amazement  held  them  mute. 
Then  bursting  broad,  the  boundless  shout  to  Hea- 
ven 

From  many  a  thousand  hearts  ecstatic  sprung. 
On  every  hand  rebellow'd  to  their  joy 
The  swelling  sea,  the  rocks,  and  vocal  hills: 
Through  all  her  turrets  stately  Corintht  shook ; 
And,  from  the  void  above  of  shatter'd  air, 
The  flitting  bird  fell  breathless  to  the  ground. 
What  piercing  bliss,  how  keen  a  sense  of  fame. 
Did  then,  Flaminius,  reach  thy  inmost  soul ! 
And  with  what  deep-felt  glory  didst  thou  then 
Escape  the  fondness  of  transported  Greece  1 
Mix'd  in  a  tempest  of  superior  joy. 
They  left  the  sports;  like  Bacchanals  they  flew, 
Each  other  straining  in  a  strict  embrace, 
Nor  strain 'd  a  slave ;  and  loud  acclaims  till  night 
Round  the  Proconsul's  tent  repeated  rung. 
Then,  crown'd  with  garlands,  came  the  festive 
hours ; 

And  music,  sparkling  wine,  and  converse  warm, 
Their  raptures  waked  anew.    "  Ye  gods !  (they 
cried) 

Ye  guardian  gods  of  Greece!  and  are  we  free 7 
Was  it  not  madness  deem'd  the  very  thought  1 


*  The  King  of  Macedonia. 

tThe  Isthmian  games  were  celebrated  at  Corinth. 


And  is  it  true  ?  How  did  we  purchase  chains'? 
At  what  a  dire  expense  of  kindred  blood? 
And  are  they  now  dissolved?    And  scarce  one 
drop 

For  the  fair  flrst  of  blessings  have  we  paid  ? 
Courage,  and  conduct,  in  the  doubtful  field. 
When  rages  wide  the  storm  of  mingling  war, 
Are  rare  indeed ;  but  how  to  generous  ends 
To  turn  success,  and  conquest,  rarer  still: 
That  the  great  gods  and  Romans  only  know. 
Lives  there  on  earth,  almost  to  Greece  unknown, 
A  people  so  magnanimous,  to  quit 
Their  native  soil,  traverse  the  stormy  deep. 
And  by  their  blood  and  treasure,  spent  for  us, 
Redeem  our  states,  our  liberties,  and  laws! 
There  does!  there  does!    Oh  saviour,  Titus! 
Rome!' 

Thus  through  the  happy  night  they  pour'd  their 
souls. 

And  in  my  last  reflected  beams  rejoiced. 
As  when  the  shepherd,  on  the  mountain-brow, 
Sits  piping  to  his  flocks  and  gamesome  kids; 
Meantime  the  sun,  beneath  the  green  earth  sunk, 
Slants  upward  o'er  the  scene  a  parting  gleam: 
Short  is  the  glory  that  the  mountain  gilds. 
Plays  on  the  glittering  flocks,  and  glads  the 
swain; 

To  western  worlds  irrevocable  roll'd. 
Rapid,  the  source  of  light  recalls  his  ray.' 

Here  interposing  I—'  Oh,  Gtueen  of  men! 
Beneath  whose  sceptre  in  essential  rights 
Equal  they  live;  though  placed  for  common  good, 
Various,  or  in  subjection  or  command ; 
And  that  by  common  choice:  alas!  the  scene. 
With  virtue,  freedom,  and  with  glory  bright, 
Streams  into  blood,  and  darkens  into  wo." 
Thus  she  f)ursued:— "  Near  this  great  era,  Rome 
Began  to  feel  the  swifl  approach  of  fate, 
That  noyv  her  vitals  gain'd :  still  more  and  more 
Her  deep  divisions  kindling  into  rage 
And  war  with  chains  and  desolation  charged. 
From  an  unequal  balance  of  her  sons 
These  fierce  contentions  sprung :  and,  as  increased 
This  hated  inequality,  more  fierce 
They  flamed  to  tumult.    Independence  faii'd; 
Here  by  luxurious  wants,  by  real  there; 
And  with  this  virtue  every  virtue  sunk, 
As,  with  the  sliding  rock,  the  pile  sustain'd. 
A  last  attempt,  too  late,  the  Gracchi  made, 
To  fix  the  flying  scale,  and  poise  the  state. 
On  one  side  swell'd  aristocratic  pride; 
With  Usury,  the  villain !  whose  fell  gripe 
Bends  by  degrees  to  baseness  the  free  soul: 
And  Luxury  rapacious,  cruel,  mean. 
Mother  of  vice !  While  on  the  other  crept 
A  populace  in  want,  with  pleasure  fired ; 
Fit  for  proscriptions,  for  the  darkest  deeds, 
As  the  proud  feeder  bade;  inconstant,  blind. 
Deserting  friends  at  need,  and  duped  by  foes  : 


LIBERTY. 


87 


Loud  and  seditious,  when  a  chief  inspired 
Their  headlong  fury,  but  of  him  deprived, 
Already  slaves  that  lick'd  the  scourging  hand. 

"  This  firm  republic,  that  against  the  blast 
Of  opposition  rose;  that  (like  an  oak. 
Nursed  on  ferocious  Algidum,*  whose  boughs 
Still  stronger  shoot  beneath  the  rigid  axe,) 
By  loss,  by  slaughter,  from  the  steel  itself. 
E'en  force  and  spirit  drew;  smit  with  the  calm, 
The  dead  serene  of  prosperous  fortune,  pined.  - 
Nought  now  her  weighty  legions  could  oppose ; 
Hert  terror  once,  on  Afric's  tawny  shore. 
Now  smoked  in  dust,  a  stabling  now  for  wolves ; 
And  every  dreaded  power  received  the  yoke. 
Besides,  destructive,  from  the  conquer'd  East, 
In  the  soft  plunder  came  that  worst  of  plagues, 
That  pestilence  of  mind,  a  fever"d  thirst 
For  the  false  joys  which  Luxury  prepares. 
Unworthy  joys !  that  wasteful  leave  behind 
No  mark  of  honour,  in  reflecting  hour, 
No  secret  ray  to  glad  the  conscious  soul; 
At  once  involving  in  one  ruin  wealth. 
And  wealth-acquiring  powers :  while  stupid  self, 
Of  narrow  gust,  and  hebetating  sense, 
Devour  the  nobler  faculties  of  bliss. 
Hence  Roman  virtue  slacken'd  into  sloth; 
Security  relax'd  the  softening  state ; 
And  the  broad  eye  of  government  lay  closed. 
No  more  the  laws  inviolable  reign'd. 
And  public  weal  no  more:  but  party  raged; 
And  partial  power,  and  license  unrestrain'd, 
Let  Discord  through  the  deathful  city  loose. 
First,  mild  Tiberius,*  on  thy  sacred  head 
The  fury's  vengeance  fell;  the  first,  whose  blood 
Had  since  the  consuls  stain'd  contending  Rome. 
Of  precedent  pernicious !  with  thee  bled 
Three  hundred  Romans-,,  with  thy  brother,  next 
Three  thousand  more:  till,  into  battles  turn 'd 
Debates  of  peace,  and  forced  the  trembling  laws, 
The  Forum  and  Comitia  horrid  grew, 
A  scene  of  barter'd  power,  or  reeking  gore. 
When,  half-ashamed,  Corruption's  thievish  arts, 
And  ruffian  force  begin  to  sap  the  mounds 
And  majesty  of  laws;  if  not  in  time 
Repress'd  severe,  for  human  aid  too  strong 
The  torrent  turns,  and  overbears  the  whole. 

"  Thus  Luxury,  Dissension,  amix'd  rage 
Of  boundless  pleasure  and  of  boundless  wealth, 
Want-wishing  change,  and  waste-repairing  war. 
Rapine  for  ever  lost  to  peaceful  toil, 
Guilt  unatoned,  profuse  of  blood  Revenge, 
Corruption  all  avow'd,  and  lawless  Force, 
Each  heightening  each,  alternate  shook  the  state. 
Meantime  Ambition,  at  the  dazzling  head 
Of  hardy  legions,  with  the  laurels  heap'd 
And  spoil  of  nations,  in  one  circling  blast 


•  A  town  of  Latium,  neai"  Tusculum  1 
t  Tiberius  Gracchus. 


Combined  in  various  storm,  and  from  its  base 

The  broad  republic  tore.    By  Virtue  built 

It  touch'd  the  skies,  and  spread  o'er  shelter'd  eartli 

An  ample  roof:  by  Virtue  too  sustain'd, 

And  balanced  steady,  every  tempest  sung 

Innoxious  by,  or  bade  it  firmer  stand. 

But  when,  with  sudden  and  enormous  change, 

The  first  of  mankind  sunk  into  the  last, 

As  once  in  Virtue,  so  in  Vice  extrem.e. 

This  universal  fabric  yielded  loose. 

Before  Ambition  still;  and  thundering  down, 

At  last,  beneath  its  ruins  crush'd  a  world. 

A  conquering  people,  to  themselves  a  prey. 

Must  ever  fall ;  when  their  victorious  troops, 

In  blood  and  rapine  savage  grown,  can  find 

No  land  to  sack  and  pillage  but  their  own. 

"  By  brutal  Marius,  and  keen  Sylla,  first 
Effused  the  deluge  dire  of  civil  blood. 
Unceasing  woes  began,  and  this,  or  that. 
Deep-drenching  their  revenge,  nor  virtue  spared, 
Nor  sex,  nor  age,  nor  quality,  nor  name; 
Till  Rome,  into  a  human  shambles  turn'd. 
Made  deserts  lovely,— Oh,  to  well  earn'd  chains, 
Devoted  race! — If  no  true  Roman  then. 
No  Scsevola  there  was,  to  raise  for  me 
A  vengeful  hand:  was  there  no  father,  robb'd 
Of  blooming  youth  to  prop  his  wither'd  age  ? 
No  son,  a  witness  to  his  hoary  sire 
In  dust  and  gore  defiled  1  no  friend,  forlorn"? 
No  wretch  that  doubtful  trembled  for  himself? 
None  brave,  or  wild,  to  pierce  a  monster's  heart, 
Who,  heaping  horror  round,  no  more  deserved 
The  sacred  shelter  of  the  laws  he  spurn'd  1 
No: — Sad  o'er  all  profound  dejection  sat; 
And  nerveless  fear.    The  slave's  asylum  theirs: 
Or  flight,  ill-judging,  that  the  timid  back 
,  Turns  weak  to  slaughter ;  or  partaken  guilt. 
In  vain  from  Sylla's  vanity  I  drew 
An  unexampled  deed.    The  power  resign'd, 
And  all  unhoped  the  commonwealth  restored, 
Amazed  the  public,  and  effaced  his  crimes. 
Through  streets  yet  streaming  from  his  murderous 
hand 

Unarm'd  he  stray'd,  unguarded,  unassail'd, 

And  on  the  bed  of  peace  his  ashes  laid; 

A  grace,  which  I  to  his  demission  gave. 

But  with  him  died  not  the  despotic  soul. 

Ambition  saw  that  stooping  Rome  could  bear 

A  master,  nor  had  virtue  to  be  free. 

Hence,  for  succeeding  years,  my  troubled  reign 

No  certain  peace,  no  spreading  prospect  knew. 

Destruction  gather'd  round.  Still  the  black  soul, 

Or  of  a  Catiline,  or  RuUus,*  swell'd 

With  fell  designs ;  and  all  the  watchful  art 


*  Publius  Servilius  Rullus,  tribune  of  the  people,  proposed 
an  Agrarian  Law,  in  appearance  very  advantageous  for  the 
[people,  but  destructive  of  their  liberty:  and  which  was  de- 
'  feated  by  the  eloquence  of  Cicero,  in  his  speech  against  Rullus. 


fi8 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Of  Cicero  demanded,  all  the  force, 
All  the  state-wielding  magic  of  his  tongue; 
And  all  the  thunder  of  my  Cato's  zeal. 
With  these  I  linger'd ;  till  the  flame  anew 
Burst  out,  in  blaze  immense,  and  wrapt  the  world. 
The  shameful  contest  sprung;  to  whom  mankind 
Should  yield  the  neck  :  to  Porapey,  who  conceal'd 
A  rage  impatient  of  an  equal  name ; 
Or  to  the  nobler  Csesar,  on  whose  brow 
O'er  daring  vice  deluding  virtue  smiled. 
And  who  no  less  a  vain  superior  scorn'd. 
Both  l^led,  but  bled  in  vain.    New  traitors  rose. 
The  venal  will  be  bought,  the  base  have  lords. 
To  these  vile  wars  I  left  ambitious  slaves ; 
And  from  Philippi's  field,  from  where  in  dust 
The  last  of  Romaris,  matchless  Brutus!  lay, 
Spread  to  the  north  untamed  a  rapid  wing. 
'  What  though  the  first  smooth  Csesars  arts  ca- 
ress'd. 

Merit  and  virtue,  stimulating  me? 
Severely  tender !  ci'uelly  humane ! 
The  chain  to  clinch,  and  make  it  softer  sit 
On  the  new-broken  still  ferocious  state. 
From  the  dark  Third,*  succeeding,  I  beheld 
The  imperial  monsters  all. — A  race  on  earth 
Vindictive,  sent  the  scourge  of  humankind! 
Whose  bhnd  profusion  drain'd  a  bankrupt  world ; 
Whose  lust  to  forming  nature  seems  disgrace; 
And  whose  infernal  rage  bade  every  drop 
Of  ancient  blood,  that  yet  retain'd  my  flame, 
To  that  of  Psetus,t  in  the  peaceful  bath. 
Or  Rome's  affrighted  streets,  inglorious  flow. 
But  almost  just  the  meanly  patient  death, 
That  waits  a  tyrant's  unprevented  stroke. 
Titus  indeed  gave  one  short  evening  gleam ; 
More  cordial  felt,  as  in  the  midst  it  spread 
Of  storm,  and  horror.    The  delight  of  men  ! 
He  who  the  day,  when  his  o'erflowing  hand 
Had  made  no  happy  heart,  concluded  lost; ' 
Trajan  and  he,  with  the  mild  siret  and  son, 
His  son  of  virtue  !  eased  awhile  mankind; 
And  arts  revived  beneath  their  gentle  beam. 
Then  was  their  last  effort:  what  sculpture  raised 
To  Trajan's  glory,  following  triumphs  stole ; 
And  mix'd  with  Gothic  forms,  (the  chisel's  shame) 
On  that  triumphal  arch,§  the  forms  of  Greece. 
'Meantime  o'er  rocky  Thrace,  and  the  deep 
vales 

Of  gelid  Haemus,  I  pursued  my  flight ; 


*  Tiberius. 

t  Thrasea  Pajtus,  put  to  deatli  by  Nero.  Tacitus  introduces 
the  account  he  gives  of  his  death,  thus: — 'After  having  in- 
}iu  manly  slauglitered  so  many  ilkistrious  men,  he  (Nero) 
burned  at  l;iat  with  a  desire  of  cutting  off  virtue  itself  in  the 
person  of  Thrasea,'  <fec. 

X  Anini.iim-^  I'iiis,  and  his  adopted  son  Marcus  Aurelius, 
afterward^  (■.iHcd  A.iioninus  Pliilosoplnis. 

§  Consiiiiiiinu'.s  arch,  to  build  which,  that  of  Trajan  was  I 
destroyed,  sculpture  iiaving  been  then  almost  entirely  1  jst.  ] 


And,  piercing  farthest  Scythia,  westward  swept 
Sarmatia,*  traversed  by  a  thousand  streams. 
A  sullen  land  of  lakes,  and  fens  immense, 
Of  rocks,  resounding  torrents,  gloomy  heaths, 
And  cruel  deserts  black  with  sounding  pine ; 
Where. nature  frowns:  though  sometimes  int^ 
smiles 

She  softens;  and  immediate  at  the  touch 
Of  southern  gales,  throws  from  the  sudden  glebe 
Luxuriant  pasture,  and  a  waste  of  flowers. 
But,  cold-compress'd,  when  the  whole  loaded 
heaven 

Descends  in  snov^^,  lost  in  one  white  abrupt, 
Lies  undistinguish'd  earth ;  and,  seized  by  frost 
Lakes,  headlong  streams,  and  floods,  and  oceans 
sleep. 

Yet  there  life  glows ;  the  furry  millions  there 
Deep  dig  their  dens  beneath  the  sheltering  snows : 
And  there  a  race  of  men  prolific  swarms, 
To  various  pain,  to  little  pleasure  used  ; 
On  whom,  keen-parching,  beat  Riphsean  winds ; 
Hard  like  their  soil,  and  like  their  climate  fierce. 
The  nursery  of  nations! — These  I  roused. 
Drove  land  on  land,  on  people  people  pour'd; 
Till  from  almost  perpetual  night  they  broke, 
As  if  in  search  of  day ;  and  o'er  the  banks 
Of  yielding  empire,  only  slave-sustain'd. 
Resistless  raged;  in  vengeance  urged  by  me, 

*  Long  in  the  barbarous  heart  the  buried  seeds 
Of  Freedom  lay,  for  many  a  wintry  age  ; 
And  though  my  spirit  work'd,  by  slow  degrees, 
Nought  but  its  pride  and  fierceness  yet  appear'd, 
Then  was  the  night  of  time,  that  parted  worlds. 
I  quitted  earth  the  while.    As  when  the  tribes 
Aerial,  warn'd  of  rising  winter,  ride 
Autumnal  winds,  to  warmer  climates  borne; 
So,  arts  and  each  good  genius  in  my  train, 
I  cut  the  closing  gloom,  and  soar'd  to  Heaven. 

In  the  bright  regions  there  of  purest  day, 
Far  other  scenes,  and  palaces,  arise, 
Adorn'd  profuse  with  other  arts  divine. 
All  beauty  here  below,  to  them  compared. 
Would,  Uke  a  rose  before  the  midday  sun, 
Shrink  up  its  blossom;  like  a  bubble  break 
The  passing  poor  magnificence  of  kings. 
For  there  the  King  of  Nature,  in  full  blaze, 
Calls  every  splendour  forth;  and  there  his  court, 
Amid  ethereal  powers,  and  virtues,  holds ; 
Angel,  archangel,  tutelary  gods. 
Of  cities,  nations,  empires,  and  of  worlds. 
But  sacred  he  the  veil,  that  kindly  clouds 
A  light  too  keen  for  mortals ;  wraps  a  view 
Too  softening  fair,  for  those  that  here  in  dust 
Must  cheerful  toil  out  their  appointed  years, 
A  sense  of  higher  life  would  only  damp 
The  schoplboy's  task,  and  spoil  his  playful  hours. 


*  The  ancient  Sarmatia  contained  a  vast  tract  ol  country 
running  all  along  the  north  of  Europe  and  Asia 


LIBERTY. 


80 


Nor  could  the  child  of  Reason,  feeble  man, 
With  vigour  through  this  infant-being  drudge 
Did  brighter  worlds,  their  unimagined  bliss 
Disclosing,  dazzle  and  dissolve  his  mind.' 


PART  IV. 

BRITAIN. 

CONTENTS. 

Difference  betwixt  the  Ancients  and  Moderns  slightly 
touched  upon.  Description  of  the  darif  ages.  The  Goddess 
of  Liberty,  who  during  these  is  supposed  to  have  left  earth, 
returns,  attended  with  Arts  and  Science.  She  first  descends 
on  Italy.  Sculpture,  Painting,  and  Architecture  fix  at  Rome, 
to  revive  their  several  arts  by  the  great  models  of  antiquity 
there,  which  many  barbarous  invasions  had  not  been  able  to 
destroy.  The  revival  of  these  arts  marked  out.  That  some- 
times arts  may  flourish  for  a  while  imder  despotic  govern- 
ments, though  never  the  natural  and  genuine  production  of 
them.  Learning  begins  to  dawn.  The  Muse  and  Science 
attend  Liberty,  who  in  her  progress  towards  Great  Britain 
raises  several  free  states  and  cities.  These  enumerated.  Au- 
thor's exclamation  of  joy,  upon  seeing  the  British  seas  and 
coasts  rise  in  the  vision,  which  painted  whatever  the  Goddess 
of  Liberty  said.  She  resumes  her  narration.  The  Genius  of 
fhe  Deep  appears,  and  addressing  Liberty,  associates  Great 
Britain  into  his  dominion.  Liberty  received  and  congratu- 
lated by  Britannia,  and  the  Native  Genii  or  Virtues  of  the 
island.  Ttiese  described.  Animated  by  the  presence  of  Li- 
berty, they  begin  their  operations.  Their  beneficent  influence 
contrasted  with  the  works  and  delusions  of  opposing  Demons. 
Concludes  with  an  abstract  of  the  English  history,  marking 
the  several  Advances  of  Liberty,  down  to  her  complete  & 
blishment  at  the  Revolution, 


Struck  with  the  rising  scene,  thus  I  amazed  : 
'Ah,  Goddess,  what  a  change!  is  earth  the 
same? 

Of  the  same  kind  the  ruthless  race  she  feeds  1 
And  does  the  same  fair  sun  and  ether  spread 
Round  this  vile  spot  their  all-enhvening  soul  1 
Lo  !  beauty  fails;  lost  in  unlovely  forms 
Of  little  pomp,  magnificence  no  more 
Exalts  the  mind,  and  bid  the  public  smile : 
While  to  rapacious  interest  Glory  leaves 
Mankind,  and  every  grace  of  life  is  gone.' 

To  this  the  Power,  whose  vital  radiance  calls 
From  the  brute  mass  of  man  an  order'd  world  : 

'  Wait  till  the  morning  shines,  and  from  the 
depth 

Of  Gothic  darkness  springs  another  day. 
True,  Genius  droops ;  the  tender  ancient  taste 
Of  Beauty,  then  fresh  blooming  in  her  prime, 
But  faintly  trembles  through  the  callous  soul; 
And  Grandeur,  or  of  morals,  or  of  life. 
Sinks  into  safe  pursuits,  and  creeping  cares. 
E'en  cautious  Virtue  seems  to  stoop  her  flight, 
And  aged  Ufe  to  deem  the  generous  deeds 
Of  youth  romantic.    Yet  in  cooler  thought 
Well  reason'd,  in  researches  piercing  deep 
Thrqugh  nature's  works,  in  profitable  arts, 


And  all  that  calm  Experience  can  disclose, 
(Slow  guide,  but  sure,)  behold  the  world  anew 
Exalted  rise,  with  other  honours  crown'd ; 
And,  where  my  Spirit  wakes  the  finer  powers, 
Athenian  laurels  still  afresh  shall  bloom. 

'  Oblivious  ages  pass'd ;  while  earth,  forsook 
By  her  best  Genii,  lay  to  Demons  foul. 
And  unchain'd  Furies,  an  abandon'd  prey. 
Contention  led  the  van ;  first  small  of  size, 
But  soon  dilating  to  the  skies  she  towers  : 
Then,  wide  as  air,  the  hvid  Fury  spread, 

'  And  high  her  head  above  the  stormy  clouds. 
She  blazed  in  omens,  swell'd  the  groaning  winds 
With  wild  surmises,  battlings,  sounds  of  war: 
From  land  to  land  the  maddening  trumpet  blew, 

:  And  pour'd  her  venom  through  the  heart  of  man. 
Shook  to  the  pole,  the  North  obey'd  her  call. 

'  Forth  rush'd  the  oloody  power  of  Gothic  war, 

'  War  against  human  kind :  Rapine,  that  led 
Millions  of  raging  robbers  in  his  train : 
Unlistening,  barbarous  Force,  to  whom  the  sword 
Is  reason,  honour,  law:  the  foe  of  arts 
By  monsters  follow'd,  hideous  to  behold, 
That  claim'd  their  place.    Outrageous  mix'd  with 
these 

Another  species  of  tyrannic*  rule. 
Unknown  before,  whose  cankerous  shackles  seized 
The  envenom'd  soul ;  a  wilder  Fury,  she 
Even  o'er  her  Elder  Sistert  tyrannized ; 
Or,  if  perchance  agreed,  inflamed  her  rage. 
Dire  was  her  train,  and  loud  :  the  sable  band, 
Thundering ;— "  Submit,  ye  Laity  !  ye  profane ! 
Earth  is  the  Lord's,  and  therefore  ours ;  let  kings 
A  llow  the  common  claim,  and  half  be  theirs ; 
If  not,  behold  !  the  sacred  lightning  flies  !" 
Scholastic  Discord,  with  a  hundred  tongues, 
For  science  uttering  janghng  words  obscure, 
Where  frighted  reason  never  yet  could  dwell : 
Of  peremptory  feature,  cleric  Pride, 
Whose  reddening  cheek  no  contradiction  bears  ; 
And  holy  Slander,  his  associate  firm. 
On  whom  the  lying  Spirit  still  descends : 
Mother  of  tortures  I  persecuting  Zeal, 
High  flashing  in  her  hand  the  ready  torch, 
Or  poniard  bathed  in  unbelieving  blood ; 
Hell's  fiercest  fiend  !  of  saintly  brow  demure, 
Assuming  a  celestial  seraph's  name. 
While  she  beneath  the  blasphemous  pretence 
Of  pleasing  Parent  Heaven,  the  Source  of  Lovet 
Has  wrought  more  horrors,  more  detested  deeds, 
Than  all  the  rest  combined.    Led  on  by  her, 
And  wild  of  head  to  work  her  fell  designs, 
Came  idiot  superstition  ;  round  with  ears 
Innumerous  strow'd,  ten  thousand  monkish  fonnB 
With  legends  ply'd  them,  and  with  tenets,  meant 
To  charm  or  scare  the  simple  into  slaves. 


*  Church  power,  or  ecclesiastical  tyranny, 
t  Civil  tyranny. 


I 


90 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


And  poison  reason;  gross,  she  swallows  all, 
The  most  absurd  believing  ever  most. 
Broad  o'er  the  whole  her  universal  night, 
The  gloom  still  doubling,  Ignorance  dillused. 

'  Nought  to  be  seen,  but  visionary  monks 
To  councils  strolling,  and  embroiUng  creeds; 
Banditti  Saints,*  disturbing  distant  lands; 
And  unknown  nations,  wandering  for  a  home. 
All  lay  reversed :  the  sacred  arts  of  rule, 
Turn'd  to  flagitious  leagues  against  mankind, 
And  arts  of  plunder  more  and  more  avow'd ; 
Pwi-e  plain  Devotiont  to  a  solemn  farce; 
To  holy  dotage  Virtue,  even  to  a  guile, 
To  murder,  and  a  mockery  of  oaths  ; 
Brave  ancient  Frepdora  to  the  rage  of  slaves.t 
Proud  of  their  state,  and  fighting  for  their  chains ; 
Dishonour'd  Courage  to  the  bravo's  trade,§ 
To  civil  broil ;  and  Glory  to  romance. 
Thus  human  life  unhinged,  to  ruin  reel'd, 
And  giddy  Reason  totter'd  on  her  throne. 

'  At  last  Heaven's  best  inexplicable  scheme, 
Disclosing,  bade  new  brightening  eras  smile. 
The  high  command  gone  forth.  Arts  in  my  train, 
And  azure-mantled  Science,  swift  we  spread 
A  sounding  pinion.    Eager  pity,  mix'd 
With  indignation,  urged  her  downward  flight. 
On  Latium  first  we  stoop'd,  for  doubtful  hfe 
That  panted,  sunk  beneath  unnumber'd  woes. 
Ah,  poor  Italia !  what  a  bitter  cup 
Of  vengeance  hast  thou  drain'd'?  Goths.  Vandals, 
Huns, 

Lombards,  barbarians  broke  from  every  land, 
How  many  a  ruffian  form  hast  thou  beheld 
What  horrid  jargons  heard,  where  rage  alone 
Was  all  thy  frighted  ear  could  comprehend 
How  frequent  by  the  red  inhuman  hand, 
Yet  warm  with  brother's,   husband's,  father's 
blood. 

Hast  thou  thy  matrons  and  thy  virgins  seen 
To  violation  dragg'd,  and  mingled  death'? 
What  conflagrations,  earthquakes,  ravage,  floods, 
Have  turn'd  thy  cities  into  stony  wilds; 
And  succourless,  and  bare,  the  poor  remains 
Of  wretches  forth  to  Nature's  common  cast? 
Added  to  these  the  still  continued  waste 
Of  inbred  foes  that  on  thy  vitals  prey,ll 
And,  double  tyrants,  seize  the  very  soul. 
Where  hadst  thou  treasures  for  this  rapine  alH 
These  hungry  myriads,  that  thy  bowels  tore, 
Heap'd  sack  on  sack,  and  buried  in  their  rage 
Wonders  of  art ;  whence  this  gray  scene,  a  mine 
Of  more  than  gold  becomes  and  orient  gems. 
Where  Egy[)t.  Greece,  and  Rome  united  glow. 
"  Here  Sculpture,  Painting,  Architecture,  bent 


'  Crusades. 

IThe  corruptions  of  the  church  of  Rome, 

}  Vassalage,  whence  the  attachment  of  clans  to  their  chief. 

t  Duelling.  II  The  Hierarchy. 


From  ancient  inodiils  to  restore  their  arts, 
Ftcmain'd     A  little  trace  we  how  they  rose. 

'  Amid  the  hoary  ruins,  Sculpture  first. 
Deep  digging,  from  the  cavern  dark  and  damp, 
Their  grave  fpr  ages,  bid  her  marble  race 
Spring  to  new  light.    Joy  sparkled  in  her  eyes, 
And  old  remembrance  thrill'd  in  every  tliought, 
As  she  the  pleasing  resurrection  saw. 
In  leaning  site,  respiring  from  his  toils, 
The  well  known  Hero,*  who  deliver'd  Greece, 
His  ample  chest,  all  tempested  with  force. 
Unconquerable  rear'd.    She  saw  the  head. 
Breathing  the  hero,  small,  of  Grecian  size, 
Scarce  more  extensive  than  the  sinewy  neck: 
The  spreading  shoulders,  muscular  and  broad; 
The  whole  a  mass  of  swelling  sinews,  touch'd 
Into  harmonious  shape ;  she  saw,  and  joy'd. 
The  yellow  hunter,  Meleager,  raised 
His  beauteous  front,  and  through  the  finish' d 
whole 

Shows  what  ideas  smiled  of  old  in  Greece. 
Of  raging  aspect,  rush'd  impetuous  forth 
The  Gladiator  :t  pitiless  his  look, 
And  each  keen  sinew  braced,  the  storm  of  vvar, 
Ruffling,  o'er  all  his  nervous  body  frowns. 
The  dying  others  from  the  gloom  she  drew: 
Supp6rted  on  his  shorten'd  arm  he  leans, 
Prone,  agonizing ;  with  incumbent  fate, 
Heavy  declines  his  head ;  yet  dark  beneath 
The  suffering  feature  sullen  vengeance  lours.  - 
Shame,  indignation,  unaccomplish'd  rage, 
And  still  the  cheated  eye  expects  his  fall. 
All  conquest-flush'd,  from  prostrate  Python,  came 
The  quiver'd  God.§    In  graceful  act  he  stands, 
His  arm  extended  with  the  slacken'd  bow: 
Light  flows  his  easy  robe,  and  fair  displays 
A  manly  soften'd  form.    The  bloom  of  gods 
Seems  youthful  o'er  the  beardless  cheek  to  wave : 
His  features  yet  heroic  ardour  warms; 
And  sweet  subsiding  to  a  native  smile, 
Mix'd  with  the  joy  elating  conquest  gives, 
A  scatter'd  frown  exalts  his  matchless  air. 
On  Flora  moved;  her  full  proportion'd  limbs 
Rise  through  the  mantle  fluttering  in  the  breeze. 
The  Gtueen  of  Lovell  arose,  as  from  the  deep 
She  sprung  in  all  the  melting  pomp  of  charms. 
Bashful  she  bends,  her  well  taught  look  aside 
Turns  in  enchanting  guise,  where  dubious  mix 
Vain  conscious  beauty,  a  dissembled  sense 
Of  modest  shame,  and  slippery  looks  of  love. 
The  gazer  grows  enamour'd,  and  the  stone, 
As  if  exulting  in  its  conquest,  smiles. 
So  turn'd  each  limb,  so  swell'd  with  softening 
art, 

That  the  deluded  eye  the  marble  doubts. 


'  The  Hercjlesof  Farnese.  1  Fighting  Gladiator. 

*  Dying  Gladiator.  §  Apollo  of  Bel  videra 

II  Venus  of  Medici. 


LIBERTY. 


91 


At  last  her  utmost  masterpiece*  she  found, 
That  Maro  fired  ;t  the  miserable  sire, 
Wrapt  with  his  son's  in  fate's  severest  grasp: 
The  serpents,  twisting  round,  their  stringent  folds 
Inextricable  tie.    Such  passion  here, 
Such  agonies,  such  bitterness  of  pain. 
Seem  so  to  tremble  through  the  tortured  stone, 
That  the  touch'd  heart  engrosses  all  the  view. 
Almost  unmark'd  the  best  proportions  pass, 
I  That  ever  Greece  beheld;  and,  seen  alone, 
i  On  the  rapt  eye  the  imperious  passions  seize : 
The  father's  double  pangs,  both  for  himself 
And  sons  convulsed;  to  Heaven  his  rueful  look, 
Imploring  aid,  and  half  accusing,  cast; 
His  fell  despair  with  indignation  mix'd. 
As  the  strong  curling  monsters  from  his  side 
His  full  extended  fury  can  not  tear. 
More  tender  touch'd,  with  varied  art,  his  sons 
All  the  soft  rage  of  younger  passions  show. 
In  a  boy's  helpless  fate  one  sinks  oppress'd ; 
"While,  yet  unpierced,  the  frigAted  other  tries 
His  foot  to  steal  out  of  the  horrid  twine. 

"  She  bore  no  more,  but  straight  from  Gothic 
rust 

Her  chisel  clear 'd,  and  dustt  and  fragments  drove 
Impetuous  round.    Successive  as  it  went 
From  son  to  son,  with  more  enlivening  touch. 
From  the  brute  rock  it  call'd  the  breathing  form; 
Till,  in  a  legislator's  awful  grace 
Dress'd,  Buonaroti  bid  a  Moses§  rise. 
And,  looldng  love  immense,  a  Saviour  God.§ 
'  Of  these  observant.  Painting  felt  the  fire 
Burn  inward.    Then  extatic  she  diffused 
The  canvas,  seized  the  pallet,  with  quick  hand 
The  colours  brew'd  ;  and  on  the  void  expanse 
Her  gay  creation  pour'd,  her  mimic  world. 
Poor  was  the  manner  of  her  eldest  race. 
Barren  and  dry;  just  strugghng  from  the  taste. 
That  had  for  ages  scared  in  cloisters  dim 
The  superstitious  herd;  yet  glorious  then 
Were  deem'd  their  works;  where  undeveloped  lay 
The  future  wonders  that  enrich'd  mankind. 
And  a  new  light  and  grace  o'er  Europe  cast. 
Arts  gradual  gather  streams.    Enlarging  This, 
To  each  his  portion  of  her  various  gifts 
The  Goddess  dealt,  to  none  indulging  all ; 
No,  not  to  Raphael.    At  kind  distance  still 
Perfection  stands,  like  Happiness,  to  tempt 
The  eternal  chase.    In  elegant  design. 
Improving  nature:  in  ideas  fair. 
Or  great,  extracted  from  the  fine  antique; 


*  The  group  of  Laocoon  and  his  two  sons,  destroyed  by 
two  serpents, 
t  See  iEneid  11.  ver.  199—227. 

t  It  is  reported  of  Michael  Angelo  Buonaroti,  the  most  ce- 
lebrated master  of  modern  sculpture,  that  he  wrought  with 
1  kind  of  inspiration,  or  enthusiastical  fury,  which  produced 
ihe  effect  here  mentioned. 

§  Esteemed  the  two  finest  pieces  of  modern  sculpture. 

2  V 


In  attitude,  expression,  airs  divine; 
Her  sons  of  Rome  and  Florence  bore  the  prize. 
To  those  of  Venice  she  the  magic  art 
Of  colours  melting  into  colours  gave. 
Theirs  too  it  was  by  one  embracing  mass 
Of  light  and  shade,  that  settles  round  the  whole, 
Or  varies  tremulous  from  part  to  part. 
O'er  all  a  binding  harmony  to  throw. 
To  raise  the  picture,  and  repose  the  sight. 
The  Lombard  school*,  succeeding,  mingled  both. 

'  Meantime,  dread  fanes,  and  palaces,  around, 
Rear'd  the  magnific  front.    Music  again 
Her  universal  language  of  the  heart 
Renew'd ;  and,  rising  from  the  plaintive  vale, 
To  the  full  concert  spread,  and  solemn  quire. 

'  E'en  bigots  smiled ;  to  their  protection  took 
Arts  not  their  own,  and  from  them  borrow'd  pomp: 
For  in  a  tyrant's  garden  these  awhile 
May  bloom,  though  Freedom  be  their  parent  soil. 

'  And  now  confess'd,  with  gently  growing  gleam 
The  morning  shone,  and  westward  stream'd  its 
light. 

The  Muse  awoke.    Not  sooner  on  the  wing 
Is  the  gay  bird  of  dawn.    Artless  her  voice. 
Untaught  and  wild,  yet  warbling  through  the  woods 
Romantic  lays.    But  as  her  northern  course 
She,  with  her  tutor  Science,  in  my  train. 
Ardent  pursued,  her  strains  more  noble  grew : 
While  Reason  drew  the  plan,  the  Heart  inform'd 
The  moral  page,  and  Fancy  lent  it  grace. 

'  Rome  and  her  circling  deserts  cast  behind, 
I  pass'd  not  idle  to  my  great  sojourn. 

On  Arno'st  fertile  plain,  where  the  rich  vine 
Luxuriant  o'er  Etrurian  mountains  roves. 
Safe  in  the  lap  reposed  of  private  bliss, 
I  small  republics^  raised.    Thrice  happy  they! 
Had  social  Freedom  bound  their  peace,  and  arts, 
Instead  of  ruling  Power,  ne'er  meant  for  them, 
Employ'd  their  little  cares,  and  saved  their  fate. 

'  Beyond  the  rugged  Apennines,  that  roll 
Far  through  Ttahan  bounds  their  wavy  tops. 
My  path,  too,  I  with  public  blessings  strow'd : 
Free  states  and  cities,  where  the  Lombard  plain, 
In  spite  of  culture  negligent  and  gross. 
From  her  deep  bosom  pours  unbidden  joys. 
And  green  o'er  all  the  land  a  garden  spreads. 

'  The  barren  rocks  themselves  beneath  my  foot, 
Relenting  bloom'd  on  the  Ligurian  shore. 
Thick  swarming  people§  there,  like  emmets,  seized 
Amid  surrounding  cliffs,  the  scatter'd  spots 
Which  Nature  left  in  her  destroying  rage, II 
Made  their  own  fields,  nor  sighed  for  other  lands. 


*  The  school  of  the  Caracci. 

t  The  river  Arno  runs  through  Florence. 

+  The  republics  of  Florence,  Pisa,  Lucca,  and  Sienna. 

§  The  Genoese  territory  is  reckoned  very  populous ;  but 
the  towns  and  villages  for  the  most  part  lie  hid  among  the 
Appenine  rocks  and  mountains. 

II  According  to  Dr.  Burnet's  system  of  the  Deluge. 


92 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


There,  in  white  prospe(;t  from  the  rocky  hill 
Gradual  descending  to  the  shelter'd  shore, 
By  me  proud  Genoa's  marble  turrets  rose. 
And  while  my  genuine  spirit  warm'd  her  sons, 
Beneath  her  Dorias,  not  unworthy,  she 
Vied  for  the  trident  of  the  narrow  seas, 
Ere  Britain  had  yet  open'd  all  the  main. 

'  Nor  be  the  then  triumphant  state  forgot  ;* 
Where,t  push'd  from  plunder'd  earth,  a  remnant 
still 

Inspired  by  me,  through  the  dark  ages  kept 
Of  my  old  Roman  flame  some  sparks  alive: 
The  seeming  god-built  city !  which  my  hand 
Deep  in  the  bosom  fix'd  of  wondering  seas. 
Astonish'd  mortals  sail'd,  with  pleasing  awe, 
Around  the  sea-girt  walls,  by  Neptune  fenced. 
And  down  the  briny  street;  where  on  each  hand, 
Amazing  seen  amid  unstable  waves. 
The  splendid  palace  shines;  and  rising  tides, 
The  green  steps  marking,  murmur  at  the  door. 
To  this  fair  Gtueen  of  Adria's  stormy  gulf, 
The  mart  of  nations  !  long,  obedient  seas 
Roll'd  all  the  treasure  of  the  radiant  East. 
But  now  no  more.    Than  one  great  tyrant  worse 
(Whose  shared  oppression  lightens,  as  diffused,) 
Each  subject  tearing,  many  tyrants  rose. 
The  least  the  proudest.    Join'd  in  dark  cabal. 
They  jealous,  watchful,  silent,  and  severe, 
Cast  o'er  the  whole  indissoluble  chains : 
The  softer  shackles  of  luxurious  ease 
They  hkewise  added,  to  secure  their  sway. 
Thus  Venice  fainter  shines ;  and  Commerce  thus. 
Of  toil  impatient,  flags  the  drooping  sail. 
Bursting,  besides,  his  ancient  bounds,  he  took 
A  larger  circle  -.t  found  another  seat,§ 
Opening  a  thousand  ports,  and,  charm'd  with  toil. 
Whom  nothing  can  dismay,  far  other  sons. 

'  The  mountain  then,  clad  with  eternal  snow, 
Confess'd  my  power.  Deep  as  the  rampant  rocks, 
By  Nature  thrown  insuperable  round, 
I  planted  there  a  league  of  friendly  states,  II 
And  bade  plain  Freedom  there  ambition  be. 
There  in  the  vale,  where  rural  plenty  fills, 
From  lakes,  and  meads,  and  furrow'd  fields,  her 
horn, 

Chief, IT  where  the  Leman  pure  emits  the  Rhone, 
Rare  to  be  seen  !  unguilty  cities  rise. 
Cities  of  brothers  form'd :  while  equal  life, 


*  Venice  was  the  most  flourishing  city  in  Europe,  with  re- 
gard to  trade  before  the  passage  to  the  East  Indies  by  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope  and  America  was  discovered. 

t  Those  who  fled  to  some  marshes  in  the  Adriatic  gulf, 
from  the  desolation  spread  over  Italy  by  an  irruption  of  the 
Huns,  first  founded  there  this  famous  city,  about  the  begin- 
ning of  the  flfdt  century, 

J  The  Main  Ofean.  §  Great  Britain. 

1!  Swiss  Cantorw. 

•I  Geneva,  situated  on  Lacus  Lcmanus,  a  small  state,  but 
iitoble  example  of  the  blessings  of  civ'l  and  religious  liberty.  I 


Accorded  gracious  with  revolving  power. 
Maintains  them  free ;  and,  in  their  happy  streets. 
Nor  cruel  deed,  nor  misery,  is  known. 
For  valour,  faith,  and  innocence  of  life, 
Renown'd,  a  rough,  laborious  people,  there, 
Not  only  give  the  dreadful  Alps  to  smile, 
And  press  their  culture  on  retiring  snows ; 
But,  to  firm  order  train'd  and  patient  war, 
They  hkewise  know,  beyond  the  nerve  remiss 
Of  mercenary  force,  how  to  defend 
The  tasteful  little  their  hard  toil  has  earn'd, 
And  the  proud  arm  of  Bourbon  to  defy. 

'  E'en,  cheer'd  by  me,  their  shaggy  mountains 
charm. 

More  than  or  Gallic  or  ItaUan  plains; 
And  sickening  Fancy  oft,  when  absent  long, 
Pines*  to  behold  their  Alpine  views  again; 
The  hollow-winding  stream :  the  vale,  fair  spread 
Amid  an  amphitheatre  of  hills  ; 
Whence,  vapour-wing'd,  the  sudden  t^empest 
springs : 

From  steep  to  steep  ascending,  the  gay  train 
Of  fogs,  thick-roU'd  into  romantic  shapes: 
The  flitting  cloud,  against  the  summit  dash'd; 
And,  by  the  sun  illumined,  pouring  bright 
A  gemmy  shower ;  hung  o'er  amazing  rocks, 
The  mountain  ash,  and  solemn  sounding  pine : 
The  snow-fed  torrent,  in  white  mazes  tost, 
Down  to  the  clear  ethereal  lake  below : 
And,  high  o'ertopping  all  the  broken  scene, 
The  mountain  fading  into  sky ;  where  shines 
On  winter,  winter  shivering,  and  whose  top 
Licks  from  their  cloudy  magazine  the  snows. 

'  From  these  descending,  as  I  waved  my  course 
O'er  vast  Germania,  the  ferocious  nurse 
Of  hardy  men,  and  hearts  aflJronting  death, 
I  gave  some  favour'd  citiest  there  to  lift 
A  nobler  brow,  and  through  their  swarming  streets, 
More  busy,  wealthy,  cheerful,  and  alive, 
In  each  contented  face  to  look  my  soul. 

'  Thence  the  loud  Baltic  passing,  black  with 
storm. 

To  wintry  Scandanavia's  utmost  bound ; 
There,  I  the  manly  race,t  the  parent  hive 
Of  the  mix'd  kingdoms,  form'd  into  a  state 
More  regularly  free.    By  keener  air 
Their  genius  purged,  and  temper'd  hard  by  frost. 
Tempest  and  toil  their  nerves,  the  sons  of  those 
Whose§  only  terror  was  a  bloodless  death, 
They  wise  and  dauntless,  still  sustain  my  cause. 
Yet  there  I  fix'd  not.    Turning  to  the  south, 
The  whispering  zephyrs  sigh'd  at  my  delay.' 
Here,  with  the  shifted  vision,  burst  my  joy  :- 


*  The  Swiss,  after  having  been  long  absent  from  their  na- 
live  country,  are  seized  with  such  a  violent  desire  of  seeing  it 
again,  as  affects  them  with  a  kind  of  languishing  indisposition, 
called  the  Swics  sirkness. 

1  The  Hans  Towns,   i  The  Swedes.   §  See  note  §  p.  95. 


LIBERTY. 


93 


'  O  the  dear  prospect !  O  majestic  view ! 
See  Britain's  empire!  lo!  the  watery  vast 
Wide  waves,  diffusing  the  cerulean  plain. 
And  now,  methinks,  like  clouds  at  distance  seen, 
Emerging  white  from  deeps  of  ether,  dawn 
My  kindred  cliffs,  whence,  wafted  in  the  gale, 
Ineffable,  a  secret  sweetness  breathes. 
Goddess,  forgive  ! — My  heart,  surprised,  o'erflows 
With  filial  fondness  for  the  land  you  bless.' 
As  parents  to  a  child  complacent  deign 
Approvance,  the  celestial  brightness  smiled; 
Then  thus — '  As  o'er  the  wave  resounding  deep, 
To  my  near  reign,  the  happy  isle,  I  steer'd 
With  easy  wing;  behold!  from  surge  to  surge, 
Stalk'd  the  tremendous  Genius  of  the  Deep. 
Around  him  clouds,  in  mingled  tempest,  hung ; 
Thicl* flashing  meteors ^rown'd  his  starry  head; 
And  ready  thunder  redden'd  in  his  hand, 
Or  from  it  stream'd  compress'd  the  gloomy  cloud 
Where'er  he  look'd,  the  trembling  waves  repoil'd 
He  needs  but  strike  the  conscious  flood,  and  shook 
From  shore  to  shore  in  agitation  dire, 
It  works  his  dreadful  will.    To  me  his  voice 
(Like  that  hoarse  blast  that  round  the  cavern  howls, 
Mix'd  with  the  murmurs  of  the  falling  main,) 
Address'd,  began — "  By  Fate  commission'd,  go, 
My  Sister-Goddess  now,  to  yon  bless'd  isle. 
Henceforth  the  partner  of  my  rough  domain. 
All  my  dread  walks  to  Britons  open  lie. 
Those  that  refulgent,  or  with  rosy  morn. 
Or  yellow  evening,  flame ;  those  that,  profuse, 
Drunk  by  equator  suns,  severely  shine; 
Or  those  that,  to  the  poles  approaching,  rise 
In  billows  rolling  into  Alps  of  ice. 
E'en,  yet  untouch'd  by  daring  keel,  be  theirs 
The  vast  Pacific;  that  on  other  worlds. 
Their  future  conquest,  rolls  resounding  tides. 
Long  I  maintain'd  inviolate  my  reign; 
Nor  Alexanders  me,  nor  Csesars  braved. 
Still,  in  the  crook  of  shore,  the  coward  sail 
Till  now  low  crept ;  and  peddling  commerce  ply'd 
Between  near  joining  lands.    For  Britons,  chief, 
It  was  reserved,  with  star -directed  prow, 
To  dare  the  middle  deep,  and  drive  assured 
To  distant  nations  through  the  pathless  main. 
Chief,  for  their  fearless  hearts  the  glory  waits, 
^ong  months  from  land,  while  the  black  stoimy 
night 

4  Around  them  rages,  on  the  groaning  mast 
With  unshook  knee  to  know  their  giddy  way; 
To  sing,  unquell'd,  amid  the  lashing  wave; 
To  laugh  at  danger.    Theirs  the  triumph  be, 
By  deep  Invention's  keen  pervading  eye. 
The  heart  of  Courage,  and  the  hand  of  Toil, 
Each  conquer'd  ocean  staining  with  their  blood, 
Instead  of  treasure  robb'd  by  ruffian  war, 
Round  social  earth  to  circle  fair  exchange, 
And  bind  the  nations  in  a  golden  chain. 
To  these  I  honour'd  stoop.    Rushing  to  light 
I 


A  race  of  men  behold  !  whose  daring  deeds 
Will  in  renown  exalt  my  nameless  plains 
O'er  those  of  fabUng  earth,  as  hers  to  mine 
In  terror  yield.    Nay,  could  my  savage  heart 
Such  glories  check,  their  unsubmitting  soul 
Would  all  my  fury  brave,  my  tempest  climb, 
And  might  in  spite  of  me  my  kingdom  force." 
Here,  waiting  no  reply,  the  shadowy  power 
Eased  the  dark  sky,  and  to  the  deeps  return'd  : 
While  the  loud  thunder  rattUng  from  his  hand, 
Auspicious,  shook  opponent  Gahia's  shore. 

'  Of  this  encounter  glad,  my  way  to  land 
I  quick  pursued,  that  from  the  smiling  sea 
Received  me  joyous.    Loud  acclaims  were  heard ; 
And  music,  more  than  mortal,  warbling,  fiU'd 
With  pleased  astonishment  the  labouring  hind, 
Who  for  a  while  the  unfinish'd  furrow  left. 
And  let  the  listening  steer  forget  his  toil. 
Unseen  by  grosser  eye,  Britannia  breathed. 
And  her  aerial  train,  these  sounds  of  joy. 
For  of  old  time,  since  first  the  rushing  flood. 
Urged  by  almighty  power,  this  favour'd  isle 
Turn'd  flashing  from  the  continent  aside, 
Indented  shore  to  shore  responsive  still. 
Its  guardian  she — the  Goddess,  whose  staid  eye 
Beams  the  dark  azure  of  the  doubtful  dawn. 
Her  tresses,  like  a  flood  of  soften'd  light 
Through  clouds  imbrown'd,  in  waving  circles  play. 
Warm  on  her  cheek  sits  Beauty's  brightest  rose, 
Of  high  demeanour,  stately,  shedding  grace 
With  every  motion.    Full  her  rising  chest ; 
And  new  ideas,  from  her  finish'd  shape, 
Charm'd  Sculpture  taking  might  improve  her  art. 
Such  the  fair  Guardian  of  an  isle  that  boasts, 
Profuse  as  vernal  blooms,  the  fairest  dames. 
High  shining  on  the  promontory's  brow. 
Awaiting  me,  she  stood ;  with  hope  inflamed, 
By  my  mixed  spirit  burning  in  her  sons. 
To  firm,  to  polish,  and  exalt  the  state. 

'  The  native  Genii,  round  her,  radiant  smiled. 
Courage,  of  soft  deportment,  aspect  calm, 
Unboastful,  suffering  long,  and,  till  provoked, 
As  mild  and  harmless  as  the  sporting  child ; 
But,  on  just  reason,  once  his  fury  roused. 
No  lion  springs  more  eager  to  his  prey : 
Blood  is  a  pastime ;  and  his  heart,  elate. 
Knows  no  depressing  fear.    That  Virtue  known 
By  the  relenting  look,  whose  equal  heart 
For  others  feels,  as  for  another  self ; 
Of  various  name,  as  various  objects  wake, 
Warm  into  action,  the  kind  sense  within : 
Whether  the  blameless  poor,  the  nobly  maim'd, 
The  lost  to  reason,  the  declined  in  life, 
The  helpless  young  that  kiss  no  mother's  hand, 
And  the  gray  second  infancy  of  age, 
She  gives  in  public  families  to  live, 
A  sight  to  gladden  Heaven !  whether  she  stands 
Fair  beckoning  at  the  hospitable  gate, 
And  bids  the  stranger  take  repose  and  joy; 


94 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Whether,  to  solace  honest  labour,  she 
Rejoices  those  that  make  the  land  rejoice: 
Or  whether  to  Philosophy,  and  Arts, 
(At  once  the  basis  and  the  finish'd  pride 
Of  government  and  life)  she  spreads  her  hand ; 
Nor  knows  her  gift  profuse,  nor  seems  to  know, 
Doubling  her  bounty,  that  she  gives  at  all. 
Justice  to  these  her  awful  presence  join'd, 
The  mother  of  the  state !  no  low  revenge, 
No  turbid  passions  in  her  breast  ferment : 
Tender,  serene,  compassionate  of  vice, 
As  the  last  wo  that  can  afflict  mankind, 
She  punishment  awards ;  yet  of  the  good 
More  piteous  still,  and  of  the  suffering  whole, 
Awards  it  firm.    So  fair  her  just  decree. 
That,  in  his  judging  peers,  each  on  himself 
Pronounces  his  own  doom.    O  happy  land ! 
Where  reigns  alone  this  justice  of  the  free ! 
Mid  the  bright  group  Sincerity  his  front, 
Diffusive,  rear'd;  his  pure  untroubled  eye 
The  fount  of  truth.  The  thoughtful  Power,  apart, 
Now,  pensive,  cast  on  earth  his  fix'd  regard, 
Now,  touch'd  celestial,  launch'd  it  on  the  sky. 
The  Genius  he  whence  Britain  shines  supreme, 
The  land  of  light,  and  rectitude  of  mind. 
He,  too,  the  fire  of  fancy  feeds  intejise. 
With  all  the  train  of  passions  thence  derived : 
Not  kindling  quick,  a  noisy  transient  blaze, 
But  gradual,  silent,  lasting,  and  profound. 
Near  him  Retirement,  pointing  to  the  shade. 
And  Independence  stood :  the  generous  pair. 
That  simple  life,  the  quiet-whispering  grove. 
And  the  still  raptures  of  the  free-born  soul, 
To  cates  prefer  by  Virtue  brought,  not  earn'd, 
Proudly  prefer  them  to  the  servile  pomp, 
And  to  the  heart-embitter'd  joys  of  slaves. 
Or  should  the  latter,  to  the  public  scene 
Demanded,  quit  his  silvan  friend  awhile ; 
Nought  can  his  firmness  shake,  nothing  seduce 
His  zeal,  still  active  for  the  commonweal; 
Nor  stormy  tyrants,  nor  corruption's  tools, 
Foul  ministers,  dark-working  by  the  force 
Of  secret-sapping  gold.    All  their  vile  arts, 
Their  shameful  honours,  their  perfidious  gifts, 
He  greatly  scorns;  and,  if  he  must  betray 
His  plunder'd  country,  or  his  power  resign, 
A  moment's  parley  were  eternal  shame: 
Illustrious  into  private  life  again. 
From  dirty  levees  he  unstain'd  ascends, 
And  firm  in  senates  stands  the  patriot's  ground. 
Or  draws  new  vigour  in  the  peaceful  shade. 
Aloof  the  bashful  virtue  hover'd  coy. 
Proving  by  sweet  distrust  distrusted  worth. 
Rough  Labour  closed  the  train :  and  in  his  hand 
Rude,  callous,  sinew-swell'd,  and  black  with  toil, 
Came  maidy  Indignation.    Sour  he  seems. 
And  more  than  seems,  by  lawless  pride  assail'd; 
Yet  kind  at  heart,  and  just,  and  generous,  there 
No  vengeance  lurks,  no  p£i,le  insidious  gall : 


Even  in  the  very  luxury  of  rage. 
He  softening  can  forgive  a  gallant  foe ; 
The  nerye,  support,  and  glory  of  the  land 
Nor  be  Religion,  rational  and  free, 
Here  pass'd  in  silence ;  whose  enraptured  eye 
Sees  I-Ieaven  with  earth  connected,  human  things 
Link'd  to  divine :  who  not  from  servile  fear, 
By  rights  for  some  weak  tyrant  incense  fit, 
The  God  of  Love  adores,  but  from  a  heart 
Effusing  gladness,  into  pleasing  awe 
That  now  astonish'd  swells,  now  in  a  calm 
Of  fearless  confidence  that  smiles  serene; 
That  lives  devotion,  one  continual  hymn, 
And  then  most  grateful,  when  Heaven's  bounty 
most 

Is  right  enjoy'd.  This  ever  cheerful  Power 
O'er  the  raised  circle  ray'd  superior  day.  • 

'  I  joy'd  to  join  the  Virtues,  whence  my  reign 
O'er  Albion  was  to  rise.    Each  cheering  each, 
And,  like  the  circling  planets  from  the  sun, 
All  borrowing  beams  from  me,  a  heighten'd  zeal 
Impatient  fired  us  to  commence  our  toils, 
Or  pleasures  rather.    Long  the  pungent  time 
Pass'd  not  in  mutual  hails;  but,  through  the  land 
Darting  our  light,  we  shone  the  fogs  away. 

'  The  Virtues  conquer  with  a  single  look. 
Such  grace,  such  beauty,  such  victorious  light, 
Live  in  their  presence,  stream  in  every  glance, 
That  the  soul  won,  enamour'd,  and  refined. 
Grows  their  own  image,  pure  ethereal  flame. 
Hence  the  foul  Demons,  that  oppose  our  reign, 
Would  still  from  us  deluded  mortals  wrap ; 
Or  in  gross  shades  they  drown  the  visual  ray, 
Or  by  the  fogs  of  prejudice,  where  mix 
Falsehood  and  truth  confounded,  foil  the  sense 
With  vain  refracted  images  of  bliss. 
But  chief  around  the  court  of  flatter'd  kings 
They  roll  the  dusky  rampart,  wall  o'er  wall 
Of  darkest  pile,  and  with  their  thickest  shade 
Secure  the  throne.    No  savage  Alp,  the  den 
Of  wolves,  and  bears,  and  monstrous  things  ob- 
scene, 

That  vex  the  swain,  and  waste  the  country  round, 

Protected  lies  beneath  a  deeper  cloud. 

Yet  there  we  sometimes  send  a  searching  ray, 

As,  at  the  sacred  opening  of  the  morn. 

The  prowling  race  retire;  so,  pierced  severe. 

Before  our  potent  blaze  these  Demons  fly, 

And  all  their  works  dissolve  the  whisper'd  tale, 

That,  Uke  the  fabling  Nile,  no  fountain  knows. 
Fair-faced  Deceit,  whose  wily  conscious  eye 
Ne'er  looks  direct.  The  tongue  that  licks  the  dust, 
But,  when  it  safely  dares,  as  prompt  to  sting : 
Smooth  crocodile  Destruction,  whose  fell  tears 
Ensnare.    The  Janus-face  of  courtly  Pride ; 
One  to  superiors  heaves  submissive  eyes, 
On  hapless  worth  the  other  scowls  disdain: 
Cheeks  that  for  some  weak  tenderness,  alone, 
Some  virtuous  slip  can  wear  a  blush.  The  laugh 


LIBERTY. 


95 


Profane,  when  midnight  bowls  disclose  the  heart, 
At  starving  Virtue,  and  at  Virtue's  fools. 
Determined  to  be  broke,  the  plighted  faith; 
Nay  more,  the  godless  oath,  that  knows  no  ties. 
Soft-buzzing  Slander ;  silky  moths,  that  eat 
An  honest  name.    The  harpy  hand,  and  maw. 
Of  avaricious  Luxury;  who  makes 
The  throne  his  shelter,  venal  laws  his  fort, 
And,  his  service,  who  betrays  his  king. 

'  Now  turn  your  view,  and  mark  from  Celtic* 
night 

To  present  grandeur  how  my  Britain  rose. 

'Bold  were  those  Britons,  who,  the  careless  sons 
Of  Nature,  roam'd  the  forest-bounds,  at  once 
Their  verdant  city,  high-embowering  fane, 
And  the  gay  circle  of  their  woodland  wars : 
For  by  the  Druidt  taught,  that  death  but  shifts 
The  vital  scene,  they  that  prime  fear  despised; 
And,  prone  to  rush  on  steel,  disdain'd  to  spare 
An  ill  saved  life  that  must  again  return. 
Erect  from  Nature's  hand,  by  tyrant  force, 
And  still  more  tyrant  custom,  unsubdued, 
Man  knows  no  master  save  creating  Heaven, 
Or  such  as  choice  and  common  good  ordain. 
This  general  sense,  with  which  the  nations  I 
Promiscuous  fire,  in  Britons  burn'd  intense. 
Of  future  times  prophetic.    Witness,  Rome, 
Who  saw'st  thy  Csesar,  from  the  naked  land. 
Whose  only  fort  was  British  hearts,  repell'd, 
To  seek  Pharsalian  wreaths.    Witness,  the  toil. 
The  blood  of  ages,  bootless  to  secure, 
Beneath  an  empire'st  yoke,  a  stubborn  isle. 
Disputed  hard,  and  never  quite  subdued. 
The  ]North§  remain'd  untouch'd,  where  those  who 
scorn'd 

To  stoop  retired;  and,  to  their  keen  effort 
Yielding  at*  last,  recoil'dthe  Roman  power. 
In  vain,  unable  to  sustain  the  shock. 
From  sea  to  sea  desponding  legions  raised 
The  wall  immense,!!  and  yet,  on  summer's  eve. 
While  sport  his  lambkins  round,  the  shepherd's 
gaze. 

Continual  o'er  it  burst  the  northern  storm,ir 
As  often,  check'd,  receded ;  threatening  hoarse 
A  swift  return.    But  the  devoxxring  flood 
No  more  endured  control,  when,  to  support 
The  last  remains  of  empire,**  was  recall'd 


*  Great  Britain  was  peopled  by  the  Celtas  or  Gauls. 

t  The  Druids,  among  the  ancient  Gauis  and  Britons,  had 
the  care  and  direction  of  all  religious  matters. 

I  The  Roman  empire. 

§  Caledonia,  inhabited  by  the  Scots  and  Picts ;  whither  a 
great  many  Britons,  who  would  not  submit  to  the  Romans, 
retired. 

II  The  wall  of  Severus,  built  upon  Adrian's  rampart,  which 
ran  for  eighty  miles  quite  acros.^  the  country,  from  the  mouth 
of  the  Tyne  to  Solway  Fiith. 

t  Irruptions  of  the  Scots  andPicts. 

*  *  The  Roman  empire  being  miserably  torn  by  the  northern 

35  2  y  2 


The  weary  Roman,  and  the  Briton  lay 
Unnerved,  exhausted,  spiritless,  and  sunk. 
Great  proof!  how  men  enfeeble  into  slaves. 
The  sword*  bekind  him  flash'd ;  before  him  roar'd, 
Deaf  to  his  woes,  the  deep.    Forlorn,  around 
He  roll'd  his  eye,  not  sparkling  ardent  flame, 
As  when  Caractacust  to  battle  led 
Silurian  swains,  and  Boadiceat  taught 
Her  raging  troops  the  miseries  of  slaves. 

'Then  (sad  relief !)  from  the  bleak  coast,  that 
hears 

The  German  ocean  roar,  deep-blooming,  strong, 
And  yellow-hair'd,  the  blue-eyed  Saxon  came. 
He  came  implored,  but  came  with  other  aim 
Than  to  protect :  for  conquest  and  defence 
Suffices  the  same  arm.    With  the  fierce  race 
Pour'd  in  a  fresh  invigorating  stream. 
Blood,  where  unquell'd  a  mighty  spirit  glow'd. 
Rash  war,  and  perilous  battle,  their  delight; 
And  immature,  and  red  with  glorious  wounds, 
Unpeaceful  death  their  choice :  deriving  thence 
A  right  to  feast,  and  drain  immortal  bowls, 
In  Odin's  hall;§  whose  blazing  roof  resounds 
The  genial  uproar  of  those  shades,  who  fall 
In  desperate  fight,  or  by  some  brave  attempt; 
And  though  more  polish'd  times  the  martial  creed 
Disown,  yet  still  the  fearless  habit  lives. 
Nor  were  the  surly  gifts  of  war  their  all. 
Wisdom  was  likewise  theirs,  indulgent  laws, 
The  calm  gradations  of  art-nursing  peace, 
And  matchless  orders,  the  deep  basis  still 


nations,  Bntain  was  for  ever  abandoned  by  the  Romans  in  the 
year  426  or  427. 

"  The  Britons  applying  to  ^tius  the  Ronmn  general  for  as- 
sistance, thus  expressed  their  miserable  condition: — "We 
know  not  which  way  to  turn  us.  The  Barbarians  drive  us  to 
sea,  and  the  sea  forces  us  back  to  the  Barbarians;  between 
which  we  have  only  the  choice  of  two  deaths,  either  to  be 
swallowed  up  by  the  waves,  or  butchered  by  the  sword." 

t  King  of  the  Silures,  famous  for  his  great  exploits,  and  ac- 
counted the  best  general  Great  Britain  had  ever  produced. 
The  Silures  were  esteemed  the  bravest  and  most  powerful 
of  all  the  Britoqs :  they  inhabited  Herefordshire,  Radnorshire, 
Brecknockshire,  Monmouthshire,  and  Glamorganshire. 

J  Queen  of  the  Iceni. 

§  It  is  certain,  that  an  opinion  was  fixed  and  general  among 
them  (the  Goths)  that  death  was  but  the  entrance  into  another 
life;  that  all  men  who  lived  lazy  and  unactive  lives,  and  died 
natural  deaths,  by  sickness  or  by  age,  went  irito  vast  caves  un- 
der ground,  all  dark  and  miry,  full  of  noisome  creatures  usual 
to  such  places,  and  there  for  ever  groveled  in  endless  stencl- 
and  misery.  On  the  contrary,  all  who  gave  themselves  to 
warlike  actions  and  enterprises,  to  the  conquest  of  their  neigli- 
bours  and  the  slaughter  of  their  enemies,  and  died  in  battle, 
or  of  violent  deaths  upon  bold  adventures  or  resolutions,  went 
immediately  to  the  vast  hall  or  palace  of  Odin,  their  god  of 
war,  who  eternally  kept  open  house  for  all  such  guests,  whei-e 
they  were  entertained  at  infinite  tables,  in  perpetual  feasts  and 
mirth,  carousing  in  bowls  made  of  the  skulls  of  their  enemies 
they  had  slain ;  according  to  the  number  of  whom,  everyone 
in  these  mansions  of  pleasure  was  the  most  honoured  and  best 
entertained. 

Sir  William  Temple's  Essay  on  Heroic  Virtue. 


96 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


On  which  ascends  my  British  reign.  Untamed 
To  the  refining  subtleties  of  slaves, 
They  brought  a  happy  government  along  ; 
Form'd  by  that  freedom,  w^hich  with  secret  voice. 
Impartial  Nature  teaches  all  her  sons. 
And  which  of  old  through  the  whole  Scythian  mass 
I  strong  inspired.    Monarchical  their  state, 
But  prudently  confined,  and  mingled  wise 
Of  each  harmonious  power:  only,  too  much, 
Imperious  war  into  their  rule  infused, 
Prevail'd   their  General-King,  and  Chieftain- 
Thanes. 

*  In  many  a  field,  by  civil  fury  stain'd, 
Bled  the  discordant  Heptarchy;*  and  long 
(Educing  good  from  ill)  the  battle  groan'd; 
Ere,  blood-cemented,  Anglo-Saxon  saw 
Egbertt  and  Peace  on  one  united  throne. 

'  No  sooner  dawn'd  the  fair  disclosing  calm 
Of  brighter  days,  when  lo !  the  North  anew, 
With  stormy  nations  black,  on  England  pour'd 
Woes  the  severest  e'er  a  people  felt. 
The  Danish  Raven,*  lured  by  annual  prey, 
Hung  o'er  the  land  incessant.    Fleet  on  fleet 
Of  barbarous  pirates  unremitting  tore 
The  miserable  coast.    Before  them  stalk'd, 
Far  seen,  the  Demon  of  devouring  Flame ; 
Rapine,  and  Murder,  all  with  blood  besmear'dj 
Without  or  ear,  or  eye,  or  feeling  heart; 
While  close  behind  them  march'd  the  sallow 
Power 

Of  desolating  Famine,  who  delights 
In  grass-grown  cities,  and  in  desert  fields; 
And  purple-spotted  Pestilence,  by  whom 
E'en  Friendship  scared,  in  sickening  horror  sinks 
Each  social  sense  and  tenderness  of  life. 
Fixing  at  last,  the  sanguinary  race. 
Spread,  from  the  Humber's  loud  resounding  shore 
To  where  the  Thames  devolves  his  gentle  maze, 
And  with  superior  arm  the  Saxon  awed. 
But  Superstition  first,  and  monkish  dreams, 
And  monk-directed  cloister-seeking  kings, 
Had  eat  away  his  vigour,  eat  away 
His  edge  of  Courage,  and  depress'd  the  soul 
Of  conquering  Freedom,  which  he  once  respired. 
Thus  cruel  agespas'^'d;  and  rare  appear'd 
White-mantled  Peace,  exulting  o'er  the  vale. 
As  when,  with  Alfred,§  from  the  wilds  she  came 


*  The  seven  kingdoms  of  the  Anglo-  Saxons,  considered  as 
being  united  into  one  common  government,  under  a  general 
in  chief  or  monarch,  and  by  the  means  of  an  assembly  gene- 
ral, or  wittenagemot. 

\  Egbert,  King  of  Wessex,  who,  after  having  reduced  all  the 
other  kingdoms  of  the  Heptarchy  under  his  dominion,  was 
the  first  king  of  England. 

J  A  famous  Danish  standard  was  called  Reafan,  or  Raven. 
The  Danes  imagined  that,  before  a  battle,  the  Raven  wrought 
upon  this  standard  clapt  its  wings  or  hung  down  its  head,  in 
token  of  victory  or  defeat. 

§  Alfred  the  Great,  renowned  in  war  and  no  less  famous 


To  policed  cities  and  protected  plains. 
Thus  by  degrees  the  Saxon  empire  sunk. 
Then  set  entire  in  Hastings'*  bloody  field. 

"  Compendious  war!  (on  Britain's  glory  bent 
So  fate  ordain'd)  in  that  decisive  day. 
The  haughty  Norman  seized  at  once  an  isle. 
For  which,  through  many  a  century,  in  vain, 
The  Roman,  Saxon,  Dane,  had  toil'd  and  bled. 
Of  Gothic  nations  this  the  final  burst; 
And,  mix'd  the  genius  of  these  people  all, 
Their  virtues  mix'd  in  one  exalted  stream. 
Here  the  rich  tide  of  English  blood  grew  full, 

'  Awhile  my  Spirit  slept ;  the  land  awhile, 
Afl^righted,  droop'd  beneath  despotic  rage. 
Instead  of  Edward'st  equal  gentle  laws. 
The  furious  victor's  partial  will  prevail'd. 
All  prostrate  lay ;  and,  in  the  secret  shade, 
Deep  stung  but  fearful  Indignation  gnash 'd 
His  teeth.    Of  freedom,  property,  despoil'd, 
And  of  their  bulwark,  arms ;  with  castles  crush'd, 
With  ruffians  quarter'd  o'er  the  bridled  land ; 
The  shivering  wretches,  at  the  curfewt  sound, 
Dejected  shrunk  into  their  sordid  beds,  ^ 
And,  through  the  moijrnful  gloom  of  ancient  times 
Mused  sad,  or  dreamt  of  better.    E'en  to  feed 
A  tyrant's  idle  sport  the  peasant  starved : 
To  the  wild  herd,  the  pasture  of  the  tame,  , 
The  cheerful  hamlet,  spiry  town,  was  given, 
And  the  brown  forest§  roughen'd  wide  around. 

'  But  this  so  dead,  so  vile  submission,  long 
Endured  not.  Gathering  force,  my  gradual  flame 
Shook  off" the  mountain  of  tyrannic  sway. 
Unused  to  bend,  impatient  of  control, 
Tyrants  themselves  the  common  tyrant  check'd. 
The  Church,  by  kings  intractable  and  fierce, 
Denied  her  portion  of  the  plunder'd  state, 
Or  tempted,  by  the  timorous  and  weak, 
To  gain  new  ground,  first  taught  their  rapine  law. 
The  Barons  next  a  nobler  league  began. 
Both  those  of  English  and  6f  Norman  race, 
In  one  fraternal  nation  blended  now. 
The  nation  of  the  Free !  press'd  by  a  bandll 


in  peace  for  his  many  excellent  institutions,  particularly  that 
of  juries. 

*  The  battle  of  Hastings,  in  which  Harold  II.  the  last  of  the 
Saxon  kings,  was  slain,  and  William  the  Conqueror  made 
himself  master  of  England. 

t  Edward  III,  the  Confessor,  who  reduced  the  West  Saxon, 
Mercian,  and  Danish  laws  into  one  body ;  which  from  that 
time  became  common  to  all  England,  under  the  name  of 
"The  Laws  of  Edward." 

}  The  Curfew-Bell  (from  the  French  Couvrefeu)  which 
was  rung  every  night  at  eight  of  the  clock,  to  warn  the  Eng- 
lish to  put  out  their  fires  and  candles,  under  the  penalty  of  a 
severe  fine. 

§  The  New  Forest  in  Hampshire;  to  make  which,  the 
country  for  above  thirty  miles  in  compass  was  laid  waste. 

II  On  the  5lh  of  June,  1215,  King  John,  met  by  the  Barons  on 
RunniMiicde,  signed  the  Great  Charter  of  Liberties,  or  Magna 
Charta. 


LIBERTY. 


97 


Of  Patriots,  ardent  as  the  summer's  noon 
That  looks  deUghted  on,  the  tyrant  see ! 
Mark !  how  with  feign'd  alacrity  he  bears 
lliS  strong  reluctance  down,  his  dark  revenge, 
And  gives  the  Charter,  by  vi^hich  life  indeed 
Becomes  of  price,  a  glory  to  be  man. 

'  Through  this,  and  through  succeeding  reigns 
affirm'd 

These  long-contested  rights,  the  w^holesome  winds 
Of  Opposition*  hence  began  to  blow, 
And  often  since  have  lent  the  country  life. 
Before  their  breath  Corruption's  insect-blights, 
The  darkening  clouds  of  evil  counsel  fly; 
Or  should  they  sounding  swell  a  putrid  court, 
A  pestilential  ministry,  they  purge. 
And  ventilated  states  renew  their  bloom. 

'  Though  with  the  temper'd  Monarchy  here 
mix'd 

Aristocratic  sway,  the  People  still, 
Flatter'd  by  this  or  that,  as  interest  lean'd. 
No  full  protection  knew.    For  me  reserved. 
And  for  my  Commons,  was  that  glorious  turn. 
They  crown'd  my  first  attempt,  in  senatest  rose 
The  fort  of  Freedom !    Slow  till  then,  alone, 
Had  work'd  that  general  liberty,  that  soul 
Which  generous  nature  breathes,  and  which, 
when  left 

By  me  to  bondage,  was  corrupted  Rome. 

I  through  the  northern  nations  wide  diffused. 

Hence,  many  a  people,  fierce  with  freedom,  rush'd 

From  the  rude  iron  regions  of  the  North. 

To  Libyan  deserts  swarm  protruding  swarm. 

And  pour'd  new  spirit  through  a  slavish  world. 

Yet  o'er  these  Gothic  states,  the  King  and  Chiefs 

Retain'd  the  high  prerogative  of  war. 

And  with  enormous  property  engross'd 

The  mingled  power.    But  on  Britannia's  shore 

Now  present,  I  to  raise  my  reign  began 

By  raising  the  Democracy,  the  third 

And  broadest  bulwark  of  the  guarded  state. 

Then  was  the  full  the  perfect  plan  disclosed 

Of  Britain's  matchless  constitution,  mix'd 

Of  mutual  checking  and  supporting  powers, 

King,  Lords,  and  Commons;  nor  the  name  of  free 

Deserving,  while  the  vassal-many  droop'd: 


*  The  league  formed  by  the  Barons,  during  the  reign  of 
John,  in  the  year  1213,  was  the  first  confederacy  made  in 
England  in  defence  of  the  nation's  interest  against  the  king. 

§  The  Commons  are  generally  thought  to  have  been  first 
represented  in  Parliament  towards  the  end  of  Henry  the 
Third's  reign.  To  a  Parliament  called  in  the  year  1264,  each 
county  was  ordered  to  send  four  knights,  as  representatives 
of  their  respective  shires:  and  to  a  parliament  called  in  the 
year  following,  each  county  was  ordered  to  send,  as  their  re- 
presentatives, two  knights,  and  each  city  and  borough  as 
many  citizens  and  burgesses  Till  then,  history  makes  no 
mention  of  them ;  whence  a  very  strong  argument  may  be 
drawn,  to  fix  the  original  of  the  House  of  Commons  to  that 
era. 


For  since  the  moment  of  the  whole  they  form, 
So,  as  depress'd  or  raised,  the  balance  they 
Of  public  welfare  and  of  glory  cast. 
Mark  from  this  period  the  continual  proof. 

'  When  Kings  of  narrow  genius,  minion-rid, 
Neglecting  faithful  worth  for  fawning  slaves; 
Proudly  regardless  of  their  people's  plaints, 
And  poorly  passive  of  insulting  foes; 
Double,  not  prudent,  obstinate,  not  firm, 
Their  mercy  fear,  necessity  their  faith; 
Instead  of  generous  fire,  presumptuous,  hot, 
Rash  to  resolve,  and  slothful  to  perform; 
Tyrants  at  once  and  slaves,  imperious,  mean 
To  want  rapacious  joining  shameful  waste ; 
By  counsels  weak  and  wicked,  easy  roused 
To  paltry  schemes  of  absolute  command. 
To  seek  their  splendour  in  their  sure  disgrace, 
And  in  a  broken  ruin'd  people  wealth: 
When  such  o'ercast  the  state,  no  bond  or  love, 
No  heart,  no  soul,  no  unity,  no  nerve, 
Combined  the  loose  disjointed  pubhc,  lost 
To  fame  abroad,  to  happiness  at  home. 

'  But  when  an  Edward*  and  a  Henryt  breathed 
Through  the  charm'd whole  one  all-exerting  soul: 
Drawn  sympathetic  from  his  dark  retreat. 
When  wide- attracted  merit  round  them  glow'd : 
Then  counsels  just,  extensive,  generous,  firm, 
Amid  the  maze  of  state,  determined  kept 
Some  ruling  point  in  view:  when,  on  the  stock 
Of  pubUc  good  and  glory  grafted,  spread 
Their  palms,  their  laurels;  or.  if  thence  they  stray'd, 
Swift  to  return,  and  patient  of  restraint  : 
When  regal  state,  pre-eminence  of  place, 
They  scorn'd  to  deem  pre-eminence  of  ease. 
To  be  luxurious  drones,  that  only  rob 
The  busy  hive:  as  in  distinction,  power, 
Indulgence,  honour,  and  advantage,  first ; 
When  they  too  claim'd  in  virtue,  danger,  toil, 
Superior  rank;  with  equal  hand  prepared 
To  guard  the  subject,  and  to  quell  the  foe: 
When  such  with  me  their  vital  influence  shed, 
No  mutter'd  grievance,  hopeless  sigh,  was  heard; 
No  foul  distrust  through  wary  senates  ran, 
Confined  their  bounty,  and  their  ardour  quench'd: 
On  aid,  unquestion'd  liberal  aid  was  given : 
Safe  in  their  conduct,  by  their  valour  fired, 
Fond  where  they  led  victorious  armies  rush'd ; 
And  Cressy,  Poitiers,  Agincourtt  proclaim 
What  Kings  supported  by  almighty  Love, 
And  People  fired  with  Liberty,  can  do. 

'  Be  veil'd  the  savage  reigns,§  when  kindred  rage 
The  numerous  once  Plantagenets  devour'd, 
A  race  to  vengeance  vow'd !  and,  when  oppress'd 
By  private  feuds,  almost  extinguish 'd  lay 


*  Edward  EI.  t  Henry  V. 

t  The  famous  battles  gained  by  the  English  over  the  French. 
§  During  the  civil  wars  betwixt  the  families  of  York  and 
Lancaster. 


THOMSON' 


"'S  WORKS. 


My  quivering  flame.  But,  in  the  next,  behold ! 
A  cautious  tyrant*  lend  it  oil  anew. 

Proud,  dark,  suspicious,  brooding  o'er  his  gold, 
As  how  to  fix  his  throne  he  jealous  cast 
His  crafty  views  around ;  pierced  with  a  ray, 
Which  on  his  timid  mind  I  darted  full. 
He  mark'd  the  Barons  of  excessive  sway, 
At  pleasure  making  and  unmaking  kings;! 
And  hence  to  crush  these  petty  tyrants,  plann'd 
A  law,?  that  let  them  by  the  silent  waste 
Of  luxury,  their  landed  wealth  diffuse. 
And  with  that  wealth  their  implicated  power. 
By  soft  degrees  a  mighty  change  ensued. 
E'en  working  to  this  day.  With  streams,  deduced 
From  these  diminish'd  floods,  the  country  smiled. 
As  when  impetuous  from  the  snow-heap'd  Alps, 
To  vernal  suns  relenting,  pours  the  Rhine;, 
While,  undivided,  oft,  with  wasteful  sweep, 
He  foams  along;  but  through  Batavian  meads, 
Branch'd  into  fair  canals,  indulgent  flows; 
Waters  a  thousand  fields;  and  culture,  trade, 
Towns,  meadows,  gUding  ships,  und  villas  mix'd, 
A  rich,  a  wondrous  landscape  rises  round. 
His  furious  son,§  the  soul  enslaving  chain,tl 
Which  many  a  doting  venerable  age 
Had  link  by  link  strong  twisted  round  the  land, 
Shook  off.    No  longer  could  be  borne  a  power, 
From  Heaven  pretended,  to  deceive,  to  void 
Each  solemn  tie,  to  plunder  without  bounds, 
To  curb  the  generous  soul,  to  fool  mankind; 
And,  wild  at  last,  to  plunge  into  a  sea 
Of  blood  and  horror.    The  returning  light. 
That  first  through  WicklifFlF  streak'd  the  priestly 
gloom. 

Now  burst  in  open  day.    Bared  to  the  blaze, 
Forth  from  the  haunts  of  Superstition**  crawled 
Her  motley  sons,  fantastic  figures  all ; 
And,  wide  dispersed,  their  useless  fetid  wealth 
In  graceful  labour  bloom'd,  and  fruits  of  peace. 

'  Trade,  join'd  to  these,  on  every  sea  display'd 
A  daring  canvass,  pour'd  with  every  tide 
A  golden  flood.    From  other  worldstt  were  roll'd 


'  Henry  VH. 

t  The  famous  Earl  of  Warwick,  during  the  reigns  of  Henry 
VI.  and  Edward  IV.  was  called  the  '  King  Maker.' 

t  Permitting  the  Barons  to  alienate  their  lands. 

§  Henry  VIII.  II  Of  papal  dominion. 

IT  John  Wicklift,  doctor  of  divinity,  who,  towards  the  close 
of  the  fourteenth  century,  published  doctrines  very  contrary 
to  those  of  the  church  of  Rome,  and  particularly  denying  the 
papal  authority.  His  followers  grew  very  numerous,  and 
were  called  Lollards. 

*  •  Suppression  of  monasteries. 

It  The  Spanish  West  Indies. 


The  worst  the  zeal-inflamed  barbarian  drew. 
Be  no  such  horrid  commerce,  Britain,  thine! 
But  want  for  want,  with  mutual  aid,  supply. 
'  The  Commons  thus  enrich'd,  and  powerful 
grown, 

Against  the  Barons  weigh'd.    Eliza  then. 
Amid  these  doubtful  motions,  steady,  gave 
The  beam  to  fix.    She!  like  the  secret  Eye, 
That  never  closes  on  a  guarded  world. 
So  sought,  so  mark'd,  so  seized  the  public  good, 
That  self-supported,  without  one  ally. 
She  awed  her  inward,  quell'd  her  circling  foes. 
Inspired  by  me,  beneath  her  sheltering  arm, 
In  spite  of  raging  universal  sway* 
And  raging  seas  repress'd,  the  Belgic  states, 
My  bulwark  on  the  continent,  arose. 
Matchless  in  all  the  spirit  of  her  days ! 
With  confidence,  unbounded,  fearless  love 
Elate,  her  fervent  people  waited  gay, 
Cheerful  demanded  the  long  threaten'd  fleet,t 
And  dash'd  the  pride  of  Spain  around  their  isle. 
Nor  ceased  the  British  thunder  here  to  rage : 
The  deep,  reclaim'd,  obey'd  its  awful  call ; 
In  fire  and  smoke  Iberian  ports  involved, 
The  trembling  foe  even  to  the  centre  shook 
Of  their  new  conquer'd  world,  and,  skulking, 
stole 

By  veering  winds  their  Indian  treasure  home. 
Meantime,  Peace,  Plenty,  Justice,  Science,  Arts, 
With  softer  laurels  crown'd  her  happy  reign. 
As  yet  uncircumscribed  the  regal  power, 
And  wild  and  vague  prerogative  remain'd ; 
A  wide  voracious  gulf,  where  swallow'd  oft 
The  helpless  subject  lay.    This  to  reduce 
To  the  just  limit  was  my  great  effort. 

'  By  means  that  evil  seem  to  narrow  man, 
Superior  Beings  work  their  mystic  will : 
From  storm  and  trouble  thus  a  settled  calm, 
At  last,  effulgent,  o'er  Britannia  smiled. 

'  The  gathering  tempest,  Heaven-commission'd, 
came. 

Came  in  the  prince,?  who,  drunk  with  flattery, 
dreamt 

His  vain  pacific  counsels  ruled  the  world  ; 
Though  scorn'd  abroad,  bewilder'd  in  a  maze 
Of  fruitless  treaties ;  while  at  home  enslaved, 
And  by  a  worthless  crew  insatiate  drain'd, 
He  lost  his  people's  confidence  and  love : 
Irreparable  loss  !  whence  crowns  become 
An  anxious  burden.    Years  inglorious  pass'd: 
Triumphant  Spain  the  vengeful  draught  enjoy'd : 
Abandon'd  Frederick!  pined,  and  Raleigh  bled. 


*  The  dominion  of  the  house  of  Austria. 

t  The  Spanish  Armada.  Rapin  says,  that  after  proper  mea^ 
sures  had  been  taken,  the  enemy  was  expected  with  uncom- 
mon alacrity. 

i  .Tames  I. 

§  Elector  Palatine,  and  who  had  been  chosen  King  of  Bohe- 
mia, but  was  stripped  of  all  his  dominions  and  dignities  by 


The  guilty  glittering  stores,  whose  fatal  charms, 
By  the  plain  Indian  happily  despised, 
Yet  work'd  his  wo ;  and  to  the  blissful  groves, 
Where  Nature  lived  herself  among  her  sons. 
And  Innocence  and  Joy  for  ever  dwelt. 
Drew  rage  unknown  to  pagan  climes  before, 


LIBERTY. 


99 


But  nothing  that  to  these  internal  broils, 
That  rancour,  he  began ;  while  lawless  sway 
He,  with  his  slavish  Doctors,  tried  to  rear 
On  metaphysic,*  on  enchanted  ground, 
And  all  the  mazy  quibbles  of  the  schools : 
As  if  for  one,  and  sometimes  for  the  worst. 
Heaven  had  mankind  in  vengeance  only  made. 
Vain  the  pretence !  not  so  the  dire  effect, 
The  fierce,  the  foolish  discordt  thence  derived, 
That  tears  the  country  still,  by  party  ra,ge 
And  ministerial  clamour  kept  alive. 
In  action  weak,  and  for  the  wordy  war 
Best  fitted,  faint  this  prince  pursued  his  claim : 
Content  to  teach  the  subject  herd,  how  great, 
How  sacred  he !  how  despicable  they  ! 

'  But  his  unyielding  sont  these  doctrines  drank. 
With  all  a  bigot's  rage ;  (/who  never  damps 
By  reasoning  his  fire)  and  what  they  taught, 
Warm,  and  tenacious,  into  practice  push'd. 
Senates,  in  vain,  their  kind  restraint  applied : 
The  more  they  struggled  to  support  the  laws, 
His  justice-dreading  ministers  the  more 
Drove  him  beyond  their  bounds.    Tired  with  the 
check 

Of  faithful  Love,  and  with  the  flattery  pleased 
Of  false  designing  Guilt,  the  fountain§  he 
Of  Public  Wisdom  and  of  Justice  shut. 
Wide  mourn'd  the  land.    Straight  to  the  voted 
aid 

Free,  cordial,  large,  of  never  failing  source. 
The  illegal  imposition  follow'd  harsh. 
With  execration  given,  or  ruthless  squeezed 
From  an  insulted  people,  by  a  band 
Of  the  worst  ruffians,  those  of  tyrant  power. 
Oppression  walk'd  at  large,  and  pour'd  abroad 
Her  unrelenting  train :  informers,  spies, 
Bloodhounds,  that  sturdy  Freedom  to  the  grove  ' 
Pursue ;  projectors  of  aggrieving  schemes. 
Commerce  to  load  for  unprotected  seas, II 
To  sell  the  starving  many  to  the  few,1I 
And  drain  a  thousand  ways  the  exhausted  land. 
E'en  from  that  place,  whence  healing  Peace  should 
flow. 

And  Gospel  truth,  inhuman  bigots  shed 
Their  poison**  round ;  and  on  the  venal  bench, 
Instead  of  justice,  party  held  the  scale. 
And  violence  the  sword.    Afflicted  years. 
Too  patient,  felt  at  last  their  vengeance  full. 


the  Emperor  Ferdinand,  while  James  the  First,  his  father-in- 
law,  being  amused  from  time  to  time,  endeavoured  to  mediate 
a  peace. 

*  The  monstrous  and  till  then  unheard-of  doctrines  of  divine 
indefeasible  hereditary  right,  passive  obedience,  &c. 

t  The  parties  of  Whig  and  Tory.  J  Charles  I. 

§  Parliaments.         il  Ship-money.        TT  Monopolies. 

**  The  raging  High-Church  sermons  of  these  times,  inspir- 
ing a  spirit  of  slavish  submission  to  the  court,  and  of  bitter 
persecution  against  those  whom  they  call  Church  and  State 
Puritans, 


'Mid  the  low  murmurs  of  submissive  fear 
And  mingled  rage,  my  Hamdben  raised  his  voico, 
And  to  the  laws  appeal'd;  the  laws  no  more 
In  judgment  sat,  behoved  some  other  ear. . 
When  instant  from  the  keen  resentive  North, 
By  long  oppression,  by  religion  roused. 
The  guardian  army  came.   Beneath  its  wing 
Was  call'd,  fhough  meant  to  furnish  hostile  aid, 
The  more  than  Roman  senate.    There  a  flame 
Broke  out,  that  clear'd,  consumed,  renew'd  the 
land. 

In  deep  motion  hurl'd,  nor  Greece,  nor  Rome 
Indignant  bursting  from  a  tyrant's  chain. 
While,  full  of  me,  each  agitated  soul 
Strung  every  nerve,  and  flamed  in  every  eye, 
Had  e'er  beheld  such  light  and  heat  combined! 
Such  heads  and  hearts  '.  such  dreadful  zeal,  led  on 
By  calm  majestic  wisdom,  taught  its  course 
What  nuisance  to  devour ;  such  wisdom  fired 
With  unabating  zeal,  and  aim'd  sincere 
To  clear  the  weedy  state,  restore  the  laws. 
And  for  the  future  to  secure  their  sway. 

'  This  then  the  purpose  of  my  mildest  sons. 
But  man  is  blind.    A  nation  once  inflamed 
(Chief,  should  the  breath  of  factions  fury  blow, 
With  the  wild  rage  of  mad  enthusiast  swell'd) 
Not  easy  cools  again.    From  breast  to  breast, 
From  eye  to  eye,  the  kindling  passions  mix 
In  heighten 'd  blaze;  and,  ever  wise  and  just, 
High  Heaven  to  gracious  ends  directs  the  storm. 
Thus  in  one  conflagration  Britain  wrapt, 
And  by  Confusion's  lawless  sons  despoil'd. 
Kings,  Lords,  and  Commons,  thundering  to  the 
ground. 

Successive,  rush'd— Lo !  from  their  ashes  rose. 
Gay  beaming  radiant  youth,  the  Phoenix  State.* 

'  The  grievous  yoke  of  vassalage,  the  yoke 
Of  private  life,  lay  by  those  flames  dissolved ; 
And,  from  the  wasteful,  the  luxurious  king,t 
Was  purchased*  that  which  taught  the  young  to 
bend. 

Stronger  restored,  the  Commons  tax'd  the  whole, 
And  built  on  that  eternal  rock  their  power. 
The  Crown,  of  its  hereditary  wealth  ^ 
Despoil'd,  on  senates  more  dependent  grew, 
And  they  more  frequent,  more  assured.  Yet  lived, 
And  in  full  vigour  spread  that  bitter  root, 
The  passive  doctrines,  by  their  patrons  first, 
Opposed  ferocious,  when  they  touch  themselves. 

'  This  wild  delusive  cant;  the  rash  cabal 
Of  hungry  courtiers,  ravenous  for  prey; 
The  bigot,  restless  in  a  double  chain 
To  bind  anew  the  land;  the  constant  need 
Of  finding  faithless  means,  of  shifting  forms, 
And  flattering  senates,  to  supply  his  waste ; 
These  tore  some  moments  from  the  careless  prince, 

*  At  the  Restoration.  f  Charles  IL 

t  Court  of  Wards. 


100 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


And  in  his  breast  awaked  the  kindred  plan.  • 
By  dangerous  softness  long  he  mined  his  way ; 
By  subtle  arts,  dissimulating  deep; 
By  sharing  what  corruption  shower'd,  profuse; 
By  breathing  wide  the  gay  licentious  plague, 
And  pleasing  manners,  fitted  to  deceive. 

'  At  last  subsided  the  delirious  joy,^ 
On  whose  high  billow,  from  the  saintly  reign, 
The  nation  drove  too  far.    A  pension'd  king, 
Against  his  country  bribed  by  Gallic  gold ; 
The  Port*  pernicious  sold,  the  Scylla  since 
And  fell  Charybdis  of  the  British  seas ; 
Freedom  attack'd  abroad,t  with  surer  blow 
To  cut  it  off  at  home ;  the  saviour  league? 
Of  Europe  broke ;  the  progress  e'en  advanced 
Of  universal  sway,§  which  to  reduce 
Such  seas  of  blood  and  treasure  Britain  cost ; 
The  miUions,  by  a  generous  people  given, 
Or  squander'd  vile,  or  to  corrupt,  disgrace. 
And  awe  the  land  with  forces  11  not  their  own. 
Employ 'd;  the  darling  phurch  herelf  betray 'd; 
All  these,  broad  glaring,  oped  the  general  eye, 
And  waked  my  spirit,  the  resisting  soul. 

'  Mild  was,  at  first,  and  half  ashamed,  the  check 
Of  senates,  shook  from  the  fantastic  dream 
Of  absolute  submission,  tenets  vile ! 
Which  slaves  would  blush  to  own,  and  which  re- 
duced 

To  practice,  always  honest  nature  shock. 
Not  e'en  the  mask  removed,  and  the  fierce  front 
Of  tyranny  disclosed;  nor  trampled  laws; 
Nor  seized  each  badge  of  freedom  fT  through  the 
land; 

Nor  Sidney  bleeding  for  the  unpubUsh'd  page; 
Nor  on  the  bench  avowed  corruption  placed. 
And  murderous  rage  itself,  in  Jeflferies'  form;** 
Nor  endless  acts  of  arbitrary  power. 
Cruel,  and  false,  could  raise  the  public  arm. 
Distrustful,  scatter'd,  of  combining  chiefs 
Devoid  and  dreading  blind  rapacious  war, 
The  patient  public  turns  not,  till  impell'd 
To  the  near  verge  of  ruin.    Hence  I  roused 
The  bigot  king,t+  and  hurried  fated  on 
His  measures  immature.    But  chief  his  zeal, 
Out-flaming  Rome  herself,  portentous  scared 
The  troubled  nation:  Mary's  horrid  days 
To  fancy  bleeding  rose,  and  the  dire  glare 
Of  Smithfield  lighten'd  in  its  eyes  anew, 
Yet  silence  reign'd.    Each  on  another  scowl'd 
Rueful  amazement,  pressing  down  his  rage : 
As,  mustering  vengeance,  the  deep  thunder  frowns. 


•  Dunkirk. 

t  The  war  in  conjunction  with  France,  against  tlie  Dutch. 
t  The  Triple  Alliance.  §  Under  Lewis  XIV. 

II  A  standing  ^rmy,  raised  without  the  consent  of  parlia- 
ment. 

U  The  charters  of  corporations.  **  Judge  Jefleries. 

It  James  II. 


Awfully  still,  waiting  the  high  command 
Tospring.  Straight  from  his  country  Europe  saved, 
To  save  Britannia,  lo !  my  darling  son. 
Than  hero  more!  the  patriot  of  mankind! 
Immortal  Nassau  came.    I  hush'd  the  deep 
By  demons  roused,  and  bade  the  listed  winds,* 
Still  shifting  as  behoved,  with  various  breath, 
Waft  the  dehverer  to  the  longing  shore. 
See !  wide  alive,  the  foaming  channel!  bright 
With  sweUing  sails,  and  all  the  pride  of  war, 
Delightful  view!  when  justice  draws  the  sword: 
And  mark!  diffusing  ardent  soul  around, 
And  swest  contempt  of  death,  My  streaming  flag.t 
E'en  adverse  navies§  bless'd  the  binding  gale. 
Kept  down  the  glad  acclaim,  and  silent  joy'd. 
Arrived,  the  pomp,  and  not  the  waste  of  arms 
His  progress  mark'd.    The  faint  opposing  host!! 
For  once  in  yielding  their  best  victory  found, 
And  by  desertion  proved  exalted  faith: 
While  his  the  bloodless  conquest  of  the  heart, 
Shouts  without  groan,  and  triumph  without  war. 

'  Then  dawn'd  the  period  destined  to  confine 
The  surge  of  wild  prerogative,  to  raise 
A  mound  restraining  its  imperious  rage. 
And  bid  the  raving  deep  ho  farther  flow 
Nor  were,  without  that  fence,  the  swallow'd  state 
Better  than  Belgian  plains  without  their  dykes, 
Sustaining  weighty  seas.    This,  often  saved 
By  more  than  human  hand,  the  public  saw. 
And  seized  the  white- wing'd  moment.    Pleased  IT 
to  yield 

Destructive  power,  a  wise  heroic  prince** 
E'en  lent  his  aid — Thrice  happy !  did  they  know 
Their  happiness,  Britannia's  bounded  kings. 
What  though  I  not  theirs  the  boast,  in  dungeon 
glooms. 

To  plunge  bold  freedom;  or,  to  cheerless  wilds, 
To  drive  him  from  the  cordial  face  of  friend ; 
Or  fierce  to  strike  him  at  the  midnight  hour. 
By  mandate  blind,  not  justice,  that  delights 
To  dare  the  keenest  eye  of  open  day. 


'  The  Prince  of  Orange,  in  his  passage  toEr.glaiid,  though 
his  fleet  had  been  at  first  dispersed  bv  a  storm,  was  afterwards 
extremely  favoured  by  several  changes  of  wind. 

t  Rapin,  in  his  History  o<"  England. — The  third  of  Novem- 
ber the  fleet  entered  tlie  Ciiannel,  and  lay  by  between  Calais 
and  Dover,  to  stay  for  <tie  ships  that  were  behind.  Here  the 
Prince  called  a  council  of  war.  It  is  easy  to  imagine  what  a 
glorious  show  th°-  fleet  made.  Five  or  six  hundred  ships  in 
so  narrow  a  channel,  and  both  the  English  and  French  shores 
covered  with  numberless  spectators,  are  no  common  sight. 
For  my  part,  who  was  then  on  board  the  fleet,  I  own  it  struck 
me  extremely. 

+  The  Prince  placed  himself  in  the  main  body,  carrying  a 
flag  with  English  colours,  and  their  highnesses'  arms  surround- 
ed with  this  motto,  'The  Protestant  Religion  and  the  Liber- 
ties of  England ;'  and  underneath  the  motto  of  the  house  of 
Nassau,  Me  Maintiendrai,'  I  will  maintain. — Rapin. 

§  The  English  fleet.  II  The  king's  army. 

U  By  the  Bill  of  Rights  and  the  Act  of  Succession. 

•*  William  m. 


LIBERTY. 


101 


What  though  no  glory  to  control  the  laws, 
And  make  injurious  will  their  only  rule, 
They  deem  it.    What  though,  tools  of  wanton 
power, 

Pestiferous  armies  swarm  not  at  their  call. 
What  though  they  give  not  a  relentless  crew 
Of  civil  furies,  proud  oppression's  fangs! 
To  tear  at  pleasure  the  dejected  land. 
With  starving  labour  pampering  idle  waste. 
To  clothe  the  naked,  feed  the  hungry,  wipe 
The  guiltless  tear  from  lone  affliction's  eye ; 
^o  raise  hid  merit,  set  the  alluring  light 
Of  virtue  high  to  view ;  to  nourish  arts, 
Direct  the  thunder  of  an  injured  state, 
Make  a  whole  glorious  people  sing  for  joy, 
Bless  humankind,  and  through  the  downward  depth 
Of  future  times  to  spread  that  better  sun 
Which  lights  up  British  soul :  for  deeds  like  these, 
The  dazzling  fair  career  unbounded  lies; 
While  (still  superior  bliss!)  the  dark  abrupt 
Is  kindly  barr'd,  the  precipice  -of  ill. 
O  luxury  divine !  O  poor  to  this, 
Ye  giddy  glories  of  despotic  thrones ! 
By  this,  by  this  indeed,  is  imaged  Heaven, 
By  boundless  good  without  the  power  of  ill. 

'■  And  now  behold !  exalted  as  the  cope 
That  swells  immense  o'er  many-peopled  earth, 
And  like  it  free,  my  fabric  stands  complete. 
The  palace  of  the  laws.    To  the  four  heavens 
Four  gates  impartial  thrown,  unceasing  crowds. 
With  kings  themselves  the  hearty  peasant  mix'd. 


PART  V. 

THE  PROSPECT. 

CONTENTS. 

The  author  addresses  the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  marking  the 
happiness  and  grandeur  of  Great  Britain,  as  arising  from  her 
influence.  She  resumes  her  discourse,  and  points  out  the 
chief  Virtues  which  are  necessary  to  maintain  her  establish- 
ment there.  Recommends  as  its  last  ornament  and  finishing. 
Sciences,  Fine  Arts,  and  Public  Works.  The  encouragement 
of  these  urged  from  the  example  of  France,  Xhough  under  a 
despotic  government.  The  whole  concludes  with  a  prospect 
of  future  times,  given  by  the  Goddess  of  I-iberty :  this  de- 
scribed by  the  author,  as  it  passes  in  vision  before  him. 


Here  interposing,  as  the  Goddess  paused ; — 
'  O  bless'd  Britannia!  in  thy  presence  bless'd, 


Thou  guardian  of  mankind !  whence  spring,  alone, 
AH  human  grandeur,  happiness,  and  fame, 
For  toil,  by  thee  protracted,  feels  no  pain; 
The  poor  man's  lot  with  milk  and  honey  flows; 
And,  gilded  with  thy  rays,  even  death  looks  gay. 
Let  other  lands  the  potent  blessings  boast 
Of  more  exalting  suns.    Let  Asia's  woods, 
Untended  yield  the  vegetable  fleece : 
And  let  the  little  insect-artist  form, 
On  higher  life  intent,  its  silken  tomb. 
Let  wondering  rocks,  in  radiant  birth,  disclose 
The  various  tinctured  children  of  the  sun. 
From  the  prone  beam  let  more  delicious  fruits, 
A  flavour  drink,  that  in  one  piercing  taste 
Bids  each  combine.    Let  Gallic  vineyards  burst 
With  floods  of  joy;  with  mild  balsamic  juice 
The  Tuscan  olive.    Let  Arabia  breathe 
Her  spicy  gales,  her  vital  gums  distil. 
Turbid  with  gold,  let  southern  rivers  flow 
And  orient  floods  draw  soft,  o'er  pearls,  their 
maze. 

Let  Afric  vaunt  her  treasures;  let  Peru 
Deep  in  her  bowels  her  own  ruin  breed, 
The  yellow  traitor  that  her  bliss  betray'd,— 

Unequal'd  bliss  and  to  unequal'd  rage  ! 

Yet  nor  the  gorgeous  East,  nor  golden  South, 
Nor,  in  full  prime,  that  new  discover'd  world. 
Where  flames  the  falling  day,  in  wealth  and  praise, 
Shall  with  Britannia  vie ;  while.  Goddess,  she 
Derives  her  praise  from  thee,  her  matchless 
charms. 

Her  hearty  fruits  the  hand  of  freedom  own ; 
And  warm  with  culture,  her  thick  clustering 
fields 

Prolific  teem.    Eternal  verdure  crowns 
Her  meeds ;  her  gardens  smile  eternal  spring. 
She  gives  the  hunter-horse,  unquell'dby  toil, 
Ardent,  to  rush  into  the  rapid  chase : 
She,  whitening  o'er  her  downs,  diffusive,  pours 
Unnumber'd  flocks :  she  weaves  the  fleecy  robe, 
That  wraps  the  nations:  she,  to  lusty  droves, 
The  richest  pasture  spreads;   and,  hers,  deep- 
wave 

Autumnal  seas  of  pleasing  plenty  round. 
These  her  delights:  and  by  no  baneful  herb, 
No  darting  tiger,  no  grim  lion's  glare, 
No  fierce  descending  wolf,  no  serpent  roU'd 
In  spires  immense  progressive  o'er  the  land, 
Disturb'd^  Enlivening  these,  add  cities,  full 
Of  wealth,  of  trade,  of  cheerful  toiUng  crowds: 
Add  thriving  fowns;  add  villages  and  farms, 
Innumerous  sow'd  along  the  lively  vale. 
Where  bold  unrival'd  peasants  happy  dwell: 
Add  ancient  seats,  with  venerable  oaks 
Embosom'd  high,  whifle  kindred  floods  below 
Wind  through  the  mead;  and  those  of  modena 
hand. 

More  pompous,  add,  that  splendid  shine  afar. 
Need  I  her  limpid  lakes,  her  rivers  name, 


Pour  urgent  in.    And  though  to  different  ranks 
Responsive  place  belongs,  yet  equal  spreads 
The  sheltering  roof  o'er  all;  while  plenty  flows. 
And  glad  contentment  echoes  round  the  whole. 
Ye  floods  descend !  Ye  winds,  confirming,  blow ! 
Nor  outward  tempest,  nor  corrosive  time. 
Nought  but  the  felon  undermining  hand 
Of  dark  corruption,  can  its  frame  dissolve, 
And  lay  the  toil  of  ages  in  the  dust.' 


102 


* 

THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Where  swarm  the  finny  race?    Thee,  chief,  C 
Thames! 

On  whose  each  tide,  glad  with  returning  sails, 
Flows  in  the  mingled  harvest  of  mankind  ] 
And  thee,  thou  Severn,  whose  prodigious  swell, 
And  waves,  resounding,  imitate  the  main? 
Why  need  I  name  her  deep  capacious  ports, 
That  point  around  the  world  1  and  why  her  seas  1 
All  ocean  is  her  own,  and  every  land 
To  whom  her  ruling  thunder  ocean  bears. 
She  too  the  mineral  feeds:  the  obedient  lead, 
The  warlike  iron,  nor  the  peaceful  less, 
Forming  of  life  art-civilized  the  bond; 
And  that*  the  Tyrian  merchant  sought  of  old, 
Not  dreaming  then;of  Britain's  brighter  fame. 
She  rears  to  freedom  an  undaunted  race: 
Compatriot  zealous,  hospitable,  kind. 
Hers  the  warm  Cambrian :  hers  the  lofty  Scot. 
To  hardship  tamed,  active  in  arts  and  arms. 
Fired  with  a  restless,  an  impatient  flame.. 
That  leads  him  raptured  where  ambition  calls: 
And  EngHsh  merit  hers;  where  meet,  combined, 
Whate'erhigh  fancy,  sound  judicious  thought. 
An  ample,  generous  heart,  undrooping  soul, 
And  firm  tenacious  valour  can  bestow. 
Great  nurse  of  fruits,  of  flocks,  of  commerce,  she ! 
Great  nurse  of  men!  by  thee,  O  Goddess,  taught, 
Her  old  renown  1  trace,  disclose  her  source 
Of  wealth,  of  grandeur,  and  to  Britains  sing 
A  strain  the  Muses  never  touch'd  before. 

'  But  how  shall  this  thy  mighty  kingdom  stand? 
On  what  unyielding  base?  howfinish'd  shine?' 

At  this  her  eye,  collecting  all  its  fire, 
Beam'd  more  than  human ;  and  her  awful  voice, 
Majestic  thus  she  raised:  '  To  Britons  bear 
This  closing  strain,  and  with  intenser  note 
Loud  let  it  sound  in  their  awaken'd  ear: 

'  On  virtue  can  alone  my  kingdom  stand. 
On  public  virtue,  every  virtue  join'd. 
For,  lost  this  social  cement  of  mankind. 
The  greatest  empires,  by  scarce-felt  degrees, 
Will  moulder  soft  away;  till,  tottering  loose, 
They,  prone  at  last,  to  total  ruin  rush. 
Unbless'd  by  virtue,  government  a  league 
Becomes,  a  circling  junto  of  the  great. 
To  rob  by  law;  religion  mild,  a  yoke 
To  tame  the  stooping  soul,  a  trick  of  state 
To  mask  their  rapine,  and  to  share  the  prey. 
What  are,  without  it,  senates ;  save  a  face 
Of  consultation  deep  and  reason  free, 
While  the  determined  voice  and  heart  are  sold? 
What  boasted  freedom,  save  a  sounding  name? 
And  what  election,  but  a  market  vile 
Of  slaves  self-barter'd?  Virtue!  without  thee. 
There  is  no  ruling  eye,  no  nerve,  in  states; 
War  has  no  vigour,  and  no  safety  peace: 
E'en  justice  warps  to  party,  laws  oppress, 


Tin. 


Wide  througli  the  land  their  weak  protection  failSj 
First  broke  the  balance,  and  then  scorn'd  the 
sword. 

Thus  nations  sink,  society  dissolves; 
Rapine  and  guile,  and  violence  break  loose. 
Everting  life,  and  turning  love  to  gall; 
Man  hates  the  face  of  man,  and  Indian  woods 
Apd  Libya's  hissing  sands  to  him  are  tame. 

'  By  those  three  virtues  be  the  frame  sustain'd 
Of  British  freedom;  independent  life; 
Integrity  in  oflice;  and,  o'er  all 
Supreme,  a  passion  for  the  commonweal. 

'  Hail!  Independence,  hail!  Heaven's  next  best 
gift,  _ 

To  that  of  life  and  an  immortal  soul ! 
The  life  of  life  I  that  to  the  banquet  high 
And  sober  meal  gives  taste;  to  the  bow'd  roof 
Fair-dream'd  repose,  sfcd  to  the  cottage  charms. 
Of  public  freedom,  hail,  thou  secret  source: 
Whose  streams,  from  every  quarter  confluent, 
form 

My  better  Nile,  that  nurses  human  life. 
By  rills  from  thee  deduced,  irriguous,  fed, 
The  private  field  looks  gay,  with  nature's  wealth 
Abundant  flows,  and  blooms  with  each  delight 
That  nature  craves.    Its  happy  master  there, 
The  only  freeman,  walks  his  pleasing  round: 
Sweet-featured  peace  attending;  fearless  truth; 
Firm  resolution ;  goodness,  blessing  all 
That  can  rejoice;  contentment,  surest  friend; 
And,  still  fresh  stores  from  nature's  book  derived, 
Philosophy,  companion  ever  new. 
These  cheer  his  rural,  and  sustain  or  fire, 
When  into  action  call'd,  his  busy  hours. 
Meantime  true  judging  moderate  desires, 
Economy  and  taste,  combined,  direct 
His  clear  afl^airs,  and  from  debauching  fiends 
Secure  his  little  kingdom.    Nor  can  those 
Whom  fortune  heaps,  without  these  virtues  reach 
That  truce  with  pain,  that  animated  ease, 
That  self-enjoyment  springing  from  within; 
That  independence  active  or  retired, 
Which  make  the  soundest  bliss  of  man  below: 
But  lost  beneath  the  rubbish  of  their  means, 
And  drain'd  by  wants  to  nature  all  unknown, 
A  wandering,  tasteless,  gaily  wretched  train. 
Though  rich,  are  beggars,  and  though  noble, 
slaves. 

'  Lo!  damn'd  to  wealth,  at  what  a  gross  expense 
They  purchase  disappointment,  pain,  and  shame. 
Instead  of  hearty  hospitable  cheer, 
See !  how  the  hall  with  brutal  riot  flows ; 
While  in  the  foaming  flood,  fermenting,  steep'd 
The  country  maddens  into  party  rage. 
Mark !  those  disgraceful  piles  of  wood  and  stone ; 
Those  parks  and  gardens,  where,  his  haunts  be- 
trimm'd, 

And  nature  by  presumptuous  art  oppress'd, 
The  woodland  genius  mourns.  See  I  the  full  board 


LIBERTY. 


103 


That  steams  disgust,  and  bowls  that  give  no  joy; 
No  truth  invited  there,  to  feed  the  mind; 
Nor  wit,  the  wine-rejoicing  reason  quaffs. 
Hark  I  how  the  dome  with  insolence  resounds, 
With  those  retain'd  by  vanity  to  scare 
Repose  and  friends.    To  tyrant  fashion,  mark  ! 
The  costly  worship  paid,  to  the  broad  gaze 
Of  fools.    From  still  delusive  day  to  day, 
Led  an  eternal  round  of  lying  hope, 
See  !  self-abandon'd.  how  they  roam  adrift, 
Dash'd  o'er  the  town,  a  miserable  wreck ! 
Then  to  adore  some  warbling  eunuch  turn'd, 
With  Midas'  oars  they  crowd ;  or  to  the  buzz 
Of  masquerade  unblushing :  or,  to  show 
Their  scorn  of  nature,  at  the  tragic  scene 
They  mirthful  sit,  or  prove  the  comic  true. 
But,  chief,  behold !  around  the  rattling  board, 
The  civil  robbers  ranged ;  and  e'en  the  fair. 
The  tender  fair,  each  sweetness  laid  aside. 
As  fierce  for  plunder  as  all-licensed  troops 
In  some  sack'd  city.    Thus  dissolved  their  wealth. 
Without  one  generous  luxury  dissolved, 
Or  quarter'd  on  it  many  a  needless  want^ 
At  the  throng'd  levee  bends  the  venal  tribe ; 
With  fair  but  faithless  smiles  each  varnish'd  o'er. 
Each  smooth  as  those  that  mutually  deceive. 
And  for  their  falsehood  each  despising  each; 
Till  shook  their  patron  by  the  wintry  winds, 
Wide  flies  the  wither'd  shower,  and  leaves  him 
bare. 

O  far  superior  Afric's  sable  sons, 
By  merchant  pilfer'd.  to  these  willing  slaves ! 
And  rich,  as  unsqueezed  favourite,  to  them, 
Is  he  who  can  his  virtue  boast  alone ! 

'  Britons !  be  firm ! — nor  let  corruption  sly 
Twine  round  your  heart  indissoluble  chains! 
The  steel  of  Brutus  burst  the  grosser  bonds 
By  Csesar  cast  o'er  Rome;  but  still  remain'd 
The  soft  enchanting  fetters  of  the  mind. 
And  other  Caesars  rose.    Determined,  hold 
Your  independence;  for,  that  once  destroy'd, 
Unfounded,  Freedom  is  a  morning  dream. 
That  flits  aerial  from  the  spreading  eye. 

*  Forbid  it.  Heaven !  that  ever  I  need  urge 
Integrity  in  office  on  my  sons ! 

Inculcate  common  honour  not  to  rob  

And  whom     the  gracious,  the  confiding  hand, 
That  lavishly  rewards'?  the  toihng  poor, 
Whose  cup  with  many  a  bitter  drop  is  mix'd ; 
The  guardian  public;  every  face  they  see. 
And  every  friend;  nay,  in  effect  themselves. 
As  in  famiUar  life,  the  villain's  fate 
Admits  no  cure ;  so,  when  a  desperate  age 
At  this  arrives,  I  the  devoted  race 
Indignant  spurn,  and  hopeless  soar  away. 

'  But,  ah  too  little  known  to  modern  times ! 
Be  not  tlie  noblest  passion  past  unsung ; 
That  ray  peculiar,  from  unbounded  love 
Effused,  which  kindles  the  heroic  soul ; 

^  W 


Devotion  to  the  public.    Glorious  flame ! 
Celestial  ardour !  in  what  unknown  worlds, 
Profusely  scatter'd  through  the  blue  immense. 
Hast  thou  been  blessing  myriads,  since  in  Rome, 
Old  virtuous  Rome,  so  many  deathless  names 
From  thee  their  lustre  drew  ?  since,  taught  by  thee, 
Their  poverty  put  splendour  to  the  blush. 
Pain  grew  luxurious,  and  e'en  death  delight  1 
O  wilt  thou  ne'er,  in  thy  long  period,  look. 
With  blaze  direct,  on  this  my  last  retreat  7 

'  'Tis  not  enough,  from  self  right  understood 
Reflected,  that  thy  rays  inflame  the  heart: 
Though  virtue  not  disdains  appeals  to  self, 
Dreads  not  the  trial ;  all  her  joys  are  true, 
Nor  is  there  any  real  joy  save  hers. 
Far  less  the  tepid  the  declaiming  race. 
Foes  to  corruption,  to  its  wages  friends, 
Or  those  whom  private  passions,  for  a  while, 
Beneath  my  standard  list ;  can  they  suffice 
To  raise  and  fix  the  glory  of  my  reign  1 

'  An  active  flood  of  universal  love 
Must  swell  the  breast.    First,  in  effusion  wide, 
The  restless  spirit  roves  creation  round. 
And  seizes  every  being:  stronger  then 
It  tends  to  Ufe,  whate'er  the  kindred  search 
Of  bliss  allies :  then,  more  collected  still, 
It  urges  human  kind;  a  passion  grown, 
At  last,  the  central  parent  public  calls 
Its  utmost  effort  forth,  awakes  each  sense. 
The  comely,  grand,  and  tender.    Without  this 
This  awful  pant,  shook  from  sublimer  powers 
Than  those  of  self,  this  Heaven-infused  delight, 
This  moral  gravitation,  rushing  prone 
To  press  the  public  good,  my  system  soon. 
Traverse,  to  several  selfish  centres  drawn. 
Will  reel  to  ruin :  while  for  ever  shut 
Stand  the  bright  portals  of  desponding  fame. 

'  From  sordid  self  shoot  up  no  shining  deeds, 
None  of  those  ancient  lights,  that  gladden  earth, 
Give  grace  to  being,  and  arouse  the  brave 
To  just  ambition,  virtue's  quickening  fire ! 
Life  tedious  grows,  and  idly  bustling  round, 
Fill'd  up  with  actions  animal  and  mean, 
A  dull  gazette  !  The  impatient  reader  scorns 
The  poor  historic  page;  till  kindly  comes 
Oblivion,  and  redeems  a  people's  shame. 
Not  so  the  times  when,  emulation-stung, 
Greece  shone  in  genius,  science,  and  in  arts, 
And  Rome  in  virtues  dreadful  to  be  told ! 
To  hve  was  glory  then  I  and  charm'd  mankind, 
Through  the  deep  periods  of  devolving  time. 
Those,  raptured,  copy;  these,  astonish'd,  read. 

'  True,  a  corrupted  state,  with  every  vice 
And  every  meanness  foul,  tliis  passion  damps. 
Who  can,  unshock'd,  behold  the  cruel  eye? 
The  pale  inveigling  smile?  the  ruffian  front '? 
The  wretch  abandon'd  to  relentless  self, 
Equally  vile  if  miser  or  profuse? 
Powers  not  of  God,  assiduous  to  corrupt  7 


104 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


The  fell  deputed  tyrant,  who  devours 
The  poor  and  weak,*  at  distance  from  redress  1 
Delirious  faction  bellowing  loud  my  name'? 
The  false  fair-seeming  patriot's  hollow  boast  1 
A  race  resolved  on  bondage,  fierce  for  chains, 
My  sacred  rights  a  merchandize  alone 
Esteeming,  and  to  work  their  feeder's  will 
By  deeds,  a  horror  to  mankind,  prepared, 
As  were  the  dregs  of  Romulus  of  old  1 
Who  these  indeed  can  undetesting  see  ? — 
But  who  unpitying?  to  the  generous  eye 
Distress  is  virtue ;  and,  though  self-betray'd, 
A  people  struggling  with  their  fate  must  rouse 
The  hero's  throb.    Nor  can  a  land,  at  once, 
Be  lost  to  virtue  quite.    How  glorious  then ! 
Fit  luxury  for  gods  !'  to  save  the  good, 
Protect  the  feeble,  dash  bold  vice  aside. 
Depress  the  wicked,  and  restore  the  frail. 
Posterity,  besides !  the  young  are  pure. 
And  sons  may  tinge  their  father's  cheek  with 
shame. 

'Should  then  the  times  arrive  (which  Heaven 
avert !) 

That  Britons  bend  unnerved,  not  by  the  -force 
Of  arms,  more  generous  and  more  manly,  quell'd. 
But  by  corruption's  soul-dejecting  arts. 
Arts  impudent !  and  gross  !  by  their  own  gold, 
In  part  bestow'd.  to  bribe  them  to  give  all. 
With  party  raging,  or  immersed  in  sloth. 
Should  they  Britannia's  well  fought  laurels  yield 
To  slily  conquering  Gaul ;  e'en  from  her  brow 
Let  her  own  naval  oak  be  basely  torn. 
By  such  as  tremble  at  the  stiffening  gale. 
And  nerveless  sink  while  others  sing  rejoiced. 
Or  (darker  prospect !  scarce  one  gleam  behind 
Disclosing)  should  the  broad  corruptive  plague 
Breathe  from  the  city  to  the  farthest  hut, 
That  sits  serene  within  the  forest  shade ; 
The  fever'd  people  fire,  inflame  their  want^. 
And  their  luxurious  thirst,  so  gathering  rage. 
That,  were  a  buyer  found,  they  stand  prepared 
To  sell  their  birthright  for  a  cooling  draught. 
Should  shameless  pens  for  plain  corruption  plead; 
The  hired  assassins  of  the  commonweal ! 
Deem'd  the  declaiming  rant  of  Greece  and  Rome, 
Should  public  virtue  grow  the  public  scolf. 
Till  private,  failing,  staggers  through  the  land : 
Till  round  the  city  loose  mechanic  want, 
Dire  prowling  nightly,  makes  the  cheerful  haunts 
Of  men  more  hideous  than  Numidian  wilds, 
Nor  from  its  fury  sleeps  the  vale  in  peace ; 
And  murders,  horrors,  perjuries  abound : 
Nay,  till  to  lowest  deeds  the  highest  stoop ; 


*  Lord  Moleswortii,  in  his  account  of  Denmarlc,  says,— 'It 
is  observed,  tiiat  in  limited  monarchies  and  commonwealths, 
a  neighhoiirliood  to  the  seat  of  the  government  is  advanta- 
geous 10  the  subjects;  whilst  the  distant  provinces  are  less 
thriving,  and  more  liable  to  oppression.' 


The  rich,  like  starving  wretches,  thirst  for  gold: 
And  those,  on  whom  the  vernal  showers  of  Hea  • 
ven 

All-bounteous  fall,  and  that  prime  lot  bestow, 
A  power  to  five  to  nature  and  themselves. 
In  sick  attendance  wear  their  anxious  days. 
With  fortune,  joyless,  and  with  honours,  mean. 
Meantime,  perhaps,  profusion  flows  around, 
The  waste  of  war,  without  the  works  of  peace; 
No  mark  of  millions  in  the  gulf  absorpt 
Of  uncreating  vice,  none  but  the  rage 
Of  roused  corruption  still  demanding  more. 
That  very  portion,  which  (by  faithful  skill 
Employ'd)  might  make  the  smiling  public  rear 
Her  ornamented  head,  drill 'd  through  the  hands 
Of  mercenary  tools,  serves  but  to  nurse 
A  locust  band  within,  and  in  the  bud 
Leaves  starved  each  work  of  dignity  and  use. 
'  I  paint  the  worst.    But  should  these  times 
arrive, 

If  any  nobler  passion  yet  remain. 
Let  all  my  sons  all  parties  fling  aside, 
Despise  their  nonsense,  and  together  join; 
Let  worth  and  virtue  scorning  low  despair, 
Exerted  full,  from  every  quarter  shine, 
Commix'd  in  heighten'd  blaze.    Light  flash'd  to 
light. 

Moral,  or  intellectual,  more  intense 
By  giving  glows.    As  on  pure  winter's  eve, 
Gradual,  the  stars  effulge ;  fainter,  at  first. 
They,  straggling,  rise;  but  when  the  radiant  host, 
In  thick  profusion  pour'd,  shine  out  immense; 
Each  casting  vivid  influence  on  each. 
From  pole  to  pole  a  glittering  deluge  plays, 
And  worlds  above  rejoice,  and  men  below, 

'  But  why  to  Britons  this  superfluous  strain  1 — 
Good  nature,  honest  truth  e'en  somewhat  blunt, 
Of  crooked  baseness  an  indignant  scorn, 
A  zeal  unyielding  in  their  country's  cause, 
And  ready  bounty,  wont  to  dwell  with  them — 
Nor  only  wont — wide  o'er  the  land  difi['used, 
In  many  a  bless'd  retirement  still  they  dwell. 

'  To  softer  prospect  turn  we  now  the  view, 
To  laurel'd  science,  arts,  and  public  works, 
That  lend  my  finish'd  fabric  comely  pride, 
Grandeur  and  grace.    Of  sullen  genius  he ! 
Cursed  by  the  Muses !  by  the  Graces  loathed ! 
Who  deems  beneath  the  public's  high  regard 
These  last  enlivening  touches  of  my  reign. 
However  puff'd  with  power,  and  gorged  with 
wealth, 

A  nation  be ;  let  trade  enormous  rise. 
Let  East  and  South  their  mingled  treasure  pour, 
Till,  swell'd  impetuous,  the  corrupting  flood 
Burst  o'er  the  city  and  devour  the  land  : 
Yet  these  neglected,  these  recording  arts. 
Wealth  rots,  a  nuisance ;  and,  oblivious  sunk, 
That  nation  must  another  Carthage  lie. 
i  If  not  by  them,  on  monumental  brass, 


LIBERTY 


105 


On  sculptured  marble,  on  the  deathless  page, 
Impress'd,  renown  had  left  no  trace  behind : 
In  vain,  to  future  times,  the  sage  had  thought, 
The  legislator  plann'd,  the  hero  found 
A  beauteous  dtath,  the  patriot  toil'd  in  vain. 
The  awarders  they  of  Fame's  immortal  wreath. 
They  rouse  ambition,  they  the  mind  exalt, 
Oive  great  ideas,  lovely  forms  infuse. 
Delight  the  general  eye,  and,  dress'd  by  them. 
The  moral  Venus  glows  with  double  charms. 

'  Science,  my  close  associate,  still  attends 
Where'er  I  go.    Sometimes,  in  simple  guise, 
She  walks  the  furrow  with  the  consul-swain. 
Whispering  unletter'd  wisdom  to  the  heart. 
Direct;  or,  sometimes,  in  the  pompous  robe 
Of  fancy  dress'd,  she  charms  Athenian  wits. 
And  a  whole  sapient  city  round  her  burns. 
Then  o'er  her  brow  Minerva's  terrors  nod : 
With  Xenophon,  sometimes,  in  dire  extremes. 
She  breathes  deliberate  soul,  and  makes  retreat* 
Unequal'd  glory:  with  the  Theban  sage, 
Epaminondas,  first  and  best  of  men ! 
Sometimes  she  bids  the  deep-embattled  host, 
Above  the  vulgar  reach,  resistless  form'd, 
March  to  sure  conquest — never  gain'd  before  !t 
Nor  on  the  treacherous  seas  of  giddy  state 
Unskilful  she  :  when  the  triumphant  tide 
Of  high-swoln  empire  wears  one  boundless  smile. 
And  the  gale  tempts  to  new  pursuits  of  fame, 
Sometimes,  with  Scipio,  she  collects  her  sail. 
And  seeks  the  blissful  shore  of  rural  ease. 
Where,  but  the  Aonian  maids,  no  sirens  sing ; 
Or  should  the  deep-brew'd  tempest  muttering  rise. 
While  rocks  and  shoals  perfidious  lurk  around, 
With  TuUy  she  her  wide-reviving  light 
To  senates  holds;  a  Catiline  confounds. 
And  saves  awhile  from  Csesar  sinking  Rome. 
Such  the  kind  power,  whose  piercing  eye  dissolves 
Each  mental  fetter,  and  sets  reason  free; 
For  me  inspiring  an  enlightened  zeal, 
The  more  tenacious  as  the  more  convinced 
How  happy  freemen,  and  how  wretched  slaves. 
To  Britons  not  unknown,  to  Britons  full 
The  Goddess  spreads  her  stores,  the  secret  soul 
That  quickens  trade,  the  breath  unseen  that  wafts 
To  them  the  treasures  of  a  balanced  world. 
But  finer  arts  (save  what  the  Muse  has  sung 
In  daring  flight,  above  all  modern  wing,) 
Neglected  droop  the  head;  and  public  works, 
Broke  by  corruption  into  private  gain, 
Not  ornament,  disgrace ;  not  serve,  destroy. 


"The  famous  Retreat  of  the  Ten  Thousand  was  chiefly 
conducted  by  Xenophon. 

t  Epaminondas,  after  having  beat  the  Lacedemonians  and 
their  allies,  in  the  battle  of  Leuctra,  made  an  incursion,  at  the 
head  of  a  pojyerful  army,  into  Laconia.  It  was  now  six  hun- 
dred years  since  the  Dorians  had  posses'jed  this  country,  and 
in  all  that  time  the  face  of  an  enemy  had  not  been  seen  within 
their  territories.— PiwtorcA  in  Agesilaus. 


'  Shall  Britons,  by  their  own  joint  wisdom  ruled 
Beneath  one  Royal  Head,  whose  vital  power 
Connects,  enhvens,  and  exerts  the  whole ; 
In  finer  arts,  and  public  works,  shall  they 
To  Galha  yield  1  yield  to  a  land  that  bends 
Depress'd,  and  broke,  beneath  the  will  of  one'? 
Of  one  who,  should  the  unkingly  thirst  of  gold, 
Or  tyrant  passions,  or  ambition,  prompt. 
Calls  locust-armies  o'er  the  blasted  land  : 
Drains  from  its  thirsty  bounds  the  springs  of 
wealth, 

His  own  insatiate  reservoir  to  fill : 
To  the  lone  desert  patriot-merit  frowns. 
Or  into  dungeons  arts,  when  they,  their  chains, 
Indignant,  bursting ;  for  their  nobler  works 
All  other  license  scorn  but  truths  and  mine. 
Oh  shame  to  think !  shall  Britons,  in  the  field 
Unconquer'd  still,  the  better  laurel  lose  1 
E'en  in  that  monarch's  reign,*  who  vainly  dreamt, 
By  giddy  power,  betray'd,  and  flatter'd  pride, 
To  grasp  unbounded  sway;  while,  swarming 
round, 

His  armies  dared  all  Europe  to  the  field ; 
To  hostile  hands  while  treasure  flow'd  profuse, 
And,  that  great  source  of  treasure,  subjects'  blood, 
Inhuman  squander'd,  sicken'd  every  land; 
From  Britain,  chief,  while  my  superior  sons. 
In  vengeance  rushing,  dash'd  his  idle  hopes. 
And  bade  his  agonizing  heart  be  low; 
E'en  then,  as  in  the  golden  calm  of  peace. 
What  public  works,  at  home,  what  arts  arose! 
What  various  science  shone !  what  genius  glowd! 

'  'Tis  not  for  me  to  paint,  diflfusive  shot 
O'er  fair  extents  of  land,  the  shining  road ; 
The  flood-compelling  arch ;  the  long  canal,t 
Through  mountains  piercing  and  uniting  seas ; 
The  domet  resounding  sweet  with  infant  joy, 
From  famine  saved,  or  cruel-handed  shame; 
And  thatt  where  valour  counts  his  noble  scars. 
The  land  where  social  pleasure  loves  to  dwell, 
Of  the  fierce  demon,  Gothic  duel,  freed; 
The  robber  from  his  farthest  forest  chased; 
The  turbid  city  clear'd,  and,  by  degrees, 
Into  sure  peace  the  best  police  refined. 
Magnificence,  and  grace,  and  decent  joy. 
Let  Gallic  bards  record,  how  honour'd  arts, 
And  science,  by  despotic  bounty  bless'd, 
At  distance  flourish'd  from  my  parent-eye. 
Restoring  ancient  taste,  how  Boileau  rose : 
How  the  big  Roman  soul  shook,  in  Corneille, 
The  trembling  stage.    In  elegant  Racine; 
How  the  more  powerful  though  more  humble  voice 
Of  nature-painting  Greece,  resistless,  breathed 
The  whole  awaken'd  heart.  How  Mpliere's  scene, 
Chastised  and  regular,  with  well  judged  wit. 
Not  scatter'd  wild,  and  native  humour,  graced, 


*  Lewis  XIV.  t  The  Canal  of  tanguedoc 

J  The  hospitals  for  foundlings  and  invalids. 


106 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


"Was  life  itself.    To  public  honours  raised, 
How  learning  in  warm  seminaries*  spread ; 
And,  more  for  glory  than  the  small  reward, 
How  emulation  strove.    How  their  pur^  tongue 
Almost  obtain'd  what  was  denied  their  arms. 
From  Rome,  awhile,  how  Painting,  courted  long, 
With  Poussin  came ;  ancient  design,  that  lifts 
A  fairer  front,  and  looks  another  soul. 
How  the  kind  art,t  that,  of  unvalued  price, 
The  famed  and  only  picture,  easy,  gives, 
Refined  her  touch,  and,  through  the  shadow'd 
piece, 

All  the  live  spirit  of  the  painter  pour'd. 

Coyest  of  arts,  how  sculpture  northward  deign'd 

A  look,  and  bade  her  'Giradon  arise. 

How  lavish  grandeur  blazed ;  the  barren  waste, 

Astonish'd,  saw  the  sudden  palace  swell, 

And  fountains  spout  amid  its  arid  shades. 

For  leagues,  bright  vistas  opening  to  the  view, 

How  forests  in  majestic  gardens  smiled. 

How  menial  arts,  by  their  gay  sisters  taught, 

Wove  the  deep  flower,  the  blooming  foliage  train 'd 

In  joyous  figures  o'er  the  silky  lawn. 

The  palace  cheer'd,  illumed  the  storied  wall, 

And  with  the  pencil  vied  the  glowing  loom.t 

These  laurels,  Lewis,  by  the  droppings  raised 
Of  thy  profusion,  its  dishonour  shade, 
And,  green  through  future  times,  shall  bind  thy 
brow; 

While  the  vain  honours  of  perfidious  war 
Wither  abhor'd,  or  in  oblivion  lost. 
With  what  prevailing  vigour  had  they  shot, 
And  stole  a  deeper  root,  by  the  full  tide 
Of  war-sunk  millions  fed?    Superior  still. 
How  had  they  branch'd  luxuriant  to  the  skies, 
In  Britain  planted,  by  the  potent  juice 
Of  Freedom  swell'd  1  Forced  is  the  bloom  of  arts, 
A  false  uncertain  spring,  when  Bounty  gives, 
Weak  without  me,  a  transitory  gleam. 
Fair  shine  the  slippery  days,  enticing  skies 
Of  favour  smile,  and  courtly  breezes  blow ; 
Till  arts  betray'd,  trust  to  the  flattering  air 
Their  tender  blossom:  then  malignant  rise 
.  The  Wights  of  Envy,  of  those  insect  clouds. 
That,  blasting  merit  often  cover  courts : 
Nay,  should  perchance  some  kind  Maecenas  aid 
The  doubtful  beamings  of  his  prince's  soul, 
His  wavering  ardour  fix,  and  unconfined 
Difl'use  his  warm  beneficence  around; 
Yet  death,  at  last,  and  wintry  tyrants  come. 
Each  sprig  of  genius  killing  at  the  root. 
But  when  with  me  imperial  Bounty  joins, 
Wide  o'er  the  public  blowg  eternal  spring ; 
While  mingled  autumn  every  harvest  pours 


*  The  A.cademies  of  Sciences,  of  the  Belles  Lettres,  and  of 
Painting, 
t  Engraving. 

t  The  tapestry  of  the  Gobelina. 


Of  every  land ;  whate'er  Invention,  Art, 
Creating  Toil,  and  Nature  can  produce.' 

Here  ceased  the  Goddess;  and  her  ardent  wings, 
Dipt  in  the  colours  of  the  heavenly  bow, 
Stood  waving  radiance  round,  for  sudden  flight 
Prepared,  when  thus,  impatient,  burst  my  prayer : 
'  Oh  forming  light  of  life!  O  better  sun! 
Sun  of  mankind!  by  whom  the  cloudy  north. 
Sublimed,  not  envies  Languedocian  skies. 
That,  unstain'd  ether  all,  diffusive  smile: 
When  shall  we  call  these  ancient  laurels  ours  7 
And  when  thy  work  complete  V  Straight  with  her 
hand 

Celestial  red,  she  touch'd  my  darken'd  eyes. 
As  at  the  touch  of  day  the  shades  dissolve, 
So  quick,  methought,  the  misty  circle  clear'd, 
That  dims  the  dawn  of  being  here  below: 
The  future  shone  disclosed,  and  in  long  view, 
Bright  rising  eras  instant  rush'd  to  light. 

'  They  come !  great  Goddess !  I  the  times  be- 
hold! 

The  times  our  fathers,  in  the  bloody  field, 
Have  earn'd  so  dear,  and,  not  with  less  renown, 
In  the  warm  struggles  of  the  senate  fight. 
The  times  I  see!  whose  glory  to  supply, 
For  toiling  ages.  Commerce  round  the  world 
Has  wing'd  unn  umber' d  sails,  and  from  each  land 
Materials  heap'd,  that,  well  employ'd,  with  Rome- 
Might  vie  our  grandeur,  and  with  Greece  our  art. 

'  Lo !  Princes  I  behold  contriving  still, 
And  still  conducting  firm  some  brave  design; 
Kings !  that  the  narrow  joyless  circle  scorn, 
Burst  the  blockade  of  false  designing  men, 
Of  treacherous  smiles,  of  adulation  fell. 
And  of  the  blinding  clouds  around  them  thrown : 
Their  court  rejoicing  millions;  worth  alone, 
And  Virtue  dear  to  them;  their  best  delight, 
In  just  proportion,  to  give  general  joy; 
Their  jealous  care  thy  kingdom  to  maintain; 
The  public  glory  theirs ;  unsparing  love 
Their  endless  treasure ;  and  their  deeds  their  praise. 
With  thee  they  work.    Nought  can  resist  your 
force : 

Life  feels  it  quickening  in  her  dark  retreats: 
Strong  spread  the  blooms  of  Genius,  Science,  Art; 
His  bashful  bounds  disclosing  Merit  breaks ; 
And,  big  with  fruits  of  glory,  Virtue  blows 
Expansive  o'er  the  land.    Another  race 
Of  generous  youth,  of  patriot  sires,  I  see ! 
Not  those  vain  insects  fluttering  in  the  blaze 
Of  court,  and  ball,  and  play ;  those  venal  souls 
Corruption's  veteran  unrelenting  bands. 
That  to  their  vices  slaves,  can  ne'er  be  free. 

'  I  seethe  fountains  purged!  whence  li^  derives 
A  clear  or  turbid  flow ;  see  the  young  muid 
Not  fed  impure  by  chance,  by  flattery  fool'd, 
Or  by  scholastic  jargon  bloated  proud. 
But  fill'd  and  nourish'd  by  the  light  of  truth. 
Then  beam'd  through  fancy  the  refining  ray, 


LIBERTY. 


107 


And  pouring  on  the  heart,  the  passions  feel 
At  once  informing  light  and  moving  flame ; 
Till  moral,  public,  graceful  action  crowns 
The  whole.    Behold !  the  fair  contention  glows, 
In  all  that  mind  or  body  can  adorn, 
And  form  to  Ufe.    Instead  of  barren  heads, 
Barbarian  pedants,  wrangUng  sons  of  pride, 
And  truth-perplexing  metaphysic  wits. 
Men,  patriots,  chiefs,  and  citizens  are  form'd, 

'  Lo!  Justice,  like  the  liberal  light  of  Heaven, 
Unpurchased  shines  on  all;  and  from  her  beam, 
Appalling  guilt,  retire  the  savage  crew, 
That  prowl  amid  the  darkness  they  themselves 
Have  thro  wn  around  the  laws.  Oppression  grieves, 
See !  how  her  legal  furies  bite  the  lip. 
While  Yorkes  and  Talbots  their  deep  snares  detect. 
And  seize  swift  justice  through  the  clouds  they 
raise. 

'  See !  social  Labour  lifts  his  guarded  head, 
And  men  not  yield  to  government  in  vain. 
From  the  sure  land  is  rooted  ruffian  force, 
And,  the  lewd  nurse  of  villains,  idle  waste ; 
Lo !  raised  their  haunts,  down  dash'd  their  mad- 
dening bowl, 
A  nation's  poison !  beauteous  order  reigns ! 
Manly  submission,  unimposing  toil, 
Trade  without  guile,  civility  that  marks 
From  the  foul  herd  of  brutal  slaves  thy  sons, 
A  nd  fearless  peace.    Or  should  affronting  war 
To  slow  but  dreadful  vengeance  rouse  the  just, 
tJnfaiUng  fields  of  freemen  I  behold  ! 
That  know,  with  their  own  proper  arm,  to  guard 
Their  own  bless'd  isle  against  a  leaguing  world. 
Despairing  Gaul  her  boiling  youth  restrains, 
Dissolved  her  dream  of  universal  sway ; 
The  winds  and  seas  are  Britain's  wide  domain ; 
And  not  a  sail,  but  by  permission,  spreads. 

'  Lo !  swarming  southward  on  rejoicing  suns, 
Gay  colonies  extend ;  the  calm  retreat 
Of  undeserved  distress,  the  better  home 
Of  those  whom  bigots  chase  from  foreign  lands. 
Nor  built  on  rapine,  servitude,  and  wo. 
And  in  their  turn  some  petty  tyrant's  prey ; 
But,  bound  by  social  Freedom,  firm  they  rise ; 
Such  as,  of  late,  an  Oglethorpe  has  form'd, 
And,  crowding  round,  the  charm'd  Savannah  sees. 

'  Horrid  with  want  and  misery  no  more 
Our  streets  the  tender  passenger  afflict. 
Nor  shivering  age,  nor  sickness  without  friend. 
Or  home,  or  bed  to  bear  his  burning  load ; 
Nor  agonizing  infant,  that  ne'er  earn'd 
Its  guiltless  pangs ;  I  see !  the  stores,  profuse. 
Which  British  bounty  has  to  these  assign'd, 
No  more  the  sacrilegious  riot  swell 
Of  cannibal  devourers !  right  applied. 
No  starving  wretch  the  land  of  freedom  stains : 
If  poor,  employment  finds;  if  old,  demands, 
if  sick,  if  maim'd,  his  miserable  due ; 
And  will,  if  young,  repay  the  fondest  care. 

2  w  2 


Sweet  sets  the  sun  of  stormy  life ;  and  sweet 
The  morning  shines,  in  Mercy's  dews  array 'd. 
Lo  !  how  they  rise  !  these  families  of  Heaven ! 
That !  chief,*  (but  why — ye  bigots ! — why  so  late1) 
Where  blooms  and  warbles  glad  a  rising  age ; 
What  smiles  of  praise !  and,  while  their  song  as- 
cends. 

The  listening  seraph  lays  his  lute  aside. 

'  Hark!  the  gay  muses  raise  ^nobler  strain, 
With  active  nature,  warm  impassion'd  truth. 
Engaging  fable,  lucid  order,  notes 
Of  various  string,  and  heart-felt  image  fiU'd, 
Behold  !  I  see  the  dread  delightful  school 
Of  temper'd  passions,  and  of  poUsh'd  Ufe, 
Restored :  behold  !  the  well  dissembled  scene 
Calls  from  embellish'd  eyes  the  lovely  tear, 
Or  lights  up  mirth  in  modest  cheeks  again. 
Lo!  vanish'd  monster  land.    Lo!  driven  away 
Those  that  Apollo's  sacred  walks  profane : 
Their  wild  creation  scatter'd,  where  a  world 
Unknown  to  nature.  Chaos  more  confused, 
O'er  the  brute  scene  its  Ouran-Outangs  pours ;t  . 
Detested  forms  !  that,  on  the  mind  impress'd. 
Corrupt,  confound,  and  barbarize  an  age. 

'  Behold !  all  thine  again  the  Sister- Arts, 
Thy  graces  they,  knit  in  harmonious  dance, 
Nursed  by  the  treasure  from  a  nation  drain'd 
Their  works  to  purchase,  they  to  nobler  rouse 
Their  untamed  genius,  their  unfetter'd  thought ; 
Of  pompous  tyrants,  and  of  dreaming  monks, 
The  gaudy  tools,  and  prisoners  no  more. 

'  Lo !  numerous  domes  a  Burlington  confess ; 
For  kings  and  senates  fit,  the  palace  see  ! 
The  temple  breathing  a  religious  awe ; 
E'en  framed  with  elegance  the  plain  retreat. 
The  private  dwelling.    Certain  in  his  aim. 
Taste,  never  idly  working,  saves  expense. 

'  See  !  silvan  scenes,  where  Art  alone  pretends 
To  dress  her  mistress,  and  disclose  her  charms: 
Such  as  a  Pope  in  miniature  has  showTi  ;t 
*A  Bathurst  o'er  the  widening  forest§  spreads ; 
And  such  as  form  a  Richmond,  Chiswick,  Stowe. 

'  August,  around,  what  public  works  I  see  ! 
Lo !  stately  streets,  lo !  squares  that  court  the 
breeze, 

In  spite  of  those  to  whom  pertains  the  care. 
Ingulfing  more  than  founded  Roman  ways, 
Lo  !  ray'd  from  cities  o'er  the  brighten'd  land, 
Connecting  sea  to  sea,  the  solid  road. 
Lo !  the  proud  arch  (no  vile  exactor's  stand) 
With  easy  sweep  bestrides  the  chasing  flood. 
See !  long  canals,  and  deepen'd  rivers  join 
Each  part  with  each,  and  with  the  circling  main 


*  The  Foundling  Hospital. 

t  A  creature  which,  of  all  brutes,  most  resembles  man. 

See  Dr.  Tyson's  Treatise  on  this  animaH, 
t  At  his  Twickenham  Villa. 
§  Okely  woods,  near  Cirencester. 


108 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


The  whole  enliven'd  isle.    Lo!  ports  expand, 
Free  as  the  winds  and  waves  their  sheltering  arms. 
Lo  !  streaming  comfort  o'er  the  troubled  deep, 
On  every  pointed  coast  the  lighthouse  towers ; 
And,  by  the  broad  imperious  mole  repell'd, 


Hark !  how  the  baffled  storm  indignant  roars. 

As  thick  to  view  these  varied  wonders  rose, 
Shook  all  my  soul  with  transport,  unassured, ' 
The  Vision  broke ;  and,  on  my  waking  eye, 
Rush'd  the  still  ruins  of  dejected  Rome. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 
THE  RIGHT  HON.  LORD  TALBOT, 

LATE  CHANCELLOR  OF  GREAT  BRITAIN. 
ADDRESSED  TO  HIS  SON. 

While  with  the  public,  you,  my  Lord,  lament 
A  friend  and  father  lost ;  permit  the  Muse, 
The  Muse  assign'd  of  old  a  double  theme. 
To  praise  dead  worth,  and  humble  living  pride. 
Whose  generous  task  begins  where  interest  ends; 
Permit  her  on  a  Talbot's  tomb  to  lay 
This  cordial  verse  sincere,  by  truth  inspired. 
Which  means  not  to  bestow  but  borrow  fame. 
Yes,  she  may  sing  his  matchless  virtues  now — 
Unhappy  that  she  may. — But  where  begin  1 
How  from  the  diamond  single  out  each  ray, 
Where  all,  though  trembling  with  ten  thousand 
hues, 

Effuse  one  dazzling  undivided  light? 

Let  the  low-minded  of  these  narrow  days 
No  more  presume  to  deem  the  lofty  tale 
Of  ancient  times,  in  pity  to  their  own, 
Romance.    In  Talbot  we  united  saw 
The  piercing  eye,  the  quick  enlighten'd  soul, 
The  graceful  ease,  the  flowing  tongue  of  Greece, 
Join'd  to  the  virtues  and  the  force  of  Rome. 

Eternal  Wisdom,  that  all-quickening  sun, 
Whence  every  hfe,  in  just  proportion,  draws 
Directing  light  and  actuating  flame, 
Ne'er  with  a  larger  portion  of  its  beams 
Awaken'd  mortal  clay.    Hence  steady,  calm, 
Diffusive,  deep,  and  clear,  his  reason  saw. 
With  instantaneous  view,  the  truth  of  things; 
Chief  what  to  human  life  and  human  bliss 
Pertains,  that  noblest  science,  fit  for  man : 
And  hence,  responsive  to  his  knowledge,  glow'd 
His  ardent  virtue.    Ignorance  and  vice, 
In  consort  foul,  agree ;  each  heightening  each ; 
While  virtue  draws  from  knowledge  brighter  fire. 
What  grand,  what  comely,  or  what  tender 
sense. 

What  talent,  or  what  virtue  was  not  his; 
What  that  can  render  man  or  great,  or  good, 
Give  useful  worth,  or  amiable  grace  1 


Nor  could  he  brook  in  studious  shade  to  lie, 
In  soft  retirement,  indolently  pleased 
With  selfish  peace.    The  Syren  of  the  wise, 
(Who  steals  the  Aonian  song,  and,  in  the  shape 
Of  Virtue,  woos  them  from  a  worthless  world) 
Though  deep  he  felt  her  charms,  could  never  melt 
His  strenuous  spirit,  recollected,  calm. 
As  silent  night,  yet  active  as  the  day. 
The  more  the  bold,  the  bustling,  and  the  bad, 
Press  to  usurp  the  reigns  of  power,  the  more,' 
Behoves  it  virtue,  with  indignant  zeal. 
To  check  their  combination.    Shall  low  views 
Of  sneaking  interest  or  luxurious  vice. 
The  villain's  passions,  quicken  more  to  toil, 
And  dart  a  livelier  vigour  through  the  soul. 
Than  those  that  mingled  with  our  truest  good, 
With  present  honour  and  immortal  fame, 
Involve  the  good  of  all  1  An  empty  form 
Is  the  weak  Virtue,  that  amid  the  shade 
Lamenting  lies,  with  future  schemes  amused, 
While  Wickedness  and  Folly,  kindred  powers. 
Confound  the  world.    A  Talbot's,  different  far, 
Sprung  ardent  into  action:  action,  that  disdain'd 
To  lose  in  deathlike  sloth  one  pulse  of  life, 
That  might  be  saved ;  disdain'd  for  coward  ease, 
And  her  insipid  pleasures,  to  resign 
The  prize  of  glory,  the  keen  sweets  of  toil. 
And  those  high  joys  that  teach  the  truly  great 
To  live  for  others,  and  for  others  die. 

Early,  behold !  he  breaks  benign  on  life. 
Not  breathing  more  beneficence,  the  spring 
Leads  in  her  swelling  train  the  gentle  airs : 
While  gay,  behind  her,  smiles  the  kindling  waste 
Of  ruffian  storms  and  Winter's  lawless  rage. 
In  him  Astrea,  to  this  dim  abode 
Of  ever  wandering  men,  return'd  again : 
To  bless  them  his  delight,  to  bring  them  back 
From  thorny  error,  . from  unjoyous  wrong 
Into  the  paths  of  kind  primeval  faith, 
Of  happiness  and  justice.    All  his  parts, 
His  virtues  all,  collected,  sought  the  good 
Of  humankind.    For  that  he,  fervent,  felt 
The  throb  of  patriots,  when  they  mode!  states: 
Anxious  for  that,  nor  needful  sleep  could  hold 
His  still-awaken'd  soul ;  nor  friends  had  charms 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


W9 


To  yteal,  with  pleasing  guile,  one  useful  hour; 
Toil  knew  no  languor,  no  attraction  joy. 
Thus  with  unwearied  steps,  by  Virtue  led, 
He  gain'd  the  summit  of  that  sacred  hill, 
Where,  raised  above  black  Envy's  darkening 
clouds, 

rier  spotless  temple  lifts  its  radiant  front. 
Be  named,  victorious  ravages,  no  more ! 
Vanish,  ye  human  comets !  shrink  your  blaze ! 
Ye  that  your  glory  to  your  terrors  owe, 
As,  o'er  the  gazing  desolated  earth, 
You  scatter  famine,  pestilence,  and  war ; 
Vanish!  before  this  vernal  sun  of  fame; 
Effulgent  sweetness !  beaming  life  and  joy. 
How  the  heart  listen'd  while  he,  pleading, 
spoke ! 

While  on  the  enlighten'd  mind,  with  winning  art, 
His  gentle  reason  so  persuasive  stole. 
That  the  charm'd  hearer  thought  it  was  his  own. 
Ah!  when,  ye  studious  of  the  laws,  again 
Shall  such  enchanting  lessons  bless  your  ear"? 
When  shall  again  the  darkest  truths,  perplex'd, 
Be  set  in  ample  day  1  when  shall  the  harsh 
And  arduoxis  open  into  smiUng  ease'? 
The  solid  mix  with  elegant  delight '? 
His  was  the  talent  with  the  purest  light 
At  once  to  pour  conviction  on  the  soul. 
And  warm  with  lawful  flame,  the  impassion'd 
heart. 

That  dangerous  gift  with  him  was  safely  lodged 
By  Heaven — He,  sacred  to  his  country's  cause, 
To  trampled  want  and  worth,  to  suffering  right. 
To  the  lone  widow's  and  her  orphan's  woes. 
Reserved  the  mighty  charm.    With  equal  brow, 
Despising  then  the  smiles  or  frowns  of  power, 
He  all  that  noblest  eloquence  eflfused. 
Which   generous  passion,  taught  by  reason, 
breathes : 

Then  spoke  the  man;  and,  over  barren  art, 
Prevail'd  abundant  nature.  Freedom  then 
His  client  was,  humanity  and  truth. 

Placed  on  the  seat  of  justice,  there  he  reign'd, 
In  a  superior  sphere  of  cloudless  day, 
A  pure  intelligence.    No  tumult  there, 
No  dark  emotion,  no  intemperate  heat, 
No  passion  e'er  disturb'd  the  clear  serene 
That  around  him  spread.    A  zeal  for  right  alone, 
The  love  of  justice,  like  the  steady  sun, 
Its  equal  ardour  lent;  and  sometimes  raised 
Against  the  sons  of  violence,  of  pride. 
And  bold  deceit,  his  indignation  gleam'd, 
Yet  still  by  sober  dignity  restrain'd. 
As  intuition  quick,  he  snatched  the  truth. 
Yet  with  progressive  patience,  step  by  step. 
Self-diffident,  or  to  the  slower  kind. 
He  through  the  maze  of  falsehood  traced  it  on, 
Till,  at  the  last,  evolved,  it  full  appear'd,  , 
And  e'en  the  loser  own'd  the  just  decree. 

But  when,  in  senates,  he,  to  freedom  firm, 


Enlighten'd  Freedom,  plann'd  salubrious  laws. 
His  various  learning,  his  wide  knowledge,  then,. 
His  insight  deep  into  Britannia's  weal. 
Spontaneous  seem'd  from  simple  sense  to  flow. 
And  the  plain  patriot  smooth'd  the  brow  of  law 
No  specious  swell,  no  frothy  pomp  of  words 
Fell  on  the  cheated  ear;  no  studied  maze 
Of  declaration,  to  perplex  the  right, 
He  darkening  threw  around:  safe  in  itself. 
In  its  own  force,  all  powerful  Reason  spoke ; 
While  on  the  great  the  ruling  point,  at  once, 
He  stream'd  decisive  day,  and  show'd  it  vain 
To  lengthen  further  out  the  clear  debate. 
Conviction  breathes  conviction;  to  the  heart, 
Pour'd  ardent  forth  in  eloquence  unhid. 
The  heart  attends :  for  let  the  venal  try 
Their  every  hardening  stupifying  art, 
Truth  must  prevail,  zeal  will  enkindle  zeal, 
And  Nature,  skilful  touch'd,  is  honest  still. 

Behold  him  in  the  councils  of  his  prince. 
What  faithful  light  he  lends !    How  rare,  in 
courts. 

Such  wisdom !  such  abilities !  and  join'd 
To  virtue  so  determined,  public  zeal. 
And  honour  of  such  adamantine  proof. 
As  e'en  corruption,  hopeless,  and  o'eraw'd, 
Durst  not  have  tempted !  yet  of  manners  mild, 
And  winning  every  heart,  he  knew  to  please, 
Nobly  to  please ;  while  equally  he  scorn'd 
Or  adulation  to  receive,  or  give. 
Happy  the  state,  where  wakes  a  ruling  eye 
Of  such  inspection  keen,  and  general  care! 
Beneath  a  guard  so  vigilant,  so  pure. 
Toil  may  resign  his  careless  head  to  rest, 
And  ever  jealous  freedom  sleep  in  peace. 
Ah!  lost  untimely !  lost  in  downward  days ! 
And  many  a  patriot-counsel  with  him  lost! 
Counsels,  that  might  have  humbled  Britain's  foe, 
Her  native  foe,  from  eldest  time  by  fate 
Appointed,  as  did  once  a  Talbot's  arms. 

Let  learning,  arts,  let  universal  worth. 
Lament  a  patron  lost,  a  friend  and  judge. 
Unlike  the  sons  of  vanity,  that  veil'd 
Beneath  the  patron's  prostituted  name, 
Dare  sacrifice  a  worthy  man  to  pride, 
And  flush  confusion  o'er  an  honest  cheek. 
When  he  conferr'd  a  grace,  it  seem'd  a  debt 
Which  he  to  merit,  to  the  public,  paid, 
And  to  the  great  all-bounteous  Source  of  good! 
His  sympathizing  heart  itself  received 
The  generous  obligation  he  bestow'd. 
This,  this  indeed,  is  patronizing  worth. 
Their  kind  protector  him  the  Muses  own, 
But  scorn  with  noble  pride  the  boasted  air 
Of  tasteless  vanity's  insulting  hand. 
The  gracious  stream,  that  cheers  the  letter'd  wotM^ 
Is  not  the  noisy  gift  of  summer's  noon. 
Whose  sudden  current,  from  the  naked  root, 
Washes  the  little  soil  which  yet  remain 'd 


110 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


And  only  nfiore  dejects  the  blushing  flowers: 
No,  'tis  the  soft-descending  dews  at  eve, 
The  silent  treasures  of  the  vernal  year. 
Indulging  deep  their  stores,  the  still  night  long; 
Till,  with  returning  morn,  the  freshen'd  world, 
Is  fragrance  all,  all  beauty,  joy,  and  song. 

Still  let  me  view  him  in  the  pleasing  light 
Of  private  life,  vsrhere  pomp  forgets  to  glare, 
And  where  the  plain  unguarded  soul  is  seen. 
There,  with  that  truest  greatness  he  appear'd, 
Which  thinks  not  of  appearing ;  kindly  veil'd 
In  the  soft  graces  of  the  friendly  scene, 
Inspiring  social  confidence  and  ease. 
As  free  the  converse  of  the  wise  and  good, 
As  joyous,  disentangling  every  power, 
And  breathing  mix'd  improvement  with  delight, 
As  when  amid  the  various-blossom'd  spring, 
Or  gentle  beaming  autumn's^pensive  shade, 
The  philosophic  mind  with  nature  talks. 
Say  ye,  his  sons,  his  dear  remains,  with,  whom 
The  father  laid  superfluous  state  aside. 
Yet  raised  your  filial  duty  thence  the  more, 
With  friendship  raised  it,  with  esteem,  with  love, 
Beyond  the  ties  of  love,  oh !  speak  the  joy. 
The  pure  serene,  the  cheerful  wisdom  mild, 
The  virtuous  spirit,  which  his  vacant  hours. 
In  semblance  of  amusement,  through  the  breast 
Infused.    And  thou,  O  Rundle  1*  lend  thy  strain, 
Thou  darling  friend !  thou  brother  of  his  soul  I 
In  whom  the  head  and  heart  their  stores  unite : 
Whatever  fancy  paints,  invention  pours. 
Judgment  digests,  the  well  tuned  bosom  feels, 
Truth  natural,  moral,  or  divine,  has  taught, 
The  virtues  dictate,  or  the  Muses  sing. 
Lend  me  the  plaint,  which,  to  the  lonely  main, 
With  memory  conversing,  you  will  pour, 
As  on  the  pebbled  shore^you,  pensive,  stray. 
Where  Derry's  mountains  a  bleak  crescent  form. 
And  mid  their  ample  round  receive  the  waves. 
That  from  the  frozen  pole,  resounding,  rush. 
Impetuous.  Though  from  native  sunshine  driven. 
Driven  from  your  friends,  the  sunshine  of  the  soul. 
By  slanderous  zeal,  and  politics  infirm, 
Jealous  of  worth ;  yet  will  you  bless  your  lot, 
Yet  will  you  triumph  in  your  glorious  fate. 
Whence  Talbot's  friendship  glows  to  future  times, 
Intrepid,  warm;  of  kindred  tempers  born; 
Nursed,  by  experience,  into  slow  esteem, 
Calm  confidence  unbounded,  love  not  blind, 
And  the  sweet  light  from  mingled  minds  disclosed, 
From  mingled  chymic  oils  as  bursts  the  fire. 

I  too,  remember  well  that  cheerful  bowl. 
Which  round  his  table  flow'd.  The  serious  there 
Mix'd  with  the  sportive,  with  the  learn'd  the 
plain ; 

Mirth  soften'd  wisdom,  candour  temper'd  mirth ; 
And  wit  its  honey  lent,  without  the  sting. 


•br.  Rundle,  Bishop  of  Derry  in  Ireland.  See  the  Memoir. 


Not  simple  nature's  unaffected  sons, 

The  blameless  Indians,  round  their  forest-cheer, 

In  sunny  lawn  or  shady  covert  set, 

Hold  more  unspotted  converse ;  nor,  of  old, 

Rome's  awful  consuls,  her  dictator  swains, 

As  on  the  product  of  their  Sabine  farms 

They  fared,  with  stricter  virtue  fed  the  soul: 

Nor  yet  in  Athens,  at  an  Attic  meal. 

Where  Socrates  presided,  fairer  truth, 

More  elegant  humanity,  more  grace, 

Wit  more  refined,  or  deeper  science  reign'd. 

But  far  beyond  the  little  vulgar  bounds 
Of  family,  or  friends,  or  native  land, 
By  just  degrees,  and  with  proportion'd  flame, 
Extended  his  benevolence :  a  friend 
To  humankind,  to  parent  nature's  works. 
Of  free  access,  and  of  engaging  grace. 
Such  as  a  brother  to  a  brother  owes. 
He  kept  an  open  judging  ear  for  all. 
And  spread  an  open  countenance,  where  smiicd 
The  fair  effulgence  of  an  open  heart;. 
While  on  the  rich,  the  poor,  the  high,  the  low, 
With  equal  ray,  his  ready  goodness  shone: 
For  nothing  human  foreign  was  to  him. 

Thus  to  a  dread  inheritance,  my  Lord, 
And  hard  to  be  supported,  you  succeed i 
But,  kept  by  virtue,  as  by  virtue  gain'd, 
It  will,  through  latest  time,  enrich  your  race. 
When  grosser  wealth  shall  moulder  into  dust, 
And  with  their  authors  in  oblivion  sunk 
Vain  titles  lie,  the  servile  badges  oft 
Of  mean  submission,  not  the  meed  of  worth. 
True  genuine  honour  its  large  patent  holds 
Of  all  mankind,  through  every  land  and  ao-e. 
Of  univeral  reason's  various  sons, 
And  e'en  of  God  himself,  sole  perfect  Judge ! 
Yet  know  these  noblest  honours  of  the  mind 
On  rigid  terms  descend  :  the  high-placed  heir, 
Scann'd  by  the  public  eye,  that,  with  keen  gaze, 
Malignant  seeks  out  faults,  can  not  through  life 
Amid  the  nameless  insects  of  a  court. 
Unheeded  steal ;  but,  with  his  sire  compared, 
He  must  be  glorious,  or  he  must  be  scorn'd. 
This  truth  to  you,  who  merit  well  to  bear 
A  name  to  Britons  dear,  the  officious  Muse 
May  safely  sing,  and  sing  without  reserve. 

Vain  were  the  plaint,  and  ignorant  the  tear 
That  should  a  Talbot  mourn.    Ourselves,  indeed, 
Our  country  robb'd  of  her  delight  and  strength. 
We  may  lament.    Yet  let  us,  grateful,  joy 
That  we  such  virtues  knew,  such  virtues  felt, 
And  feel  them  still,  teaching  our  views  to  rise 
Through  ever  brightening  scenes  of  future  worlds 
Be  dumb,  ye  worst  of  zealots  !  ye  that,  prone 
To  thoughtless  dust,  renounce  that  generous  hope, 
Whence  every  joy  below  its  spirit  draws. 
And  every  pain  its  balm :  a  Talbot's  light, 
A  Talbot's  virtues  claim  another  source, 
Than  the  blind  maze  of  undesigning  blood  • 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Ill 


JN  or  when  that  vital  fountain  plays  no  more, 
Can  they  be  quench'd  amid  the  geUd  stream. 

Methinks  I  see  his  mounting  spirit,  freed 
From  tanghng  earth,  regain  the  realms  of  day, 
Its  native  country :  whence  to  bless  mankind, 
Eternal  goodness  on  this  darksome  spot 
Had  ray'd  it  down  a  while.    Behold  !  approved 
By  the  tremendous  Judge  of  heaven  and  earth 
And  to  the  Almighty  Father's  presence  join'd, 
He  takes  his  rank,  in  glory,  and  in  bliss, 
Amid  the  human  worthies.    Glad  around 
Crowd  his  compatriot  shades,  and  point  him  out, 
With  joyful  pride,  Britannia's  blameless  boast. 
Ah  !  who  is  he,  that  vdth  a  fonder  eye 
Meets  thine  enraptured'? — 'Tis  the  best  of  sons  ! 

The  best  of  friends  !  Too  soon  is  realized 

That  hope,  which  once  forbad  thy  tears  to  flow ! 
Meanwhile  the  kindred  souls  of  every  land, 
Howe'er  divided  in  the  fretful  days 
Of  prejudice  and  error)  mingled  now, 
In  one  selected  never  jarring  state. 
Where  God  himself  their  only  monarch  reigns. 
Partake  the  joy :  yet,  such  the  sense  that  still 
Remains  of  earthly  woes,  for  us  below. 
And  for  our  loss,  they  drop  a  pitying  tear. 
But  cease,  presumptuous  Muse,  nor  vainly  strive 
To  quit  this  cloudy  sphere,  that  binds  thee  down  : 
'Tis  not  for  mortal  hands  to  trace  these  scenes — 
Scenes,  that  our  gross  ideas  groveling  cast 
Behind,  and  strike  our  boldest  language  dumb. 

Forgive,  immortal  shade  !  if  aught  from  earth, 
From  dust  low  warbled,  to  those  groves  can  rise, 
Where  flows  celestial  harmony,  forgive 
This  fond  superfluous  verse.  With  deep-felt  voice, 
On  every  heart  impress'd,  thy  deeds  themselves 
Attest  thy  praise.    Thy  praise  the  widow's  sighs. 
And  orphan's  tears  embalm.    The  good,  the  bad, 
The  sons  of  justice  and  the  sons  of  strife, 
All  who  or  freedom  or  who  interest  prize, 
A  deep-divided  nation's  parties  all, 
Conspire  to  swell  thy  spotless  praise  to  Heaven. 
Glad  Heaven  receives  it,  and  seraphic  lyres 
With  songs'  of  triumph  thy  arrival  hail. 
How  vain  this  tribute  then  !  this  lowly  lay ! 
Yet  nought  is  vain  that  gratitude  inspires. 
The  Muse,  besides,  her  duty  thus  approves 
To  virtue,  to  her  country,  to  mankind, 
To  ruling  nature,  that,  in  glorious  charge, 
As  to  her  priestess,  gives  it  her  to  hymn 
Whatever  good  and  excellent  she  forms. 


TO  THE 

MEMORY  OF  SIR  ISAAC  NEWTON, 

Inscribed  to  the  Right  Hon.  Sir  Robert  Walpole. 

Shall  the  great  soul  of  Newton  quit  this  earth, 
To  mingle  with  his  stars ;  and  every  Muse, 
36 


Astonish'd  into  silence,  shun  the  weight 

Of  honours  due  to  his  illustrious  name  1 

But  what  can  man  1 — E'en  now  the  sons  of  light, 

In  strains  high  warbled  to  seraphic  lyre. 

Hail  his  arrival  on  the  coast  of  bhss. 

Yet  am  not  I  deterr'd,  though  high  the  theme, 

And  sung  to  harps  of  angels,  for  with  you, 

Ethereal  flames  !  ambitious,  I  aspire 

In  Nature's  general  symphony  to  join. 

And  what  new  wonders  can  ye  show  your  guest 
Who,  while  on  this  dim  spot,  where  mortals  toil 
Clouded  in  dust,  from  Motion's  simple  laws, 
Could  trace  the  secret  hand  of  Providence, 
Wide-working  through  this  universal  frame. 

Have  ye  not  hsten'd  while  he  bound  the  Suns 
And  Planets,  to  their  spheres !  the  unequal  task 
Of  humankind  till  then.    Oft  had  they  roU'd 
O'er  erring  man  the  year,  and  oft  disgraced 
The  pride  of  schools,  before  their  course  was  knowu 
Full  in  its  causes  and  effects  to  him, 
All-piercing  sage  !  Who  sat  not  down  and  dream'd 
Romantic  schemes,  defended  by  the  din 
Of  specious  words,  and  tyranny  of  names ; 
But,  bidding  his  amazing  mind  attend, 
And  with  heroic  patience  years  on  years 
Deep-searching,  saw  at  last  the  system  dawn, 
And  shine,  of  all  his  race,  on  him  . alone. 

What  were  his  raptures  then  !  how  pure !  how 
strong ! 

And  what  the  triumphs  of  old  Greece  and  Rome, 
By  his  diminish'd,  but  the  pride  of  boys 
In  some  small  fray  victorious  !  when  instead 
Of  shatter'd  parcels  of  this  earth  usurp'd 
By  violence  unmanly,  and  sore  deeds 
Of  cruelty  and  blood,  Nature  herself 
Stood  all  subdued  by  him,  and  open  laid 
Her  every  latent  glory  to  his  view. 

All  intellectual  eye,  our  solar  round 
First  gazing  through,  he  by  the  blended  power 
Of  Gravitation  and  Projection  saw 
The  whole  in  silent  harmony  revolve. 
From  unassisted  vision  hid,  the  moons 
To  cheer  remoter  planets  numerous  form'd. 
By  him  in  all  their  mingled  tracts  were  seen. 
He  also  fix'd  our  wandering  Glueen  of  Night, 
Whether  she  wanes  into  a  scanty  orb. 
Or,  waxing  broad,  with  her  pale  shadowy  light, 
In  a  soft  deluge  overflows  the  sky. 
Her  every  motion  clear-discerning.  He 
Adjusted  to  the  mutual  Main,  and  taught 
Why  now  the  mighty  mass  of  water  swells 
Resistlessfheaving  on  the  broken  rocks, 
And  the  full  river  turning :  till  again 
The  tide  revertive,  unattracted,  leaves 
A  yellow  waste  of  idle  sands  behind. 

Then  breaking  hence,  he  took  his  ardent  flight 
Through  the  blue  infinite ;  and  every  star. 
Which  the  clear  concave  of  a  winter's  night 
Pours  on  the  eye,  or  astronomic  tube, 


112 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Par  stretching,  snatches  from  the  dark  abyss ; 

Or  such  as  further  in  successive  skies 

To  fancy  shine  alone,  at  his  approach 

Blazed  into  suns,  the  living  centre  each 

Of  an  harmonious  system  :  all  combined, 

And  ruled  unerring  by  that  single  power, 

Which  draws  the  stone  projected  to  the  ground. 

O  unprofuse  magnificence  divine  ! 

O  wisdom  truly  perfect !  thus  to  call 

From  a  few  causes  such  a  scheme  of  things, 

Effects  so  various,  beautiful,  and  great, 

A  universe  complete  !  And  O,  beloved 

Of  Heaven  !  whose  well  purged  penetrative  eye 

The  mystic  veil  transpiercing,  inly  scann'd 

The  rising,  moving,  wide-establish'd  frame. 

He,  first  of  men,  with  awful  wing  pursued 
The  Comet  through  the  long  eliptic  curve. 
As  round  innumerous  worlds  he  wound  his  way ; 
Till,  to  the  forehead  of  our  evening  sky 
Return'd,  the  blazing  wonder  glares  anew, 
And  o'er  the  trembling  nations  shakes  dismay. 

The  heavens  are  all  his  own ;  from  the  wild  rule 
Of  whirling  Vortices,  and  circHng  Spheres, 
To  their  first  great  simplicity  restored. 
The  schools  astonish'd  stood ;  but  found  it  vain 
To  combat  still  with  demonstration  strong, 
And,  unawaken'd  dream  beneath  the  blaze 
Of  truth.    At  once  their  pleasing  visions  fled, 
With  the  gay  shadows  of  the  morning  mix'd, 
When  Newton  rose,  our  philosophic  sun ! 

The  aerial  flow  of  Sound  was  known  to  him, 
From  whence  it  first  in  wavy  circles  breaks, 
Till  the  touch'd  organ  takes  the  message  in. 
Nor  could  the  darting  beam  of  Speed  immense 
Escape  his  swifl;  pursuit  and  measuring  eye. 
E'en  Light  itself,  which  every  thing  displays, 
Shone  undiscover'd,  till  his  brighter  mind 
Untwisted  all  the  shining  robe  of  day  ; 
And,  from  the  whitening  undistinguish'd  blaze, 
Collecting  every  ray  into  his  kind. 
To  the  charm'd  eye  educed  the  gorgeous  train 
Of  parent  colours.    First  the  flaming  Red 
Sprung  vivid  forth ;  the  tawny  Orange  next ; 
And  next  delicious  Yellow ;  by  whose  side 
Fell  the  kind  beams  of  all-refreshing  Green. 
Then  the  pure  Blue,  that  swells  autumnal  skies, 
Ethereal  play'd ;  and  then,  of  sadder  hue, 
Emerged  the  deepen'd  Indico,  as  when 
The  heavy-skirted  evening  droops  with  frost. 
While  the  last  gloamings  of  refracted  light 
Dyed  in  the  fainting  violet  away. 
These,  when  the  clouds  distil  the  rosy  shower, 
Shine  out  distinct  adown  the  watery  bow  ; 
While  o'er  our  heads  the  dewy  vision  bends 
Delightful,  melting  on  the  fields  beneath. 
Myriads  of  mingling  dyes  from  these  result, 
And  myriads  still  remain ;  infinite  source 
Of  beauty,  ever  blushing,  ever  new. 
Did  ever  poet  image  ought  so  fair, 


Dreaming  in  whispering  groves,  by  the  noar&c 
brook ! 

Or  prophet,  to  whose  rapture  heaven  descends  > 
E'en  now  the  setting  sun  and  shifting  clouds. 
Seen,  Greenwich,  from  thy  lovely  heights,  dociaxB 
How  just,  how  beauteous  the  refractive  law. 

The  noiseless  tide  of  Time,  all  bearing  down 
To  vast  eternity's  unbounded  sea, 
Where  the  green  islands  of  the  happy  shine, 
He  stemm'd  alone;  and  to  the  source  (involved 
Deep  in  primeval  gloom)  ascending,  raised 
His  lights  at  equal  distances,  to  guide 
Historian,  wilder'd  on  his  darksome  way. 

But  who  can  number  up  his  labours'?  who 
His  high  discoveries  sing  1  when  but  a  few 
Of  the  deep-studying  race  can  stretch  their  minds 
To  what  he  knew :  in  fancy's  lighter  thought, 
How  shall  the  muse  then  grasp  the  mighty  theme  1 

What  wonder  thence  that  his  devotion  swell'd 
Responsive  to  his  knowledge  1  For  could  he, 
Whose  piercing  mental  eye  diffusive  saw 
The  finish'd  university  of  things. 
In  all  its  order,  magnitude,  and  parts, 
Forbear  incessant  to  adore  that  power 
Who  fills,  sustains,  and  actuates  the  whole  'I 

Say,  ye  who  best  can  tell,  ye  happy  few, 
Who  saw  him  in  the  softest  lights  of  life, 
All  unwithheld,  indulging  to  his  friends 
The  vast  unborrow'd  treasures  of  his  mind, 
Oh,  speak  the  wondrous  man!  how  mild,  how 
calm. 

How  greatly  humble,  how  divinely  good 
How  firm  established  on  eternal  truth  ; 
Fervent  in  doing  well,  with  every  nerve 
Still  pressing  on,  forgetful  of  the  past, 
And  panting  for  perfection  :  far  above 
Those  little  cares,  and  visionary  joys. 
That  so  perplex  the  fond  impassion'd  heart 
Of  ever  cheated,  ever  trusting  man. 

And  you,  ye  hopeless  gloomy-minded  tribe, 
You  who,  unconscious  of  those  nobler  flights 
That  reach  impatient  at  immortal  life, 
Against  the  prime  endearing  privilege 
Of  Being  dare  contend, — say,  can  a  soul 
Of  such  extensive,  deep,  tremendous  powers, 
Enlarging  still,  be  but  a  finer  breath 
Of  spirits  dancing  through  their  tubes  awhile, 
And  then  for  ever  lost  in  vacant  air  ? 

But  hark !  methinks  I  hear  a  warning  voice. 
Solemn  as  when  some  awful  change  is  come, 

Sound  through  the  world — '  'Tis  done !  The 

measure's  full ; 
And  I  resign  my  charge.'— Ye  mouldering  stones, 
That  build  the  towering  pyramid,  the  proud 
Triumphal  arch,  the  monument  efiaced 
By  ruthless  ruin,  and  whate'er  supports 
The  worship'd  name  of  hoar  antiquity, 
Down  to  the  dust !  what  grandeur  can  ye  boast 
While  Newton  lifts  his  column  to  the  sides, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


lis 


Beyond  the  waste  of  time.    Let  no  weak  drop 
Be  shed  for  him.    The  virgin  in  her  bloom 
Cut  ofi"  the  joyous  youth,  and  darling  child, 
These  are  the  tombs  that  claim  the  tender  tear. 
And  elegiac  song.    But  Newton  calls 
For  other  notes  of  gratulation  high, 
That  now  he  wanders  through  those  endless 
worlds, 

He  here  so  well  descried,  and  wondering  talks, 
And  hymns  their  author  with  his  glad  compeers. 
O  Britain's  boast!  whether  with  angels  thou  . 
Sittest  in  dread  discourse,  or  fellow-bless'd, 
Who  joy  to  see  the  honour  of  their  kind; 
Or  whether,  mounted  on  cherubic  wing. 
Thy  swift  career  is  with  the  whirling  orbs. 
Comparing  things  with  things,  in  rapture  lost, 
And  grateful  adoration,  for  that  light 
So  plenteous  ray'd  into  thy  mind  below, 
From  light  himself;  Oh,  look  with  pity  down 
On  humankind,  a  frail  erroneous  race! 
Exalt  the  spirit  of  a  downward  world ! 
O'er  thy  dejected  Country  chief  preside. 
And  be  her  Genius  call'd !  her  studies  raise, 
Correct  her  manners,  and  inspire  her  youth. 
For,  though  depraved  and  sunk,  she  brought  thee 
forth. 

And  glories  in  thy  name ;  she  points  thee  out 
To  all  her  sons,  and  bids  them  eye  thy  star: 
While  in  expectance  of  the  second  life. 
When  time  shall  be  no  more,  thy  sacred  dust 
Sleeps  with  her  kings,  and  dignifies  the  scene. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MR.  AIKMAN.* 
Oh,  could  I  draw,  my  friend,  thy  genuine  mind, 
Just  as  the  living  forms  by  thee  desigh'd; 
Of  Raphael's  figures  none  should  fairer  shine, 
Nor  Titian's  colour  longer  last  than  mine. 
A  mind  in  wisdom  old,  in  lenience  young, 
From  fervent  truth  where  every  virtue  sprung; 
Where  all  was  real,  modest,  plain,  sincere ; 
Worth  above  show,  and  goodness  unsevere : 
View'd  round  and  round,  as  lucid  diamonds  throw 
Still  as  you  turn  them  a  revolving  glow. 
So  did  his  mind  reflect  with  secret  ray, 
In  various  virtues.  Heaven's  internal  day; 
Whether  in  high  discourse  it  soar'd  sublime 
And  sprung  impatient  o'er  the  bounds  of  Time, 
Or  wandering  nature  through  with  raptured  eye, 
Adored  the  hand  that  turn'd  yon  azure  sky: 


'  Mr.  Aikman  was  born  in  Scotland,  and  was  designed  for 
the  profession  of  the  law ;  but  went  to  Italy,  and  returned  a 
painter.  He  was  patronized  in  Scotland  by  the  Duke  of  Ar- 
gyle,  and  afterwards  met  with  encouragement  to  settle  in 
London ;  but  falling  into  a  long  and  languishing  disease,  he 
died  at  his  house  in  Leicester  Fields,  June  1731,  aged  50. 
Boyse  wrof ;  a  panegyric  upon  him,  and  Mallet  an  epitaph. 
See  Walpole's  Anecdotes,  vol.  iv.  p.  14. 


Whether  to  social  life  he  bent  his  thought. 
And  the  right  poise  of  mingling  passions  sought, 
Gay  converse  bless'd  ;  or  in  the  thoughtful  grove 
Bid  the  heart  open  every  source  of  love : 
New  varying  lights  still  set  before  your  eyes 
The  just,  the  good,  the  social,  or  the  wise. 
For  such  a  death  who  can,  who  would  refuse 
The  friend  a  tear,  a  verse  the  mournful  muse? 
Yet  pay  we  just  acknowledgment  to  heaven. 
Though  snatch'd  so  soon,  that  Aikman  e'er  was 
given. 

A  friend,  when  dead,  is  but  removed  from  sight, 
Hid  in  the  lustre  of  eternal  light : 
Oft  with  the  mind  he  wonted  converse  keeps 
In  the  lone  walk,  or  when  the  body  sleeps 
Lets  in  a  wandering  ray,  and  all  elate 
Wings  arid  attracts  her  to  another  state ; 
And,  when  the  parting  storms  of  Hfe  are  o'er, 
May  yet  rejoin  him  in  a  happier  shore. 
As  those  we  love  decay,  we  die  in  part. 
String  after  string  is  sever'd  from  the  heart; 
Till  loosen'd  life  at  last — but  breathing  clay, 
Without  one  pang,  is  glad  to  fall  away. 
Unhappy  he  who  latest  feels  the  blow, 
Whose  eyes  have  wept  o'er  every  friend  laid  low, 
Dragg'd  lingering  on  from  partial  death  to  death; 
And  dying,  all  he  can  resign  is  breath. 


EPITAPH  ON  MISS  STANLEY,* 

IN  HOLYROOD  CHURCH,  SOUTHAMPTON. 

E.  S. 

Once  a  lively  image  of  human  nature. 
Such  as  God  made  it 
When  he  pronounced  every  work  of  his  to  be  good. 
To  the  memory  of  Elizabeth  Stanley, 
Daughter  of  George  and  Sarah  Stanley; 
Who  to  all  the  beauty,  modesty. 
And  gentleness  of  nature. 
That  ever  adorned  the  most  amiable  woman, 
Joined  all  the  fortitude,  elevation 
And. vigour  of  mind. 
That  ever  exalted  the  most  heroical  man; 
Who  having  lived  the  pride  and  delight  of  her 
parents. 

The  joy,  the  consolation,  and  pattern  of  her  friends, 
A  mistress  not  only  of  the  English  and  French, 
But  in  a  high  degree  of  the  Greek  and  Roman 
learning. 
Without  vanity  or  pedantry. 
At  the  age  of  eighteen. 
After  a  tedious,  painful,  desperate  illness, 
Which,  with  a  Roman  spirit, 
And  a  Christian  resignation, 
She  endured  so  calmly,  that  she  seemed  insensible 

•  See  an  allusion  to  this  Lady  in  "Sununer,"  p,  1& 


114 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


To  all  pain  and  suffering,  except  that  of  her  friends, 

Gave  up  her  innocent  soul  to  her  Creator, 
And  left  to  her  mother,  who  erected  this  monument, 
The  memory  of  her  virtues  for  lier  greatest  support; 
Virtues  which,  in  her  sex  and  station  of  life, 
Were  all  that  could  be  practised, 
.  And  more  than  will  be  believed, 
Except  by  those  who  know  what  this  inscription 
relates. 

Here,  Stanley,  rest  I  escaped  this  mortal  strife, 
Above  the  joys,  beyond  the  woes  of  life, 
Fierce  pangs  no  more  thy  lively  beauties  stain, 
And  sternly  try  thee  with  a  year  of  pain ; 
No  more  sweet  patience,  feigning  oft  relief. 
Lights  thy  sick  eye,  to  cheat  a  parent's  grief: 
With  tender  art  to  save  her  anxious  groan. 
No  more  thy  bosom  presses  down  its  own : 
Now  well  earn'd  peace  is  thine,  and  bliss  sincere: 
Ours  be  the  lenient,  not  unpleasing  tear ! 

O  born  to  bloom  then  sink  beneath  the  storm; 
To  show  us  virtue  in  her  fairest  form; 
To  show  us  artless  reason's  moral  reign, 
What  boastful  science  arrogates  in  vain ; 
The  obedient  passions  knowing  each  their  part; 
Calm  Ugh't  the  head,  and  harmony  the  heart ! 

Yes,  we  must  follow  soon,  will  glad  obey; 
When  a  few  suns  have  roU'd  their  cares  away, 
Tired  with  vain  life,  will  close  the  willing  eye : 
'Tis  the  great  birthright  of  mankind  to  die. 
Bless'd  be  the  bark !  that  wafts  us  to  the  shore, 
Where  death-divided  friends  shall  part  no  more: 
To  join  thee  there,  here  with  thy  dust  repose, 
Is  all  the  hope  thy  hapless  mother  knows 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HIS  MOTHER.* 

Ye  fabled  Muses,  I  your  aid  disclaim, 
Your  airy  raptures,  and  your  fancied  flame : 
True  genuine  wo  my  throbbing  breast  inspires, 
Love  prompts  my  lays,  and  filial  duty  fires; 
My  soul  springs  instant  at  the  warm  design. 
And  the  heart  dictates  every  flowing  line. 
See !  where  the  kindest,  best  of  mothers  lies, 
And  death  has  closed  her  ever  watching  eyes ; 
Has  lodged  at  last  in  peace  her  weary  breast, 
And  lull'd  her  many  piercing  cares  to  rest. 
No  more  the  orphan  train  around  her  stands, 
While  her  full  heart  upbraids  her  needy  hands ! 
No  more  the  widow's  lonely  fate  she  feels, 
The  shock  severe  that  modest  want  conceals, 
The  oppressor's  scourge,  the  scorn  of  wealthy 
pride, 

And  poverty's  unnumber'd  ills  beside. 
For  see  !  attended  by  the  angelic  throng, 
Through  yonder  worlds  of  light  she  glides  along. 


*  See  the  Memoir. 


And  claims  the  well  earn'd  raptures  of  the  sky: 
Yet  fond  concern  recalls  the  mother's  eye ; 
She  seeks  the  helpless  orphans  left  behind; 
So  hardly  left !  so  bitterly  resign 'd  ! 
Still,  still !  is  she  my  soul's  diurnal  theme, 
The  waking  vision,  and  the  wailing  dream: 
Amid  the  ruddy  sun's  enlivening  blaze 
O'er  my  dark  eyes  her  dewy  image  plays, 
And  in  the  dread  dominion  of  the  night 
Shines  out  again  the  sadly  pleasing  sight. 
Triumphant  virtue  all  around  her  darts, 
And  more  than  volumes  every  look  imparts - 
Looks,  soft,  yet  awful ;  melting,  yet  serene ; 
Where  both  the  mother  and  the  saint  are  seen. 
But  ah !  that  night — that  torturing  night  remains; 
May  darkness  dye  it  with  the  deepest  stains, 
May  joy  on  it  forsake  her  rosy  bowers, 
And  streaming  sorrow  blast  its  baleful  hours, 
When  on  the  margin  of  the  briny  flood, 
Chill'd  with  a  sad  presaging  damp  I  stood, 
Took  the  last  look,  ne'er  to  behold  her  more, 
And  mix'd  our  murmurs  with  the  wavy  roar; 
Heard  the  last  words  fall  from  her  pious  tongue, 
Then,  wild  into  the  bulging  vessel  flung, 
Which  soon,  too  soon,  convey'd  me  from  her  sight 
Dearer  than  hfe,  and  liberty,  and  light ! 
Why  was  I  then,  ye  powers,  reserved  for  this*? 
Nor  sunk  that  moment  in  the  vast  abyss '? 
Devour'd  at  once  by  the  relentless  wave, 
And  whelm'd  for  ever  in  a  watery  grave  1 — 
Down,  ye  wild  wishes  of  unruly  wo  ! — 
I  see  her  with  immortal  beauty  glow; 
The  early  wrinkle,  care-contracted,  gone, 
Her  tears  all  wiped,  and  all  her  sorrows  flown; 
The  exalting  voice  of  Heaven  I  hear  her  breathe, 
To  soothe  her  soul  in  agonies  of  death. 
I  see  her  through  the  mansions  blest  above, 
And  now  she  meets  her  dear  expecting  Love. 
Heart -cheering  sight !  but  yet,  alas  !  o'erspread 
By  the  dark  gloom  of  Grief's  uncheerful  shade. 
Come  then,  of  reason  the  reflecting  hour. 
And  let  me  trust  the  kind  o'erruUng  Power, 
Who  from  the  right  commands  the  shining  day, 
The  poor  man's  portion,  and  the  orphan's  stay. 


THE  HAPPY  MAN, 

He's  not  the  happy  man.  to  whom  is  given 
A  plenteous  fortune  by  indulgent  Heaven; 
Whose  gilded  roofs  on  shining  columns  rise, 
And  painted  walls  enchant  the  gazer's  eyes: 
Whose  table  flows  with  hospitable  cheer. 
And  all  the  various  bounty  of  the  year ; 
Whose  valleys  smile,  whose  gardens  breathe  the 
spring, 

Whose  carved  mountains  bleat,  and  forests  sing  ■ 
For  whom  the  cooling  shade  in  summer  twines, 
While  his  full  cellars  give  their  generous  wines  j 


X, 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


115 


From  whose  wide  fields  unbounded  autumn  pours 
A  golden  tide  into  his  swelling  stores  : 
Whose  winter  laughs ;  for  whom  the  liberal  gales 
Stretch  the  big  sheet,  and  toiling  commerce  sails ; 
"When  yielding  crowds  attend,  and  pleasure  serves; 
While  youth,  and  health,  and  vigour  string  his 
nerves. 

E'en  not  all  these,  in  one  rich  lot  combined, 
Can  make  the  happy  man,  without  the  mind ; 
Where  judgment  sits  clear-sighted,  and  surveys 
The  chain  of  reason  with  unerring  gaze; 
Where  fancy  lives,  and  to  the  brightening  eyes, 
His  fairer  scenes,  and  bolder  figures  rise ; 
Where  social  love  exerts  her  soft  command, 
And  lays  the  passions  with  a  tender  hand, 
Whence  every  virtue  flows,  in  rival  strife. 
And  all  the  moral  harmony  of  life. 

Nor  canst  thou,  Dodington,  this  truth  decline, 
Thine  is  the  fortune,  and  the  mind  is  thine. 


A  PARAPHRASE 

ON  THE  LATTER  PART  OP  THE  SIXTH  CHAPTER  OP 
ST.  MATTHEW. 

When  my  breast  labours  with  oppressive  care, 
And  o'er  my  cheek  descends  the  falling  tear; 
While  all  my  warring  passions  are  at  strife, 
O,  let  me  listen  to  the  words  of  life ! 
Raptures  deep-felt  His  doctrine  did  impart. 
And  thus  He  raised  from  earth  the  drooping  heart. 

'  Think  not,  when  all,  your  scanty  stores  afford; 
Is  spread  at  once  upon  the  sparing  bpard ; 
Think  not,  when  worn  the  homely  robe  appears, 
While,  on  the  roof,  the  howling  tempest  bears ; 
What  further  shall  this  feeble  life  sustain. 
And  what  shall  clothe  these  shivering  limbs  again ! 
Say,  does  not  life  its  nourishment  exceed  1 
And  the  fair  body  its  investing  weed  1 

'  Behold !  and  look  away  your  low  despair — 
See  the  light  tenants  of  the  barren  air: 
To  them,  nor  stores,  nor  granaries  belong, 
Nought,  but  the  woodland,  and  the  pleasing  song; 
Yet,  your  kind  heavenly  Father  bends  his  eye 
On  the  least  wing  that  flits  along  the  sky, 
To  him  they  sing,  when  Spring  renews  the  plain, 
To  him  they  cry  in  Winter's  pinching  reign; 
Nor  is  their  music,  nor  their  plaint  in  vain: 
He  hears  the  gay  and  the  distressful  call, 
And  with  unsparing  bounty  fills  them  all. 

'  Observe  the  rising  lily's  snowy  grace, 
Observe  the  various  vegetable  race; 
They  neither  toil  nor  spin,  but  careless  grow, 
Yet  see  how  warm  they  blush,  how  bright  they 
glow ! 

What  regal  vestments  can  with  them  compare! 
What  king  so  shining,  or  what  queen  so  fair! 
If  ceaseless  thus  the  fowls  of  Heaven  he  feeds, 
If  o'er  the  fields  such  lucid  robes  he  spreads : 
2X 


Will  he  not  care"  for  you,  ye  faithless,  say  9 
Is  he  unwise'?  or  are  ye  less  than  they? 


ON  BOLUS'S  HARP 

Ethereal  race,  inhabitants  of  air, 

Who  hymn  your  God  amid  the  secret  grove; 

Ye  unseen  beings,  to  my  harp  repair. 

And  raise  majestic  strkins,  or  melt  in  love. 

Those  tender  notes,  how  kindly  they  upbraid, 
With  what  soft  wo  they  thrill  the  lover's  heart! 

Sure  from  the  hand  of  some  unhappy  maid, 
Who  died  for  love,  those  sweet  complainings  part. 

But  hark!  that  strain  was  of  a  graver  tone, 
On  the  deep  strings  his  hand  some  hermit  throws; 

Or  he,  the  sacred  Bard,*  who  sat  alone 
In  the  drear  waste,  and  wept  his  people's  woes. 

Such  was  the  song  whicn  Zion's  children  sung, 
When  by  Euphrates'  stream  they  made  their 
plaint; 

And  to  such  sadly  solemn  notes  are  strung 
Angelic  harps  to  sooth  a  dying  saint. 

Methinks  I  hear  the  full  celestial  choir, 

Through  Heaven's  high  dome  their  awful  an- 
them raise; 

Now  chanting  clear,  and  now  they  all  conspire 
To  swell  the  lofty  hymn  from  praise  to  praise. 

Let  me,  ye  wandering  spirits  of  the  wind, 

Who,  as  wild  fancy  prompts  you,  touch  the  string, 
Smit  with  your  theme,  be  in  your  chorus  join'd, 


•  Jeremiah. 


For,  till  you  cease,  my  Muse  forgets  to  sing. 


HYMN  ON  SOLITUDE. 

Hail,  mildly  pleasing  Solitude, 
Companion  of  the  wise  and  good; 
But  from  whose  holy  piercing  eye. 
The  herd  of  fools,  and  villains  fly. 

Oh !  how  I  love  with  thee  to  walk, 
And  listen  to  thy  whisper'd  talk, 
Which  innocence  and  truth  imparts, 
And  melts  the  most  obdurate  hearts. 

A  thousand  shapes  you  wear  with  ease, 
And  still  in  every  shape  you  please. 
Now  wrapt  in  some  mysterious  dream, 
A  lone  philosopher  you  seem; 
Now  quick  from  hill  to  vale  you  fly, 
And  now  you  sweep  the  vaulted  sky; 


116 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


A  shepherd  next,  you  haunt<the  plain, 
And  warble  forth  your  oaten  strain. 
A  lover  now,  with  all  the  grace 
Of  that  sweet  passion  in  your  face : 
Then  calm'd  to  friendship,  you  assume 
The  gentle  looking  Hertford's  bloom, 
As,  with  her  Musidora,  she 
(Her  .Musidora  fond  of  thee) 
Amid  the  long-withdrawing  vale, 
Awakes  the  rival'd  nightingale. 

Thme  is  the  balmy  breath  of  morn, 
Just  as  the  dew-bent  rose  is  born; 
And  while  meridian  fervors  beat, 
Thine  is  the  wopdland  dumb  retreat ; 
But  chief,  when  evening  scenes  decay, 
And  the  faint  landscape  swims  away. 
Thine  is  the  doubtful  soft  decline, 
And  that  best  hour  of  musing  thine. 

Descending  angels  bless  thy  train. 
The  virtues  of  the  sage  and  swain; 
Plain  Iimocence  in  white  array'd 
Before  thee  lifts  her  fearless  head ; 
Religion's  beams  around  thee  shine^ 
And  cheer  thy  glooms  with  light  divine: 
About  thee  sports  sweet  Liberty: 
And  wrapt  Urania  sings  to  thee. 

Oh,  let  me  pierce  thy  secret  cell ! 
And  in  thy  deep  recesses  dwell; 
Perhaps  from  Norwood's  oak-clad  hill, 
When  meditation  has  her  fill, 
I  just  may  cast  my  careless  eyes, 
Where  London's  spiry  turrets  rise, 
Think  of  its  crimes,  its  cares,  its  pain, 
Then  shield  me  in  the  woods  again. 


TO  SERAPHINA. 
The  wanton's  charms,  however  bright. 
Are  like  the  false  illusive  light. 
Whose  flattering  unauspicious  blaze 
To  precipices  oft  betrays: 
But  that  sweet  ray  your  beauties  dart, 
Which  clears  the  mind,  and  cleans  the  heart, 
Is  like  the  sacred  queen  of  night. 
Who  pours  a  lovely  gentle  light 
Wide  o'er  the  dark,  by  wanderers  blest, 
Conducting  them  to  peace  and  rest. 

A  vicious  love  depraves  the  mind, 
'Tis  anguish,  guilt,  and  folly  join'd; 
But  Seraphina's  eyes  dispense 
A  mild  and  gracious  influence; 
Sijch  as  in  visions  angels  shed 
Around  the  heaven-illumined  head. 
To  love  thee,  Seraphina,  sure 
Is  to  be  tender,  happy,  pure ; 


:  'Tis  from  low  passions  to  escape, 
I  And  woo  briglit  virtue's  fairest  shape; 
'Tis  ecstasy  with  wisdom  join'd ; 
!  And  heaven  infused  into  the  mind. 


VERSES  ADDRESSED  TO  AMANDA  * 

Ah,  urged  too' late  !  from  beauty's  bondage  free, 

Why  did  I  trust  my  liberty  with  thee  1 

And  thou,  why  didst  thou,  with  inhuman  art^ 

If  not  resolved  to  take,  seduce  my  heart '? 

Yes,  yes,  you  said,  for  lovers'  eyes  speak  true; 

You  must  have  seen  how  fast  my  passion  grew: 

And,  when  your  glances  chanced  on  me  to  shine 

How  my  fond  soul  ecstatic  sprung  to  thine ! 

But  mark  me,  fair  one— what  I  now  declare 

Thy  deep  attention  claims  and  serious  care: 

It  is  no  common  passion  fires  my  breast; 

I  must  be  wretched,  or  I  must  be  blest! 

My  woes  all  other  remedy  deny; 

Or,  pitying,  give  me  hope,  or  bid  me  die! 


TO  THE  SAME, 

WITH  A  copy  OP  THE  "  SEASONS." 

Accept,  loved  Nymph,  this  tribute  due 
To  tender  friendship,  love,  and  you  :t 
But  with  it  take  what  breathed  the  whole, 
O  take  to  thine  the  poet's  soul. 
If  Fancy  here  her  power  displays, 
And  if  a  heart  exalts  these  lays — 
You,  fairest,  in  that  fancy  shine. 
And  all  that  heart  is  fondly  thine. 

SONGS. 

A  NUPTIAL  SONG. 

Come,  gentle  Venus !  and  assuage 
A  warring  world,  a  bleeding  age. 
For  nature  lives  beneath  thy  ray, 
The  wintry  tempests  haste  away, 
A  lucid  calm  invests  the  sea. 
Thy  native  deep  is  full  of  thee : 
The  flowering  earth  where'er  you  fly, 
Is  all  o'er  spring,  all  sun  the  sky. 
A  genial  spirit  warms  the  breeze; 
Unseen  among  the  blooming  trees, 
The  feather'd  lovers  tune  their  throat, 
The  desert  growls  a  soft;en'd  note, 


*  Amanda,  as  is  stated  in  the  Memoir,  was  a  Misa  YouQg^ 
who  married  Vice  Admiral  Campbell. 
T  In  another  MS.  the  two  first  lines  read :  ^ 
Accept,  dear  Nymph  !  a  tribute  due 
To  sacred  friendship  and  to  you. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


117 


Glad  o'er  the  meads  the  cattle  bound, 
And  love  and  harmony  go  round. 

But  chief  into  the  human  heart 
You  strike  the  dear  delicious  dart ; 
You  teach  us  pleasing  pangs  to  know, 
To  languish  in  luxurious  wo, 
To  feel  the  generous  passions  rise. 
Grow  good  by  gazing,  mild  by  sighs ; 
Each  happy  moment  to  improve. 
And  fill  the  perfect  year  with  love. 

Come,  thou  delight  of  heaven  and  earth 
To  whom  all  creatures  owe  their  birth : 
Oh,  come,  sweet  smiling!  tender,  come! 
And  yet  prevent  our  final  doom. 
For  long  the  furious  god  of  war  s 
Has  crush'd  us  with  his  iron  car, 
Has  raged  along  our  ruin'd  plains, 
Has  foil'd  them  with  his  cruel  stains. 
Has  sunk  our  youth  in  endless  sleep, 
And  made  the  widow'd  virgin  weep. 
Now  let  him  feel  thy  wonted  charms, 
Oh,  take  him  to  thy  twining  arms ! 
And,  while  thy  bosom  heaves  on  his, 
"While  deep  he  prints  the  humid  kiss. 
Ah,  then !  his  stormy  heart  control, 
And  sigh  thyself  into  his  soul. 


TO  AMANDA.* 

Come,  dear  Amanda,  quit  the  tovm, 

And  to  the  rural  hamlets  fly; 
Behold!  the  wintry  storms  are  gone: 

A  gentle  radiance  glads  the  sky. 

The  birds  awake,  the  flowers  appear. 
Earth  spreads  a  verdant  couch  for  thee; 

'Tis  joy  and  music  all  we  hear, 
'Tis  love  and  beauty  all  we  see. 

Come,  let  us  mark  the  gradual  spring, 
How  peeps  the  bud,  the  blossom  blows; 

Till  Philomel  begins  to  sing, 
And  perfect  May  to  swell  the  rose. 

E'en  so  thy  rising  charms  improve. 

As  life's  warm  season  grows  more  bright; 

And  opening  to  the  sighs  of  love, 
Thy  beauties  glow  with  full  delight. 


TO  AMANDA. 

Unless  with  my  Amanda  bless'd. 
In  vain  I  twine  the  woodbine  bower; 

*  This  song  was  obligingly  contributed  to  this  edition  by 
William  Henry,  present  Lord  Lyttelton,  from  a  copy  in 
Thomson's  own  hand,  and  is  printed  for  the  lirst  time. 


Unless  to  deck  her  sweeter  breast, 
In  vain  I  rear  the  breathing  flower. 

Awaken'd  by  the  genial  year, 

In  vain  the  birds  around  me  sing ; 

In  vain  the  freshening  fields  appear : — 
Without  my  love  there  is  no  Spring. 


TO  FORTUNE. 

For  ever.  Fortune,  wilt  thou  prove, 
An  unrelenting  foe  to  love. 
And  when  we  meet  a  mutual  heart, 
Come  in  between,  and  bid  us  part : 

Bid  us  sigh  on  from  day  to  day 
And  wish,  and  wish  the  soul  away ; 
Till  youth  and  genial  years  are  flown, 
And  all  the  love  of  life  is  gone*? 

But  busy,  busy  still  art  thou. 
To  bind  the  loveless  joyless  vow, 
The  heart  from  pleasure  to  delude, 
And  join  the  gentle  to  the  rude. 

For  pomp,  and  noise,  and  senseless  show, 
To  make  us  Nature's  joys  forego. 
Beneath  a  gay  dominion  groan. 
And  put  the  golden  fetter  on ! 

For  once,  O  Fortune,  hear  my  prayer, 
And  I  absolve  thy  future  care ; 
All  other  blessings  I  resign. 
Make  but  the  dear  Amanda  mine. 


COME,  GENTLE  GOD. 

Come,  gentle  God  of  soft  desire, 
Come  and  possess  my  happy  breast. 

Not  fury-like  in  flames  and  fire. 
Or  frantic  folly's  wildness  drest  ;♦ 

But  come  in  friendship's  angel-guise ; 

Yet  dearer  thou  than  friendship  art, 
More  tender  spirit  in  thy  eyes, 

More  sweet  emotions  at  thy  heart. 

O,  come  with  goodness  in  thy  train. 
With  peace  and  pleasure  void  of  storm, 

And  wouldst  thou  me  for  ever  gain, 
Put  on  Amanda's  winning  form. 


*  A  MS.  copy  of  this  song  has  the  following  variations : 
In,  rapture,  rage,  and  nonsense  drest. 
These  are  the  vain  disguise  of  love, 
And,  or  bespeak  dissembled  pains ; 
Or  else  a  fleeting  fever  prove, 
The  frantic  passion  of  the  veins. 


118 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


TO  HER  I  LOVE. 

Tell  me,  thou  soul  of  her  I  love, 
Ah  !  tell  me  whither  art  thou  fled ; 

To  what  delightful  world  above. 
Appointed  for  the  happy  dead '? 

Or  dost  thou,  free,  at  pleasure,  roam, 
And  sometimes  share  thy  lover's  wo ; 

Where,  void  of  thee,  his  cheerless  home 
Can  now,  alas  !  no  comfort  know? 

Oh  !  if  thou  hover' st  round  my  walk, 
While,  undeir  every  well  known  tree, 

I  to  thy  fancied  shadow  talk, 
And  every  tear  is  full  of  thee: 

Should  then  the  weary  eye  of  grief, 
Beside  some  sympathetic  stream. 

In  slumber  find  a  short  relief. 

Oh,  visit  thou  my  soothing  dream  ! 


TO  THE  GOD  OP  FOND  DESIRE. 

One  day  the  God  of  fond  desire, 
On  mischief  bent,  to  Damon  said, 

•Why  not  disclose  your  tender  fire. 
Not  own  it  to  the  lovely  maid  V 

The  shepherd  mark'd  his  treacherous  art, 
And,  softly  sighing,  thus  replied  : 

'  Tis  true,  you  have  subdued  my  heart, 
But  shall  not  triumph  o'er  my  pride. 

'  The  slave,  in  private  only  bears 

Your  bondage,  who  his  love  conceals ; 

But  when  his  passion  he  declares. 

You  drag  him  at  your  chariot-wheels.' 


THE  LOVER'S  FATE. 

«1ard  is  the  fate  of  him  who  loves. 
Yet  dares  not  tell  his  trembling  pain, 

But  to  the  sympathetic  groves, 
But  to  the  lonely  listening  plain. 

Oh!  when  she  blesses  next  your  shade, 
Oh !  when  her  footsteps  next  are  seen 

In  flowery  tracts  along  the  mead, 
In  fresher  mazes  o'er  the  green : 

Ye  gentle  spirits  of  the  vale, 

To  whom  the  tears  of  love  are  dear. 
From  dying  lilies  wafl;  a  gale, 

And  sigh  my  sorrows  in  her  ear. 


Oh !  tell  her  what  she  can  not  blame, 
Though  fear  my  tongue  must  ever  bind; 

Oh,  tell  her,  that  my  virtuous  flame 
Is,  as  her  spotless  soul,  refined. 

Not  her  own  guardian-angel  eyes 
With  chaster  tenderness  his  care, 

Not  purer  her  own  wishes  rise. 

Not  holier  her  own  sighs  in  prayer. 

But  if,  at  first,  her  virgin  fear 

Should  start  at  love's  suspected  name, 
With  that  of  friendship  sooth  her  ear — 

True  love  and  friendship  are  the  same. 


TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

O  Nightingale,  best  poet  of  the  grove, 

That  plaintive  strain  can  ne'er  belong  to  thee, 
Bless'd  in  the  full  possession  of  thy  love : 

0  lend  that  strain,  sweet  Nightingale,  to  me ! 

'Tis  mine,  alas  !  to  mourn  my  wretched  fate : 

1  love  a  maid  who  all  my  bosom  charms. 
Yet  lose  my  days  without  this  lovely  mate ; 

Inhuman  fortune  keeps  her  from  my  arms. 

You,  happy  birds !  by  nature's  simple  laws 
Lead  your  soft  lives,  sustain'd  by  nature's  fare-; 

You  dwell  wherever  roving  fancy  draws, 
And  love  and  song  is  aU  your  pleasing  care : 

But  we,  vain  slaves  of  interest  and  of  pride. 
Dare  not  be  bless'd,  lest  envious  tongues  should 
blame : 

And  hence,  in  vain,  I  languish  for  my  bride ! 
O  mourn  with  me,  sweet  hird,  my  hapless  flame. 


TO  MYRA. 

O  THOU,  whose  tender  serious  eyes 
Expressive  speak  the  mind  I  love ; 

The  gentle  azure  of  the  skies. 
The  pensive  shadows  of  the  grove : 

O  mix  thy  beauteous  beams  with  mine 
And  let  us  interchange  our  hearts ; 

Let  all  their  sweetness  on  me  shine, 

Pour'd  through  my  soul  be  all  their  darts. 

Ah!  'tis  too  much!  I  can  not  bear 

At  once  so  sofl;,  so  keen  a  ray: 
In  pity,  then,  my  lovely  fair, 

O  turn  those  killing  eyes  away! 

But  what  avails  it  to  conceal 
•    One  charm,  where  nought  but  charms  I  see? 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


119 


Their  lustre  then  again  reveal, 
And  let  me,  Myra,  die  of  thee ! 


SONGS  IN  THE  MASQUE  OF  'ALFRED.'* 

TO  PEACE. 

O  Peace!  the  fairest  child  of  Heaven, 
To  whom  the  sylvan  reign  was  given. 
The  vale,  the  fountain,  and  the  grove. 
With  every  softer  scene  of  love ; 

Return,  sweet  Peace!  and  cheer  the  weeping  swain ! 

Return,  with  Ease  and  Pleasure  in  thy  train. 


TO  ALFRED. 

FIRST  SPIRIT. 

Hear,  Alfred,  father  of  the  state. 

Thy  genius  Heaven's  high  will  declare ! 

What  proves  the  hero  truly  great, 
Is  never,  never  to  despair: 
Is  never  to  despair. 

SECOND  SPIRIT. 

Thy  hope  awake,  thy  heart  expand, 
With  all  its  vigour,  all  its  fires. 

Arise!  and  save  a  sinking  land! 

Thy  country  calls,  and  Heaven  inspires. 

BOTH  SPIRITS. 

Earth  calls,  and  Heaven  inspires. 


"  SWEET  VALLEY,  SAY." 

Sweet  valley,  say,  where  pensive  lying. 
For  me,  our  children,  England  sighing. 
The  best  of  mortals  leans  his  head, 
Ye  fountains,  dimpled  by  my  sorrow. 
Ye  brooks  that  my  complainings  borrow, 
O  lead  me  to  his  lonely  bed: 
Or  if  my  lover. 
Deep  woods,  you  cover. 
Ah,  whisper  where  your  shadov^s  o'er  him  spread. 

'Tis  not  the  loss  of  pomp  and  pleasure, 
Of  empire  or  of  tinsel  treasure, 

That  drops  this  tear,  that  swells  this  groan: 
No:  from  a  nobler  cause  proceeding, 
A  heart  with  love  and  fondness  bleeding, 
I  breathe  my  sadly  pleasing  moan. 
With  other  anguish, 
I  scorn  to  languish, 
For  love  will  feel  no  sorrows  but  his  own. 


*  The  Masque  of  Alfred  was  the  joint  composition  of  Thom- 
son and  Mallet;  hence  the  authorship  of  the  following  eongs 
is  somewhat  doubtful.  ^  i 

2x8 


"  FROM  THOSE  ETERNAL  REGIONS."^ 

FROivt  those  eternal  regions  bright, 
Where  suns  that  never  set  in  night, 

Dift'use  the  golden  day : 
Where  Spring,  unfading,  pours  around, 
O'er  all  the  dew-impearled  ground. 
Her  thousand  colours  gay: 
O  whether  on  the  mountain's  flowery  side, 
Whence  living  waters  glide. 
Or  in  the  fragrant  grove, 
Whose  shade  embosoms  peace  and  love, 
New  pleasures  all  our  hours  employ, 
And  ravish  every  sense  with  every  joy ! 
Great  heirs  of  empire!  yet  unborn. 
Who  shall  this  island  late  adorn; 
A  monarch's  drooping  thought  to  cheer, 
Appear!  appear!  appear' 


CONTENTMENT. 

If  those  who  live  in  shepherd's  bower. 
Press  not  the  rich  and  stately  bed : 

The  new-mown  hay  and  breathing  flower 
A  softer  couch  beneath  them  spread. 

If  those  who  sit  at  shepherd's  board, 
Sooth  not  their  taste  by  wanton  art; 

They  take  what  Nature's  gift  afford. 
And  take  it  with  a  cheerful  heart. 

If  those  who  drain  the  shepherd's  bowl, 
No  high  and  sparkling  wines  can  boast. 

With  wholesome  cups  they  cheer  the  soul. 
And  crown  them  with  the  village  toast. 

If  those  who  join  in  shepherd's  sport, 
Gay  dancing  on  the  daisied  ground, 

Have  not  the  splendour  of  a  court; 
Yet  love  adorns  the  merry  round. 


RULE,  BRITANNIA! 

WITH  VARIATIONS. 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command; 

Arose  from  out  the  azure  main. 
This  was  the  charter  of  the  land. 
And  guardian  angels  sung  this  strain: 
'Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves.' 

The  nations,  not  so  bless'd  as  thee, 
Must,  in  their  turns,  to  tyrants  fall; 

While  thou  shalt  flourish  great  and  free, 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all 
'  Rule,'  &c. 


120 


« 

THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 
More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke; 

As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak.  " 
'  Rule,'  &c. 

The  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame: 
All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 

Will  but  rouse  thy  generous  flame. 
But  work  their  wo,  and  thy  renown. 
'  Rule,'  &c. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine: 
All  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main: 

And  every  shore  it  circles  thine. 
'  Rule,'  &c. 

"Irhe  Muses,  still  with  freedom  found, 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair: 
Bless'd  isle !  with  matchless  beauty  crown'd, 
And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair: 
'  Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves, 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves.' 


TO  THE  REV.  PATRICK  MURDOCK, 

RECTOR  OF  STRADISHALL,  IN  SUFFOLK.  1738. 

Thus  safely  low,  my  friend,  thou  canst  not  fall: 
Here  reigns  a  deep  tranquillity  o'er  all ; 
No  noise,  no  care,  no  vanity,  no  strife ; 
Men,  woods,  and  fields,  all  breathe  untroubled  life. 
Then  keep  each  passion  down,  however  dear : 
Trust  me,  the  tender  are  the  most  severe. 
Guard,  while  'tis  thine,  thy  philosophic  ease, 
And  ask  no  joy  but  that  of  virtuous  peace ; 
That  bids  defiance  to  the  storms  of  fate ; 
High  bliss  is  only  for  a  higher  state! 


TO  HIS 

ROYAL  fflGHNESS  THE  PRINCE  OF  WALES. 

While  secret-leaguing  nations  frown  around, 
Ready  to  pour  the  long-expected  storm; 

While  she,  who  wont  the  restless  Gaul  to  bound, 
Britannia,  drooping,  grows  an  empty  form; 

While  on  our  vitals  selfish  parties  prey, 

And  deep  corruption  eats  our  soul  away : 

Yet  in  the  Goddess  of  the  Main  appears 
A  gleam  of  joy,  gay-flushing  every  grace, 

As  she  the  cordial  voice  of  millions  hears, 
Rejoicing,  zealous,  o'er  thy  rising  race: 

Straight  her  rekindling  eyes  resume  their  fire, 

The  Virtues  smile,  the  Muses  tune  the  lyre. 


But  more  enchanting  tlian  the  Muse's  song. 
United  Britons  thy  dear  ofTspring  hail: 

The  city  triumphs  through  her  glowing  throng, 
The  shepherd  tells  his  transports  to  the  dale; 

The  sons  of  roughest  toil  forget  their  pain. 

And  the  glad  sailor  cheers  the  midnight  main. 

Can  aught  from  fair  Augusta's  gentle  blood. 
And  thine,  thou  friend  of  liberty  !  be  born : 

Can  aught  save  what  is  lovely,  generous,  good; 
What  will,  at  once,  defend  us,  and  adorn? 

From  thence  prophetic  joy  new  Edwards  eyes, 

New  Henries,  Annas,  and  Elizas  rise. 

May  fate  my  fond  devoted  days  extend. 

To  sing  the  promised  glories  of  thy  reign! 
What  though,  by  years  depress'd,  my  Muse  might 
bend; 

My  heart  will  teach  her  still  a  bolder  strain: 
How,  with  recover'd  Britain,  will  she  soar. 
When  France  insults,  and  Spain  shall  rob  no 
more. 


TO  DR.  DE  LA  COUR,  IN  IRELAND. 

ON  HIS  "  PROSPECT  OF  POETRY." 

Hail  gently  warbling  De  la  Cour,  whose  fame. 
Spurning  Hibernia's  solitary  coast. 
Where  small  rewards  attend  the  tuneful  throng, 
Pervades  Britannia's  well  discerning  isle: 
In  spite  of  all  the  gloomy-minded  tribe 
That  would  eclipse  thy  fame,  still  shall  the  muse, 
High  soaring  o'er  the  tall  Parnassian  mount 
With  spreading  pinions — sing  thy  \yondrous 
praise. 

In  strains  attuned  to  the  seraphic  lyre. 
Sing  unappall'd,  though  mighty  be  the  theme! 
O !  could  she  in  thy  own  harmonious  strain. 
Where  softest  numbers  smoothly  flowing  glide 
In  trickling  cadence ;  where  the  milky  maze 
Devolves  in  silence;  by  the  harsher  sound 
Of  hoarser  periods  still  unruffled,  could 
Her  lines  but  like  thine  own  Euphrates  flow — 
Then  might  she  sing  in  numbers  worthy  thee. 
But  what  can  language  do,  when  fancy  finds 
Herself  unequal  to  the  lovely  task '? 
Can  feeble  words  thy  vivid  colours  paint. 
Or  show  the  sweets  which  inexhaustive  flow  1 
Hearken,  ye  woods,  and  long-resounding  groves; 
Listen,  ye  streams,  soft  purling  through  the  meads 
And  hymning  horrid,  all  ye  tempests,  roar. 
Awake,  ye  woodlands!  sing,  ye  warbling,  larks, 
In  wildly  luscious  notes !    But  most  of  all, 
Attend,  ye  grateful  fair,  attend  the  youth 
Who  sweetly  sings  of  nature  and  of  you : 
From  you  alone  his  conscious  breast  expects 
Its  soft  rewards,  by  sordid  love  of  gain 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


121 


Unbias'd,  undebased  ;  to  meaner  minds 
Belong  such  narrow  views ;  his  nobler  soul, 
Transported  with  a  generous  thirst  of  fame, 
Sublimely  rises  with  expanded  wings, 
And  through  the  lucid  empyrean  soars. 
So  the  young  eagle  wings  its  rapid  way 
Through  heaven's  broad  azure ;  sometimes  springs 
aloft, 

Now  drops,  now  cleaves  with  even-waving  wings 

The  yielding  air,  nor  seas  nor  mountains  stop 

Its  flight  impetuous,  gazing  at  the  sun 

"With  irretorted  eye,  whilst  he  pervades 

A  trackless  void,  and  unexplored  before. 

Long  had  the  curious  traveller  strove  to  find 

The  ruins  of  aspiring  Babylon — 

In  vain — for  nought  the  nicest  eye  could  trace 

Save  one  wide,  watery,  undistinguish'd  waste: 

But  you  with  more  than  magic  art  have  raised 

Semiramis's  city  from  its  grave; 

You  have  reversed  the  scripture  curse,  which  said. 

Dragons  shall  here  inhabit ;  in  your  page 

"We  view  the  rising  spires;  the  hurried  eye 

Distracted  wanders  through  the  verdant  maze; 

In  middle  air  the  pendan-t  gardens  hang. 

Tremendous  ceiling ! — whilst  no  solar  beam 

Falls  on  the  lengthen'd  gloom  beneath;  the  woods 

Project  above  a  steep-alluring  shade; 

The  finish'd  garden  opens  to  the  view 

"Wide  stretching  vistas,  while  the  whispering  wind 

Dimples  along  the  breezy-ruffled  lake. 

Now  every  tree  irregular  and  bush 
Are  prodigal  of  harmony:  the  birds 
Frequent  the  aerial  wood,  and  nature  blushes, 
Ashamed  to  find  herself  outdone  by  art: 
These  and  a  thousand  beauties  could  I  sing, 
Collecting  like  the  ever-toiling  bee 
From  yonder  mingled  wilderness  of  flowers 
The  aromatic  sweets;  while  you,  great  youth! 
O'er  thy  decaying  country  chief  preside ; 
Be  thou  her  genius  call'd,  inspire  her  youth 
"With  noble  emulation  to  arrive 
At  Helicon's  fair  font,  which  few,  alas! 
Save  you,  have  tasted  of  Hibernian  youth. 
Thy  country,   though  corrupted,  brought  thee 
forth. 

And  deem'd  her  greatest  ornament ;  and  now 
Regards  thee  as  her  brightest  northern  star. 
Long  may  you  reign  as  such;  and  should  grim 
Time, 

"With  iron  teeth,  deprive  us  of  our  Pope, 

Then  we'll  transplant  thy  blooming  laurels  fresh 

From  your  bleak  shore  to  Albion's  happier  coast. 


HYMN  TO  GOD'S  POWER. 

Hail  !  Power  Divine,  who  by  thy  sole  command, 
From  the  dark  empty  space, 


Made  the  broad  sea  and  solid  land 
Smile  with  a  heavenly  grace. 

Made  the  high  mountain  and  the  firm  rock, 

"Where  bleating  cattle  stray ; 
And  the  strong,  stately,  spreading  oak, 

That  intercepts  the  day. 

The  rolling  planets  thou  madest  move, 

By  thy  eflfective  will; 
And  the  revolving  globes  above 

Their  destined  course  fulfil. 

His  mighty  powers,  ye  thunders,  praise, 

As  through  the  heavens  ye  roll ; 
And  his  great  name,  ye  Hghtnings,  blaze, 

Unto  the  distant  pole. 

Ye  seas,  in  your  eternal  roar, 

His  sacred  praise  proclaim ; 
While  the  inactive  sluggish  shore 

Re-echoes  to  the  same. 

Ye  howling  winds,  howl  out  his  praise, 

And  make  the  forests  bow ; 
While  through  the  air,  the  earth,  and  seas, 

His  solemn  praise  ye  blow. 

O  yon  high  harmonious  spheres. 

Your  powerful  mover  sing ; 
To  him  your  circling  course  that  steers. 

Your  tuneful  praises  bring. 

Ungrateful  mortals,  catch  the  sound, 

And  in  your  numerous  lays. 
To  all  the  listening  world  around, 

The  God  of  nature  praise. 

A  POETICAL  EPISTLE 

TO  SIR  WILLIAM  EENNET,  BART.  OF  GRUBBAT.* 

My  trembling  muse  your  honour  does  address, 
That  it's  a  bold  attempt  most  humbly  I  confess ; 
If  you'll  encourage  her  young  fagging  flight. 
She'll  upwards  soar  and  mount  Parnassus'  height. 
If  little  things  with  great  may  be  compared, 
In  Rome  it  so  with  the  divine  Virgil  fared; 
The  tuneful  bard  Augustus  did  inspire. 
Made  his  great  genius  flash  poetic  fire; 
But  if  upon  my  flight  your  honour  frowns, 
The  muse  folds  up  her  wings,  and  dying— justice 
owns. 


*  Thiswaa  written  at  a  very  early  period  of  Thomson's  life^ 
probably  before  he  was  sixteen ;  and  the  reason  for  inserting 
it  is,  that  the  first  productions  of  genius  are  objects  of  rations* 
i  curiosity. 


m 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


ON  MRS.  MENDEZ'  BIRTHDAY, 

WHO  WAS  BORN  ON  VALENTINe's  DAY. 

Thine  is  the  gentle  day  of  love, 

When  youths  and  virgins  try  their  fate; 

When,  deep  retiring  to  the  grove, 
Each  feather'd  songster  weds  his  mate. 

With  temper'd  beams  the  skies  are  bright, 
Earth  decks  in  smiles  her  pleasing  face ; 

Such  is  the  day  that  gave  thee  light, 
.^nd  speaks  as  such  thy  every  grace, 


AN  ELEGY  Uf  ON  JAMES  THERBERN. 

IN  CHATTO. 

Now,  Chatto,  you're  a  dreary  place, 
Pale  sorrow  broods  on  ilka  face; 
Therburn  has  run  his  race, 
And  now,  and  now,  ah  me,  alas ! 

The  carl  lies  dead. 

Having  his  paternoster  said. 
He  took  a  dram  and  went  to  bed ; 
He  fell  asleep,  and  death  was  glad 

That  he  had  catch'd  him; 
For  Therburn  was  e'en  ill  bested, 

That  none  did  watch  him> 

For  had  the  carl  but  been  aware. 

That  meagre  death,  who  none  does  spare, 

T'  attempt  sic  things  should  ever  dare, 

As  stop  his  pipe ; 
He  might  have  come  to  flee  or  skare ; 

The  greedy  gipe. 

How  he'd  had  but  a  gill  or  twae, 
Death  would  nae  got  the  victory  sae, 
JSTor  put  poor  Therburn  o'er  the  brae, 
Into  the  grave; 


 ♦ 

The  fumbling  fellow,  some  folks  say, 
Should  be  jobb'd  on  baith  night  and  day 
She  had  without'en  better  play, 

Remained  still, 
Barren  for  ever  and  for  aye. 

Do  what  he  will. 

Therefore  they  say  he  got  spme  hej|) 
In  getting  of  the  little  whelp  : 
But  passing  that  it  makes  me  yelp. 

But  whatremead"? 
Death  lent  him  such  a  cursed  skelp, 

That  now  he's  dead , 


Therburn,  for  ever  more  farewell, 
And  be  thy  grave  both  dry  and  deep; 
And  rest  thy  carcass  soft  and  well, 

Free  from    .    .  , 
  .    no  night  . 

Disturb   .    .  . 


ON  THE  REPORT  THAT  A  WOODEN 

BRIDGE  WAS  TO  BE  BUILT  AT  WESTMINSTER. 

By  Rufus  hall,  where  Thames  polluted  flows, 
Provoked,  the  Genius  of  the  river  rose. 
And  thus  exclaim'd :  '  Have  I,  ye  British  swains, 
Have  I  for  ages  laved  your  fertile  plains'? 
Given  herds,  and  flocks,  and  villages  increase, 
And  fed  a  richer  than  a  golden  fleece  1 
Have  I,  ye  merchants,  with  each  swelling  tide, 
Pour'd  Afric's  treasures  in,  and  India's  pride  1 
Lent  you  the  fruit  of  every  nation's  toil  1 
Made  every  climate  yours,  and  every  soil  1 
Yet,  pilfer'd  from  the  poor,  by  gaming  base 
Yet  must  a  wooden  bridge  my  waves  disgrace  1 
Tell  not  to  foreign  streams  the  shameful  tale, 
And  be  it  publish'd  in  no  Gallic  vale.' 
He  said ;  and  plunging  to  his  crystal  dome. 
While  o'er  his  head  the  circling  waters  foam. 


THE  INCOMPARABLE  SOPORIFIC 
DOCTOR.* 

Sweet,  sleeky  Doctor !  dear  pacific  soul ! 
Lay  at  the  beef,  and  suck  the  vital  bowl ! 
Still  let  the  involving  smoke  around  thee  fly, 
And  broad-look'd  dullness  settle  in  thine  eye. 
Ah !  soft  in  down  these  dainty  limbs  repose, 
And  in  the  very  lap  of  slumber  doze; 
But  chiefly  on  the  lazy  day  of  grace. 
Call  forth  the  lambent  glories  of  thy  face ; 
If  aught  the  thoughts  of  dinner  can  prevail. 
And  sure  the  Sunday's  dinner  can  not  fail. 
To  the  thin  church  in  sleepy  pomp  proceed, 
And  lean  on  the  lethargic  book  thy  head. 
These  eyes  wipe  often  with  the  hallow 'd  lawn. 
Profoundly  nod,  immeasurably  yawn. 
Slow  let  the  prayers  by  thy  meek  lips  be  sung. 
Now  let  thy  thoughts  be  distanced  by  thy  tongue; 
If  ere  the  lingerers  are  within  a  call, 
Or  if  on  prayers  thou  deign'st  to  think  at  all. 
Yet — only  yet — the  swimming  head  we  bend; 
But  when  serene,  the  pulpit  you  ascend, 
Through  every  joint  a  gentle  horror  creeps, 
And  round  you  the  consenting  audience  sleeps. 
So  when  an  ass  with  sluggish  front  appears, 
The  horses  start,  and  prick  their  quivering  ears ; 
But  soon  as  e'er  the  sage  is  heard  to  bray, 
The  fields  all  thunder,  and  they  bound  away. 


*  The  MS.  is  imperfect  in  this  place. 


*  Dr  Patrick  Murdoch, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


123 


LIST'S  PARTING  WITH  HER  CAT. 

The  dreadful  hour  with  leaden  pace  approach'd, 
Lash'd  fiercely  on  by  unrelenting  fate, 
When  Lisy  and  her  bosom  Cat  must  part ; 
For  now,  to  school  and  pensive  needle  doom'd, 
She's  banish'd  from  her  childhood's  undash'd  joy, 
And  all  the  pleasing  intercourse  she  kept 
With  her  gray  comrade,  which  has  often  soothed 
Her  tender  moments,  while  the  world  around 
Glow'd  with  ambition,  business,  and  vice, 
Or  lay  dissolved  in  sleep's  delicious  arms ; 
And  from  their  dewy  orbs  the  conscious  stars 
Shed  on  their  friendly  influence  benign. 

But  see  where  mournful  Puss,  advancing,  stood 
With  outstretch'd  tail,  casts  looks  of  anxious  wo 
On  melting  Lisy,  in  whose  eye  the  tear 
Stood  tremulous,  and  thus  would  fain  have  said, 
If  nature  had  not  tied  her  struggling  tongue  : 
'  Unkind,  O  !  who  shall  now  with  fattening  milk, 
With  flesh,  with  bread,  and  fish  beloved,  and  meat, 
Regale  my  taste  1  and  at  the  cheerful  fire. 
Ah,  who  shall  bask  me  in  their  downy  lap  1 
Who  shall  invite  me  to  the  bed,  and  throw 
The  bedclothes  o'er  me  in  the  winter  night, 
When  Eurus  roars '?  Beneath  whose  soothing  hand 
Soft  shall  I  purr  1  But  now,  when  Lisy's  gone, 
What  is  the  dull  officious  world  to  me  1 
1  loathe  the  thoughts  of  fife :'  thus  plain'd  the  Cat, 
While  Lisy  felt,  by  sympathetic  touch, 
These  anxious  thoughts  that  in  her  mind  revolved, 
And  casting  on  her  a  desponding  look, 
She  snatch'd  her  in  her  arms  with  eager  grief, 
And  mewing,  thus  began : — O  Cat  beloved  ! 
Thou  dear  companion  of  my  tender  years  I 
Joy  of  my  youth !  that  oft  has  lick'd  my  hands 
With  velvet  tongue  ne'er  stain'd  by  mouse's  blood. 
Oh,  gentle  Cat !  how  shall  I  part  with  thee  1 
How  dead  and  heavy  will  the  moments  pass 
When  you  are  not  in  my  delighted  eye, 
With  Cubi  playing,  or  your  flying  tail. 
How  harshly  will  the  softest  muslin  feel, 
And  all  the  silk  of  schools,  while  I  no  more 
Have  your  sleek  skin  to  sooth  my  soften'd  sense  1 
How  shall  I  eat  while  you  are  not  beside 
To  share  the  bit  1  How  shall  I  ever  sleep 
While  I  no  more  your  lulhng  murmurs  hear"? 
Yet  we  must  part — so  rigid  fate  decrees — 
But  never  shall  your  loved  idea,  dear. 
Part  from  my  soul,  and  when  I  first  can  mark 
The  embroider'd  figure  6n  the  snowy  lawn, 
Your  image  shall  my  needle  keen  employ. 
Hark  !  now  I'm  call'd  away !  O  direful  sound ! 
I  come — I  come,  but  first  I  charge  you  all — 
You — you — and  you,  particularly  you, 
O  Mary,  Mary,  feed  her  with  the  best. 
Repose  her  nightly  in  the  warmest  couch, 
And  be  a  Lisy  to  her !' — Having  said, 


She  sat  her  down,  and  with  her  head  across, 
Rush'd  to  the  evil  which  she  could  not  shun. 
While  ^  sad  mew  went  knelling  to  her  heart ! 


ON  THE  HOOP. 

The  hoop,  the  darling  justly  of  the  fair. 

Of  every  generous  swain  deserves  the  care. 

It  is  unmanly  to  desert  the  weak, 

'T  would  urge  a  stone,  if  possible,  to  speak ; 

To  hear  stanch  hypocrites  bawl  out,  and  cry, 

'  This  hoop  's  a  whorish  garb,  fie!  ladies,  fie  !' 

O  cruel  and  audacious  men,  to  blast 

The  fame  of  ladies  more  than  vestals  chaste ; 

Should  you  go  search  the  globe  throughout, 

You'll  find  none  so  pious  and  devout ; 

So  modest,  chaste,  so  handsome,  and  so  fair, 

As  our  dear  Caledonian  ladies  are. 

When  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  her  charms, 

Nought  gives  our  sex  such  terrible  alarms. 

As  when  the  hoop  and  tartan  both  combine 

To  make  a  virgin  like  a  goddess  shine. 

Let  quake/s  cut  their  clothes  unto  the  quick, 

And  with  severities  themselves  afflict ; 

But  may  the  hoop  adorn  Edina's  street. 

Till  the  south  pole  shall  with  the  northern  meet. 


STANZAS. 

Written  by  Thomson  on  the  blank  leaf  of  a  copy 
of  his  '  Seasons^  sent  by  him  to  Mr.  Lyttelton, 
soon  after  the  death  of  his  wife. 

Go,  little  book,  and  find  our  Friend, 
Who  nature  and  the  Muses  loves. 

Whose  cares  the  public  virtues  blend 
With  all  the  softness  of  the  groves, 

A  fitter  time  thou  canst  not  choose. 
His  fostering  friendship  to  repay; 

Go  then,  and  try,  my  rural  muse. 
To  steal  his  widow'd  hours  away. 


ON  MAY. 

Among  the  changing  months.  May  stands  confest 
The  sweetest,  and  in  fairest  colours  drest ! 
Soft  as  the  breeze  that  fans  the  smiling  field ; 
Sweet  as  the  breath  that  opening  roses  yield; 
Fair  as  the  colour  lavish  Nature  paints 
On  Virgin  flowers  free  from  unodorous  taints! — 
To  rural  scenes  thou  tempt'st  the  busy  crowd,  ' 
Who,  in  each  grove,  thy  praises  sing  aloud ! 
The  blooming  belles  and  shallow  beaux,  strange 
sight, 

Turn  nymphs  and  swains,  and  in  their  sports  de- 
light. 


124 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


THE  MORNING  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

When  from  tho  opening  chambers  of  the  east 
The  morning  springs,  in  thousand  liveries  drest, 
The  early  larks  their  morning  tribute  pay, 
And,  in  shrill  notes,  salute  the  blooming  day. 
Refreshed  fields  with  pearly  dew  do  shine, 
And  tender  blades  therewith  their  tops  incline. 
Their  painted  leaves  the  unblown  flowers  expand, 
And  with  their  odorous  breath  perfume  the  land. 
The  crowing  cock  and  chattering  hen  awakes 
Dull  sleepy  clowns,  who  know  the  morning  breaks. 
The  herd  his  plaid  around  his  shoulders  throws. 
Grasps  his  dear  crook,  calls  on  his  dog,  and  goes 
Around  the  fold:  'he  walks  with  careful  pace, 
And  fallen  clods  sets  in  their  wonted  place ; 
Then  opes  the  door,  unfolds  his  fleecy  care. 
And  gladly  sees  them  crop  their  morning  fare ! 
Down  upon  easy  moss  he  lays, 
And  sings  some  charming  shepherdess's  praise. 


ON  A  COUNTRY  LIFE.* 

I  HATE  the  clamours  of  the  smoky  towns, 
JBnt  much  admire  the  bliss  of  rural  clowns; 
Where  some  remains  of  innocence  appear, 
Where  no  rude  noise  insults  the  listening  ear; 
Nought  but  soft  zephyrs  whispering  through  the 
trees. 

Or  the  still  humming  of  the  painful  bees; 
The  gentle  murmurs  of  a  purling  rill, 
Or  the  unwearied  chirping  of  the  drill ; 
The  charming  harmony  of  warbling  birds, 
Or  hollow  lowings  of  the  grazing  herds ; 
The  murmuring  stockdoves  melancholy  coo, 
When  they  their  loved  mates  lament  or  woo; 
The  pleasing  bleatings  of  the  tender  Iambs, 
Or  the  indistinct  mum'ling  of  their  dams; 
The  musical  discord  of  chiding  hounds, 
Whereto  the  echoing  hill  or  rock  resounds ; 
The  rural  mournful  songs  of  lovesick  swains. 
Whereby  they  soothe  their  raging  amorous  pains; 
The  whistling  music  of  the  lagging  plough. 
Which  does  the  strength  of  drooping  beasts  renew. 

And  as  the  country  rings  with  pleasant  sounds, 
So  with  delightful  prospects  it  abounds: 
Through  every  season  of  the  sliding  year. 
Unto  the  ravish'd  sight  new  scenes  appear. 

In  the  sweet  spring  the  sun's  prolific  ray 
Does  painted  flowers  to  the  mild  air  display; 
Then  opening  buds,  then  tender  herbs  are  seen, 
And  the  bare  fields  are  all  array'd  in  green. 


'  This,  and  the  two  following  poems,  were  written  by  Thom. 
Bon,  when  at  the  University,  and  were  published  in  the  Edia- 
burgh  Miscellany,  12mo  1720. 


In  ripening  summer,  the  full  laden  vales 
Gives  prospect  o\'£m[)loyment  for  the  flails; 
Each  breath  of  wind  the  bearded  groves  makes 
bend. 

Which  seems  the  fatal  sickle  to  portend. 

In  Autumn,  that  repays  the  labourer's  pains, 
Reapers  sweep  down  the  honours  of  the  plains. 

Anon  black  Winter,  from  the  frozen  north, 
Its  treasuries  of  snow  and  hail  pours  forth ; 
Then  stormy  winds  blow  through  the  hazy  sky, 
In  desolation  nature  seems  to  lie; 
The  unstain'd  snow  from  the  full  clouds  descends. 
Whose  sparkling  lustre  open  eyes  offends. 
In  maiden  white  the  glittering  fields  do  shine; 
Then  bleating  flocks  for  want  of  food  repine, 
With  wither'd  eyes  they  see  all  snow  around, 
And  with  their  fore  feet  paw  and  scrape  the 
ground : 

They  cheerfully  do  crop  the  insipid  grass, 
The  shepherds  sighing,  cry,  Alas!  alas! 
Then  pinching  want  the  wildest  beast  does  tame; 
Then  huntsmen  on  the  snow  do  trace  their  game; 
Keen  frost  then  turns  the  liquid  lakes  to  glass, 
Arrests  the  dancing  rivulets  as  they  pass. 

How  sweet  and  innocent  are  country  sports, 
And,  as  men's  tempers,  various  are  their  sorts. 

You,  on  the  banks  of  soft  meandering  Tweed, 
May  in  your  toils  ensnare  the  watery  breed. 
And  nicely  lead  the  artificial  flee,* 
Which,  when  the  nimble,  watchful  trout  does  see, 
He  at  the  bearded  hook  will  briskly  spring ; 
Then  in  that  instant  twieth  your  hairy  string 
And,  when  he's  hook'd,  you,  with  a  constant  hand, 
May  draw  him  struggling  to  the  fatal  land. 

Then  at  fit  seasons  you  may  clothe  your  hook, 
With  a  sweet  bait,  dress'dby  a  faithless  cook; 
The  greedy  pike  darts  to't  with  eager  haste, 
And  being  struck,  in  vain  he  flies  at  last; 
He  rages,  storms,  and  flounces  through  the  stream. 
But  all,  alas !  his  life  can  not  redeem. 

At  other  times  you  may  pursue  the  chase, 
And  hunt  the  nimble  hare  from  place  to  place. 
See,  when  the  dog  is  just  upon  the  grip, 
Out  at  a  side  she'll  make  a  handsome  skip, 
And  ere  he  can  divert  his  furious  course, 
She,  far  before  him,  scours  with  all  her  force : 
She'll  shift,  and  manytimes  run  the  same  ground; 
At  last,  outwearied  by  the  stronger  hound, 
She  falls  a  sacrifice  unto  his  hate. 
And  with  sad  piteous  screams  laments  her  fate. 

See  how  the  hawk  doth  take  his  towering  flight, 
And  in  his  course  outflies  our  very  sight. 
Bears  down  the  fluttering  fowl  with  all  his  might. 

See  how  the  wary  gunner  casts  about. 
Watching  the  fittest  posture  when  to  shoot: 
Gluick  as  the  fatal  lightning  blasts  the  oak, 
He  gives  the  springing  fowl  a  sudden  stroke; 


*  Anglice,  fly 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


125 


He  pours  upon't  a  shower  of  mortal  lead, 
And  ere  the  noise  is  heard  the  fowl  is  dead. 

Sometimes  he  spreads  his  hidden  subtle  snare 
Of  which  the  entangled  fowl  was  not  aware; 
Through  pathless  wastes  he  doth  pursue  his  sport, 
Where  nought  but  moor-fowl  and  wild  beasts  re- 
sort. 

When  the  noon  sun  directly  darts  his  beams 
Upon  your  giddy  heads,  with  fiery  gleams. 
Then  you  may  bathe  yourself  in  cooling  streams 
Or  to  the  sweet  adjoining  grove  retire, 
Where  trees  with  interwoven  boughs  conspire 
To  form  a  grateful  shade there  rural  swains 
Do  tune  their  oaten  reeds  to  rural  strains; 
The  silent  birds  sit  listening  on  the  sprays, 
And  in  soft  charming  notes  do  imitate  their  lays. 
There  you  may  stretch  yourself  upon  the  grass. 
And,  lull'd  with  music,  to  kind  slumbers  pass  : 
No  meagre  cares  your  fancy  will  distract. 
And  on  that  scene  no  tragic  fears  will  act ; 
Save  the  dear  image  of  a  charming  she, 
Nought  will  the  object  of  your  vision  be. 

Away  the  vicious  pleasures  of  .the  town; 
Let  empty  partial  fortune  on  me  frown ; 
But  grant,  ye  powers,  that  it  may  be  my  lot 
To  live  in  peace  from  noisy  towns  remote. 


ON  HAPPINESS. 

Warm'd  by  the  summer  sun's  meridian  ray, 
As  underneath  a  spreading  oak  I  lay 
Contemplating  the  mighty  load  of  wo. 
In  search  of  bliss  that  mortals  undergo. 
Who,  while  they  think  they  happiness  enjoy, 
Embrace  a  curse  wrapt  in  delusive  joy, 
I  reason 'd  thus:  Since  4he  Creator,  God, 
Who  in  eternal  love  makes  his  abode. 
Hath  blended  with  the  essence  of  the  soul 
An  appetite  as  fixed  as  the  pole. 
That's  always  eager  in  pursuit  of  bliss. 
And  always  veering  till  it  points  to  this, 
There  is  some  object  adequate  to  fill 
This  boundless  wish  of  our  extended  will. 
Now,  while  my  thought  round  nature's  circle  runs 
(A  bolder  journey  than  the  furious  sun's) 
This  chief  and  satiating  good  to  find 
The  attracting  centre  of  the  human  mind, 
My  ears  they  deafen'd,  to  my  swimming  eyes 
His  magic  wand  the  drowsy  God  applies, 
Bound  all  my  senses  in  a  silken  sleep. 
While  mimic  fancy  did  her  vigils  keep; 
Yet  still  methinks  some  condescending  power 
Ranged  the  ideas  in  my  mind  that  hour. 

Methought  I  wandering  was,  with  thousands 
more. 

Beneath  a  high  prodigious  hill,  before, 
Above  the  clouds  whose  towering  summit  rose, 
With  utmost  labour  only  gained  by  those 
L 


Who  groveling  prejudices  throw  away, 
And  with  incessant  straining  chrab'd  their  wayj 
Where  all  who  stood  their  failing  breath  to  gain, 
With  headlong  ruin  tumbled  down  the  main. 
This  mountain  is  through  every  nation  famed, 
And,  as  I  learned.  Contemplation  named. 

0  happy  me!  when  I  had  reach'd  its  top 
Unto  my  sight  a  boundless  scene  did  ope. 

First,  sadly  I  survey'd  with  downward  eye, 
Of  restless  men  below  the  busy  fry, 
Who  hunted  trifles  in  an  endless  maze. 
Like  fooUsh  boys,  on  sunny  summer  days, 
Pursuing  butterflies  with  all  their  might. 
Who  can't  their  troubles,  in  the  chase  requite. 
The  painted  insect,  he  who  most  admires. 
Grieves  most  when  it  in  his  rude  hand  expires; 
Or  should  it  live,  with  endless  fears  is  toss'd, 
Lest  it  take  wing  and  be  for  ever  lost. 

Some  men  I  saw  their  utmost  art  employ 
How  to  attain  a  false  deceitful  joy. 
Which  from  afar  conspicuously  did  blaze. 
And  at  a  distance  fixed  their  ravish'd  gaze. 
But  nigh  at  hand  it  mock'd  their  fond  embrace. 
When  lo!  again  it  flashed  in  their  eyes. 
But  still,  as  they  drew  near,  the  fond  illusion  dies, 
J ust  so  I've  seen  a  water-dog  pursue 
An  unflown  duck  within  his  greedy  view. 
When  he  has,  panting,  at  his  prey  arrived, 
The  coxcomb  fooling— suddenly  it  dived ; 
He,  gripping,  is  almost  with  water  choked. 
And  grieves  that  all  his  towering  hopes  are  mock'd. 
Then  it  emerges,  he  renews  his  toil. 
And  o'er  and  o'er  again  he  gets  the  foil. 
Yea,  all  the  joys  beneath  the  conscious  sun, 
And  softer  ones  that  his  inspection  shun, 
Much  of  their  pleasures  in  fruition  fade. 
Enjoyment  o'er  them  throws  a  sullen  shade. 
The  reason  is,  we  promise  vaster  things 
And  sweeter  joys  than  from  their  nature  springs: 
When  they  are  lost,  we  weep  the  apparent  bliss. 
And  not  what  really  in  Fruition  is ; 
So  that  our  griefs  are  greater  than  our  joys, 
And  real  pain  springs  from  fantastic  toys. 

Though  all  terrene  delights  of  men  below 
Are  almost  nothing  but  a  glaring  show; 
Yet  if  there  always  were  a  virgin  joy 
When  t'other  fades  to  sooth  the  wanton  boy. 
He  somewhat  might  excuse  his  heedless  course, 
Some  show  of  reason  for  the  same  enforce : 
But  frugal  nature  wisely  does  deny 
To  mankind  such  profuse  variety ; 
Has  what  is  needful  only  to  us  given, 
To  feed  and  cheer  us  in  the  way  to  Heaven  5 
And  more  would  but  the  traveller  delay, 
Impede  and  clog  him  in  his  upward  way. 

1  from  the  mount  all  mortal  pleasures  saw 
Themselves  within  a  narrow  compass  draw: 
The  Hbertine  a  nauseous  circle  ran, 

And  dully  acted  what  he'd  often  done. 


• 


126 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Just  so  when  Luna  darts  her  silver  ray, 
And  pours  on  silent  earth  a  paler  day : 
From  Stygian  caves  the  flitting  fairies  scud, 
And  on  the  margent  of  some  limpid  flood, 
Which  by  reflected  moonlight  darts  a  glance, 
In  midnight  circles  range  themselves  and  dance. 

To-morrow,  cries  he,  will  us  entertain : 
Pray  what's  to-morrow  but  to-day  again 7 
Deluded  youth,  no  more  the  chase  pursue, 
So  oft  deceived,  no  more  the  toil  renew. 
But  in  a  constant  and  a  fix'd  design 
Of  acting  well  there  is  a  lasting  mine 
Of  solid  satisfaction,  purest  joy. 
For  virtue's  pleasures  never,  never  cloy: 
Then  hither  come,  climb  up  the  steep  ascent, 
Your  painful  labour  you  will  ne'er  repent, 
/  From  Heaven  itself  here  you're  but  one  remove, 
Here's  the  prseludium  of  the  joys  above, 
Here  you'll  behold  the  awful  Godhead  shine, 
And  all  perfections  in  the  same  combine ; 
You'll  see  that  God,  who,  by  his  powerful  call, 
From  empty  nothing  drew  this  spacious  all, 
Made  beauteous  order  the  rude  mass  control 
And  every  part  subservient  to  the  whole ; 
Here  you'll  behold  upon  the  fatal  tree 
The  God  of  Nature  bleed,  expire,  and  die, 
For  such  as  'gainst  his  holy  laws  rebel. 
And  such  as  bid  defiance  to  his  hell. 
Through  the  dark  gulf  here  you  may  clearly  pry 
'Twixt  narrow  Time  and  vast  Eternity, 
Behold  the  Godhead  just,  as  well  as  good, 
And  vengeance  pour'd  on  tramplers  on  his  blood : 
But  all  the  tears  wiped  from  his  people's  eyes, 
And,  for  their  entrance,  cleave  the  parting  skies. 
Then  sure  you  will  with  holy  ardours  burn, 
And  to  seraphic  heats  your  passion  turn ; 
Then  in  your  eyes  all  mortal  fair  will  fade, 
And  leave  of  mortal  beauties  but  the  shade ; 
Yourself  to  him  you'll  solemnly  devote, 
To  him  without  whose  providence  you're  not; 
You'll  of  his  service  relish  the  delight. 
And  to  his  praises  all  your  powers  excite ; 
You'll  celebrate  his  name  in  heavenly  sound. 
Which  well  pleased  skies  in  echoes  will  rebound ; 
This  is  the  greatest  happiness  that  can 
Possessed  be  in  this  short  life  by  man. 

But  darkly  here  the  Godhead  we  survey, 
Confined  and  cramped  in  this  cage  of  clay. 
What  cruel  band  is  this  to  earth  that  ties 
Our  souls  from  soaring  to  their  natiVe  skies  1 1 
Upon  the  bright  eternal  face  to  gaze, 
And  there  drink  in  the  beatific  rays: 
There  to  behold  the  good  one  and  the  fair, 
A  ray  from  whom  all  mortal  beauties  are? 
In  beauteous  nature  all  the  harmony 
Is  but  the  echo  of  the  Deity, 
Of  all  perfection  who  the  centre  is, 
And  boundless  ocean  of  untainted  bliss; 


For  ever  open  to  t!io  ravish'd  view, 
And  full  enjoyment  of  the  radiant  crew. 
Who  live  in  raptures  of  eternal  joy. 
Whose  flaming  love  their  tuneful  harps  employ 
In  solemn  hymns  Jehovah's  praise  to  sing. 
And  make  all  heaven  with  hallelujahs  ring. 

These  realms  of  light  no  further  I'll  explore,. 
And  in  these  heights  I  will  no  longer  soar: 
Not  like  our  grosser  atmosphere  beneath. 
The  ether  here's  too  thin  for  me  to  breathe. 
The  region  is  unsutferable  bright, 
And  flashes  on  me  with  too  strong  a  light. 
Then  from  the  mountain,  lo !  I  now  descend. 
And  to  my  vision  put  a  hasty  end. 


VERSES  ON  RECEIVING  A  FLOWER 

FROM  HIS  MISTRESS, 
Madam,  the  flower  that  I  received  from  you, 
Ere  it  came  home  had  lost  its  lovely  hue : 
As  flowers  deprived  of  the  genial  day. 
Its  sprightly  bloom  did  wither  and  decay; 
Dear  fading  flower,  I  know  full  well,  said  I, 
The  reason  why  you  shed  your  sweets  and  die ; 
You  want  the  influence  of  her  enlivening  eye. 
Your  case  is  mine — Absence,  that  plague  of  love  I 
With  heavy  pace  makes  every  minute  move : 
It  of  my  being  is  an  empty  blank, 
And  hinders  me  myself  with  men  to  rank; 
Your  cheering  presence  quickeneth  me  again, 
And  new-sprung  life  exults  in  every  vein. 

PROLOGUE  TO  TANCRED  AND  SIGIS- 

MUNDA. 
Bold  is  the  man !  who,  in  this  nicer  age. 
Presumes  to  tread  the  chaste  corrected  stage. 
Now,  with  gay  tinsel  arts  we  can  no  more 
Conceal  the  want  of  Nature's  sterling  ore. 
Our  spells  are  vanish'd,  broke  our  magic  wand, 
That  used  to  waft  you  over  sea  and  land. 
Before  your  light  the  fairy  people  fade, 
The  demons  fly — the  ghost  itself  is  laid. 
In  vain  of  martial  scenes  the  loud  alarms, 
The  mighty  prompter  thundering  out  to  arms, 
The  playhouse  posse  clattering  from  afar, 
The  close-wedged  battle  and  the  din  of  war. 
Now,  e'en  the  senate  seldom  we  convene : 
The  yawning  fathers  nod  behind  the  scene. 
Your  taste  rejects  the  glittering  false  sublime. 
To  sigh  in  metaphor,  and  die  in  rhyme. 
High  rant  is  tumbled  from  his  gallery  throne : 
Description  dreams — nay,  similies  are  gone. 

What  shall  we  then  1  to  please  you  how  devise 
Whose  judgDient  sits  not  in  your  ears  and  eyes? 
Thrice  happy!  could  we  catch  great  Shakspeare's 
art, 

To  trace  the  deep  recesses  of  the  heart; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


127 


His  simple  plain  sublime,  to  which  is  given 
To  strike  the  soul  with  darted  flame  from  heaven; 
Could  we  awake  soft  Otway's  tender  wo, 
The  pomp  of  verse,  and  golden  lines  of  Rowe. 

We  to  your  hearts  apply:  let  them  attend j 
Before  their  silent  candid  bar  we  bend. 
If  warm'd,  they  listen,  'tis  our  noblest  praise; 
If  cold,  they  wither  all  the  Muse's  bays. 


EPILOGUE  TO  TANCRED  AND  SIGIS- 
MUNDA. 

Cramm'd  to  the  throat  with  wholesome  moral 
stuff, 

Alas!  poor  audience!  you  have  had  enough. 
Was  ever  hapless  heroine  of  a  play 
In  such  a  piteous  plight  as  ours  to-day*? 
Was  ever  woman  so  by  love  betray'd'? 
Match'd  with  two  husbands,  and  yet — die  a  maid. 
But  bless  me ! — hold — What  sounds  are  these  I 
hear ! — 

I  see  the  Tragic  Miise  herself  appear. 

The  back  scene  opens,  and  discovers  a  romantic  sylvan 
landscape ;  from  which  Mrs.  Gibber,  in  the  character 
of  the  Tragic  Muse,  advances  slowly  to  music,  and 
speaks  the  following  lines : 

Hence  with  your  flippant  epilogue  that  tries 
To  wipe  the  virtuous  tear  from  British  eyes ; 
That  dares  my  moral,  tragic  scene  profane 
With  strains — at  best,  unsuiting,  light  and  vain. 
Hence  from  the  pure  unsullied  beams  that  play 
In  yon  fair  eyes  where  virtue  shines — Away ! 

Britons,  to  you  from  chaste  Castalian  groves, 
Where  dwell  the  tender,  oft  unhappy  loves  ! 
Where  shades  of  heroes  roam,  each  mighty  name, 
And  court  my  aid  to  rise  again  to  fame: 
To  you  I  come,  to  Freedom's  noblest  seat, 
And  in  Britannia  fix  my  last  retreat. 

In  Greece  and  Rome,  I  watch'd  the  pubUc  weal, 
The  purple  tyrant  trembled  at  my  steel : 
Nor  did  I  less  o'er  private  sorrows  reign, 
And  mend  the  melting  heart  with  softer  pain. 
On  France  and  you  then  rose  my  brightening  star, 
With  social  ray — The  arts  are  ne'er  at  war. 
O,  as  your  fire  and  genius  stronger  blaze. 
As  yours  are  generous  Freedom's  bolder  lays, 
Let  not  the  Gallic  taste  leave  yours  behind. 
In  decent  manners  and  in  life  refined ; 
Banish  the  motley  mode  to  tag  low  verse, 
The  laughing  ballad  to  the  mournful  hearse. 
When  through  five  acts  your  hearts  have  learnt  to 
glow, 

Touch'd  vnth  the  sacred  force  of  honest  wo ; 
O  keep  the  dear  impression  on  your  breast, 
Nor  idly  loose  it  for  a  wretched  jest. 


EPILOGUE  TO  AGAMEMNON. 

Our  bard,  to  modern  epilogue  a  foe. 

Thinks  such  mean  birth  but  deadens  generous  woj 

Dispels  in  idle  air  the  moral  sigh, 

And  wipes  the  tender  tear  from  Pity's  eye ; 

No  more  with  social  warmth  the  bosom  burns ; 

But  all  the  unfeeling  man  returns* 

Thus  he  began: — And  you  approved  the  strain; 
Till  the  next  couplet  sunk  to  light  and  vain. 
You  check'd  him  there. — To  you,  to  reason  just, 
He  owns  he  triumph'd  in  your  kind  disgust. 
Charm'd  by  your  frown,  by  your  displeasure 
graced, 

He  hails  the  rising  virtue  of  your  taste. 
Wide  vnl]  its  influence  spread  as  soon  as  knovm  i 
Truth,  to  be  loved,  needs  only  to  be  shown. 
Confirm  it,  once,  the  fashion  to  be  good : 
(Since  fashion  leads  the  fool,  and  awes  the  rude) 
No  petulance  shall  wound  the  public  ear ; 
No  hand  applaud  what  honour  shuns  to  hear: 
No  painful  blush  the  modest  cheek  shall  stain ; 
The  worthy  breast  shall  heave  with  no  disdain. 
Chastised  to  decency,  the  British  stage 
Shall  oft  invite  the  fair,  invite  the  sage: 
Both  shall  attend  well  pleased,  well  pleased  de- 
part; 

Or  if  they  doom  the  verse,  absolve  the  heart. 


PROLOGUE  TO  MALLET'S  MUS- 
TAPHA. 

Since  Athens  first  began  to  draw  mankind, 
To  picture  life,  and  show  the  impassion'd  mind  j 
The  truly  wise  have  ever  deem'd  the  stage 
The  moral  school  of  each  enlightened  age. 
There,  in  full  pomp,  the  tragic  Muse  appears, 
GLueen  of  soft  sorrows,  and  of  useful  fears. 
Faint  is  the  lesson  reason's  rules  impart : 
She  pours  it  strong,  and  instant  through  the  heart. 
If  virtue  is  her  theme,  we  sudden  glow 
With  generous  flame;  and  what  we  feel,  we  grow. 
If  vice  she  paints,  indignant  passions  rise ; 
The  villain  sees  himself  with  loathing  eyes. 
His  soul  starts,  conscious,  at  another's  groan. 
And  the  pale  tyrant  trembles  on  his  throne. 

To-night,  our  meaning  scene  attempts  to  show 
What  fell  events  from  dark  suspicion  flow; 
Chief  when  it  taints  a  lawless  monarch's  mind, 
To  the  false  herd  on  flattering  slaves  confined. 


•Thomson  observes,  "Another  epilogue  was  spoken  after 
the  first  representation  of  the  play,  which  began  with  the  first 
six  lines  of  this ;  but  the  rest  of  that  epilogue  having  beoa 
very  justly  disliked  by  the  audience,  this  was  substituted  m 
its  place." 


37 


128 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


The  soul  sinks  gradual  to  so  dire  a  state ; 
E'en  excellence  but  serves  to  feed  its  hate : 
To  hate  remorseless  cruelty  succeeds, 
And  every  vv^orth,  and  every  virtue  bleeds. 
Behold,  our  author  at  your  bar  appears, 
His  modest  hopes  depress'd  by  conscious  fears. 
Faults  he  has  many — but  to  balance  those, 
His  verse  with  heart-felt  love  of  virtue  glow^s : 
All  slighter  errors  let  indulgence  spare, 
And  be  his  equal  trial  full  and  fair. 
For  this  best  British  privilege  we  call, 
Then — as  he  merits,  let  him  stand  or  fall. 


PSALM  CIV.  PARAPHRASED.* 

To  praise  thy  Author,  Soul,  do  not  forget; 
Canst  thou,  in  gratitude,  deny  the  debt  1 
Lord,  thou  art  great,  how  great  we  can  not  know; 
Honour  and  majesty  do  round  thee  flow. 
The  purest  rays  of  primogenial  light 
Compose  thy  robes,  and  make  them  dazzling 
bright; 

The  heavens  and  all  the  wide  spread  orbs  on  high 
Thou  like  a  curtain  stretch'd  of  curious  dye; 
On  the  devouring  flood  thy  chambers  are 
Establish'd;  a  lofty  cloud's  thy  car; 
Which  quick  through  the  ethereal  road  doth  fly. 
On  swift  wing'd  winds,  that  shake  the  troubled 
sky. 

Of  spiritual  substance  angels  thou  didst  frame, 
Active  and  bright,  piercing  and  quick  as  flame. 
Thou'st  firmly  founded  this  unwieldy  earth; 
Stand  fast  for  aye,  thou  saidst,  at  nature's  birth. 
The  sweUing  flood  thou  o'er  the  earth  madest 
creep, 

And  coveredst  it  with  the  vast  hoary  deep: 
Then  hill  and  vales  did  no  distinction  know, 
But  level'd  nature  lay  oppress'd  below. 
With  speed  they,  at  thy  awful  thunder's  roar, 
Shrinked  within  the  limits  of  their  shore. 
Through  secret  tracts  they  up  the  mountains 
creep, 

And  rocky  caverns  fruitful  moisture  weep. 
Which  sweetly  through  the  verdant  vales  doth 
glide, 

Till  'tis  devoured  by  the  greedy  tide. 

The  feeble  sands  thou'st  made  the  ocean's  mounds, 

Its  foaming  waves  shall  ne'er  repass  these  bounds, 

Again  to  triumph  over  the  dry  grounds. 

Between  the  hills,  grazed  by  the  bleating  kind. 

Soft  warbling  rills  their  mazy  way  do  find ; 

By  him  appointed  fully  to  supply, 

When  the  hot  dogstar  fires  the  realms  on  high, 

The  raging  thirst  of  every  sickening  beast, 

Of  the  wild  ass  that  roams  the  dreary  waste: 


*Thia  was  one  of  Thomson's  eaxliest  pieces.  See  the  Me- 
moir, p.  iv.  and  the  Addenda. 


The  feather'd  nations,  by  their  smiling  sides. 
In  lowly  brambles,  or  in  trees  abide  ; 
By  nature  taught,  on  them  they  rear  their  nests, 
That  with  inimitable  art  are  dress'd. 
They  for  the  shade  and  safety  of  the  wood 
With  natural  music  cheer  the  neighbourhood. 
He  doth  the  clouds  with  genial  moisture  fill. 
Which  on  the  [shrjivel'd  ground  they  bounteously 
distil, 

And  nature's  lap  with  various  blessings  crowd: 
The  giver,  God!  all  creatures  cry  aloud. 
With  freshest  green  he  clothes  the  fragrant  mead, 
Whereon  the  grazing  herds  wanton  and  feed. 
With  vital  juice  he  makes  the  plants  abound, 
And  herbs  securely  spring  above  the  ground, 
That  man  may  be  sustain'd  beneath  the  toil 
Of  manuring  the  ill  producing  soil ; 
Which  with  a  plenteous  harvest  does  at  last 
Cancel  the  memory  of  labours  past; 
Yields  him  the  product  of  the  generous  vine, 
And  balmy  oil  that  makes  his  face  to  shine : 
Fills  all  his  granaries  with  a  loaden  crop, 
Against  the  bare  barren  winter  his  great  prop. 
The  trees  of  God  with  kindly  sap  do  swell. 
E'en  cedars  tall  in  Lebanon  that  dwell, 
Upon  whose  lofty  tops  the  birds  erect 
Their  nests,  as  careful  nature  does  direct. 
The  long  neck'd  storks  unto  the  fir  trees  fly, 
And  with  their  cackling  cries  disturb  the  sky. 
To  unfrequented  hills  wild  goats  resort. 
And  on  bleak  rocks  the  nimble  conies  sport. 
The  changing  moon  he  clad  with  silver  light. 
To  check  the  black  dominion  of  the  night: 
High  through  the  skies  in  silent  state  she  rides, 
And  by  her  rounds  the  fleeting  time  divides. 
The  circling  sun  doth  in  due  time  decline. 
And  unto  shades  the  murmuring  world  resign. 
Dark  night  thou  makest  succeed  the  cheerful  day, 
Which  forest  beasts  from  their  lone  caves  survey: 
They  rouse  themselves,  creep  out,  and  search  their 
prey. 

Young  hungry  lions  from  their  dens  come  out, 
And,  mad  on  blood,  stalk  fearfully  about : 
They  break  night's  silence  with  their  hideous  roar, 
And  from  kind  heaven  their  nightly  prey  implore. 
Just  as  the  lark  begins  to  stretch  her  wing, 
And,  flickering  on  her  nest,  makes  short  essays  to 
sing. 

And  the  sweet  dawn,  with  a  faint  glimmering 
light. 

Unveils  the  face  of  nature  to  the  sight. 
To  their  dark  dens  they  take  their  hasty  flight. 
Not  so  the  husbandman, — for  with  the  sun 
He  does  his  pleasant  course  of  labours  run: 
Home  with  content  in  the  cool  e'en  returns, 
And  his  sweet  toils  until  the  morn  adjourns. 
How  many  are  thy  wondrous  works,  O  Lordl 
They  of  thy  wisdom  solid  proofs  afford: 
Out  of  thy  boundless  goodness  thou  didst  fill, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


129 


With  riches  and  dehghts,  both  vale  and  hill : 
E'en  the  broad  ocean,  wherein  do  abide 
Monsters  that  flounce  upon  the  boiling  tide, 
And  swarms  of  lesser  beasts  and  fish  beside: 
'Tis  there  that  daring  ships  before  the  wind 
Do  send  amain,  and  make  the  port  assign'd : 
'Tis  there  that  Leviathan  sports  and  plays, 
And  spouts  his  water  in  the  face  of  day; 
For  food  with  gaping  mouth  they  wait  on  thee. 
If  thou  withholdst,  they  pine,  they  faint,  they  die. 
Thou  bountifully  opest  thy  liberal  hand. 
And  scatter'st  plenty  both  on  sea  and  land. 
Thy  vital  spirit  makes  all  things  live  below. 
The  face  of  nature  with  new  beauties  glow. 
God's  awful  glory  ne'er  will  have  an  end, 
To  vast  eternity  it  will  extend. 
When  he  surveys  his  works,  at  the  wide  sight 
He  doth  rejoice,  and  take  divine  delight. 
His  looks  the  earth  into  its  centre  shakes; 
A  touch  of  his  to  smoke  the  mountains  makes, 
I'll  to  God's  honour  consecrate  my  lays, 
And  when  I  cease  to  be  I'll  cease  to  praise. 
Upon  the  Lord,  a  subUme  lofty  theme. 
My  meditations  sweet,  my  joys  supreme. 
Let  daring  sinners  feel  thy  vengeful  rod, 
May  they  no  more  be  known  by  their  abode. 
My  soul  and  all  my  powers,  O  bless  the  Lord, 
And  the  whole  l  ace  of  men  with  one  accord. 


LINES  ON  MARLE  FIELD. 

What  is  the  task  that  to  the  muse  belongs'? 
What  but  to  deck  in  her  harmonious  songs 
The  beauteous  works  of  nature  and  of  art. 
Rural  retreats  that  cheer  the  heavy  heart  ? 
Then  Marie  Field  begin,  my  muse,  and  sing; 
With  Marie  Field  the  hills  and  vales  shall  ring. 
O  !  What  delight  and  pleasure  'tis  to  rove 
Through  all  the  walks  and  aUies  of  this  grove, 
Where  spreading  trees  a  checker'd  scene  display, 
Partly  admitting  and  excluding  day ; 
Where  cheerful  green  and  odorous  sweets  con- 
spire 

The  drooping  soul  with  pleasure  to  inspire; 
Where  little  birds  employ  their  narrow  throats 
To  sing  its  praises  in  unlabour'd  notes. 
To  it  adjoin'd  a  rising  fabric  stands, 
Which  with  its  state  our  silent  awe  commands. 
Its  endless  beauties  mock  the  poet's  pen; 
So  to  the  garden  I'll  return  again. 
Pomona  makes  the  trees  with  fruits  abound, 
And  blushing  Flora  paints  the  enamel'd  ground. 
Here  lavish  nature  does  her  stores  disclose. 
Flowers  of  all  hue,  their  queen  the  bashful  rose, 
With  their  sweet  breath  the  ambient  air's  per- 
fumed. 

Nor  is  thereby  their  fragrant  stores  consumed. 


O'er  the  fair  landscape  sportive  zephyrs  scud, 
And  by  kind  force  display  the  infant  bud. 
The  vegetable  kind  here  rear  their  head, 
By  kindly  showers  and  hea\en's  indulgence  fed : 
Of  fabled  nymphs  such  were  the  sacred  haunts, 
But  real  nymphs  this  charming  dwelling  vaunts. 
Now  to  the  greenhouse  let's  awhile  retire, 
To  shun  the  heat  of  Sol's  infectious  fire: 
Immortal  authors  grace  this  cool  retreat, 
Of  ancient  times,  and  of  a  modern  date. 
Here  would  my  praises  and  my  fancy  dwell; 
But  it,  alas,  description  does  excel. 
O  may  this  sweet,  this  beautiful  abode 
Remain  the  charge  of  the  eternal  God, 


ON  BEAUTY. 

Beauty  deserves  the  homage  of  the  muse: 
Shall  mine,  rebellious,  the  dear  theme  refuse  1 
No ;  while  my  breast  respires  the  vital  air, 
Wholly  I  am  devoted  to  the  fair. 
Beauty  I'll  sing  in  my  sublimest  lays, 
I  burn  to  give  her  just  immortal  praise. 
The  heavenly  maid  with  transport  I'll  pursue 
To  her  abode,  and  all  her  graces  view. 
This  happy  place  with  all  delights  abounds, 
And  plenty  broods  upon  the  fertile  grounds. 

Here  verdant  grass  their  waving  

And  hills  and  vales  in  sweet  confusion  lie: 
The  nibbling  flock  stray  o'er  tha  rising  hUIs, 
And  all  around  with  bleating  music  fills: 
High  on  their  fronts  tall  blooming  forests  nod. 
Of  sylvan  deities  the  blest  abode: 
The  feather'd  minstrels  hop  from  spray  to  spray 
And  chant  their  gladsome  carols  all  the  day ; 
Till  dusky  night,  advancing  in  her  car, 
Makes  with  declining  light  successful  war. 
Then  Philomel  her  mournful  lay  repeats. 
And  through  her  throat  breathes  melancholy 
sweets. 

Still  higher  yet  wild  rugged  rocks  arise, 
And  strike  beholders  with  a  dread  surprise. 
This  paradise  these  towering  hills  surround, 
That  thither  is  one  only  passage  found. 
Increasing  brooks  roll  down  the  mountain's  side, 
And  as  they  pass  the  opposing  pebbles  chide  ' 


But  vernal  showers  refresh  the  blooming  year 
Their  only  season  is  eternal  spring. 
Which  hovers  o'er  them  with  a  downy  wing; 
Blossoms  and  fruits  at  once  the  trees  adorn 
With  glowing  blushes,  like  the  rosy  morn: 
The  way  that  to  this  stately  palace  goes 
Of  myrtle  trees,  hes  'twixt  two  even  rows. 
Which,  towering  high,  with  outstretch'd  arms 
display'd. 

Over  our  heads  a  living  arch  have  made. 


130  THOMSON 

Ho  sing,  my  muse,  the  bold  attempt  begin, 
Of  awful  beauties  you  behold  within: 
The  Goddess  sat  upon  a  throne  of  gold, 
Emboss'd  with  figures  charming  to  behold; 
Here  new  made  Eve  stood  in  her  early  bloom, 
Not  yet  obscured  with  sin's  sullen  gloom ; 
Her  naked  beauties  do  the  soul  confound, 
From  every  part  is  given  a  fatal  wound ; 
There  other  beauties  of  a  meaner  fame 
Oblige  the  sight,  whom  here  I  shall  not  name. 
In  her  right  hand  she  did  a  sceptre  sway, 
O'er  all  mankind  ambitious  to  obey : 
Her  lovely  forehead  and  her  killing  eye, 
Her  blushing  cheeks  of  a  vermilion  dye, 
Her  lip's  soft  pulp,  her  heaving  snowy  breast, 
Her  well  turn'd  arm,  her  handsome  slender  waist, 
And  all  below  veil'd  from  the  curious  eye; 
Oh !  heavenly  maid !  makes  all  beholders  cry. 
Her  dress  was  plain,  not  pompous  as  a  bride, 
Which  would  her  sweeter  native  beauties  hide. 
One  thing  I  mind,  a  spreading  hoop  she  wore, 
Than  nothing  which  adorns  a  lady  more. 
^  With  equal  rage,  could  I  its  beauties  sing, 
I'd  with  the  hoop  make  all  Parnassus  ring. 
Around  her  shoulders,  dangling  on  her  throne, 
A  bright  Tartana  carelessly  was  thrown, 
Which  has  already  won  immortal  praise, 
Most  sweetly  sung  in  Allan  Ramsay's  lays; 
The  wanton  Cupids  did  around  her  play, 
And  smiling  loves  upon  her  bosom  stray ; 
With  purple  wings  they  round  about  her  flew, 
And  her  sweet  lips  tinged  with  ambrosial  dew: 
Her  air  was  easy,  graceful  was  her  mien, 
Her  presence  banish'd  the  ungrateful  spleen; 
In  short,  her  divine  influence  refined 
Our  corrupt  hearts,  and  polished  mankind. 
Of  lovely  nymphs  she  had  a  smiling  train, 
Fairer  than  those  e'er  graced  Arcadia's  plain. 
The  British  ladies  next  to  her  took  place, 
Who  chiefly  did  the  fair  assembly  grace. 
What  blooming  virgins  can  Britannia  boast, 
Their  praises  would  all  eloquence  exhaust. 
With  ladies  there  my  ravish'd  eyes  did  meet, 
That  oft  I've  seen  grace  fair  Edina's  street, 
With  their  broad  hoops  cut  through  the  willing 
air. 

Pleased  to  give  place  unto  the  lovely  fair: 
Sure  this  is  like  those  blissful  seats  above, 
Here  is  peace,  transporting  joy,  and  love. 
Should  I  be  doom'd  by  cruel  angry  fate 
In  some  lone  isle  my  lingering  end  to  wait, 
"iet  happy  I !  still  happy  should  I  be. 
While  bless'd  with  virtue  and  a  charming  she; 
With  full  content  I'd  fortune's  pride  despise, 
And  die  still  gazing  on  her  lovely  eyes. 
May  all  the  blessings  mortals  need  below, 
lyiay  all  the  blessings  heaven  can  bestow. 
May  every  thing  that's  pleasant,  good,  or  rare, 
Be  the  eternal  portion  of  the  Fair. 


"'S  WORKS. 


A  COMPLAINT  ON  THE  MISERIES  OF 
LIFE. 

I  LOATHE,  O  Lord,  this  life  below, 
And  all  its  fading  fleeting  joys; 
'Tis  a  short  space  that's  fill'd  with  wo, 
Which  all  our  bliss  by  far  outweighs. 
When  will  the  everlasting  morn, 
With  dawning  light  the  skies  adorn 7 

Fitly  this  life's  compared  to  night, 
When  gloomy  darkness  shades  the  sky; 
Just  like  the  morn's  our  glimmering  light 
Reflected  from  the  Deity. 
When  will  celestial  morn  dispel 
These  dark  surrounding  shades  of  hell  ? 

I'm  sick  of  this  vexatious  state. 
Where  cares  invade  my  peaceful  hours; 
Strike  the  last  blow,  O  courteous  fate, 
I'll  smiling  fall  like  mowed  flowers; 
I'll  gladly  spurn  this  clogging  clay, 
And,  sweetly  singing,  soar  away. 

What's  money  but  refined  dust^ 
What's  honours  but  an  empty  name"? 
And  what  is  soft  enticing  lust. 
But  a  consuming  idle  flame  1 
Yea,  what  is  all  beneath  the  sky 
But  emptiness  and  vanity  1 

With  thousand  ills  our  life's  oppress'd, 
There's  nothing  here  worth  living  for; 
In  the  lone  grave  I  long  to  rest, 
And  be  harassed  here  no  more : 
Where  joy's  fantastic,  grief's  sincere. 
And  where  there's  nought  for  which  I  care. 

Thy  word,  O  Lord,  shall  be  my  guide, 
Heaveh,  where  thou  dwellest,  is  my  goal; 
Through  corrupt  life  grant  I  may  glide 
With  an  untainted  upward  soul. 
Then  may  this  life,  this  dreary  night, 
Dispelled  be  by  morning  light. 


AN  ELEGY  ON  PARTING. 

It  was  a  sad,  ay  'twas  a  sad  farewell, 
I  still  afresh  the  pangs  of  parting  feel ; 
Against  my  breast  my  heart  impatient  beat, 
And  in  deep  sighs  bemoan'd  its  cruel  fate; 
Thus  with  the  object  of  my  love  to  part, 
My  Ufe!  my  joy!  'twould  rend  a  rocky  heart. 

Where'er  I  turn  myself,  where'er  I  go, 
I  meet  the  image  of  my  lovely  foe ; 
With  witching  charms  the  phantom  still  appears, 
And  with  her  wanton  smiles  insults  my  tears; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


131 


Still  haunts  the  places  where  we  used  to  walk, 
And  where  with  raptures  oft  I  heard  her  talk : 
1  hose  scenes  I  now  with  deepest  sorrow  view, 
And  sighing  bid  to  all  delight  adieu. 

While  I  my  head  upon  this  turf  recline, 
Officious  sun,  in  vain  on  me  you  shine; 
In  vain  unto  the  smiling  fields  I  hie; 
In  vain  the  flowery  meads  salute  my  eye; 
In  vain  the  cheerful  birds  and  shepherds  sin^, 
And  with  their  carols  make  the  valleys  ring; 
Yea,  all  the  pleasure  that  the  country  yield 
Can't  me  from  sorrow  for  her  absence  shield ; 
With  divine  pleasure  books  which  one  inspire, 
Yea,  books  themselves  I  do  not  now  admire. 
But  hark !  methinks  some  pitying  power  I  hear, 
This  welcome  message  whispering  in  my  ear: 
'  Forget  thy  groundless  griefs,  dejected  swain, 
You  and  the  nymph  you  love  shall  meet  again; 
No  more  your  muse  shall  sing  such  mournful  lays, 
But  bounteous  heaven  and  your  kind  nMstress 
praise.' 


SONG. 

When  blooming  spring 

Always  the  laughing  fields  in  green, 
Then  flowers  in  open  air  are  seen, 
And  warbling  birds  are  heard  to  sing, 
Almighty  love 
Doth  sweetly  move 

All  nature  through; 
Then  tell  me  Chloe,  why  are  you 
Averse  thereto; 
When  blooming  charms 
Invite  your  lover's  circling  arms'? 
O  be  no  longer  coy 
To  love  and  share  of  joy. 

A  PASTORAL 

BETWIXT  DAVID,  THIRSTS,  AND  THJE  ANGEL  GA- 
BRIEL, UPON  THE  BIRTH  OF  OUR  SAVIOUR. 

DAVID. 

What  means  yon  apparition  in  the  sky, 
Thirsis,  that  dazzles  every  shepherd's  eye? 
I  slumbering  was  when  from  yon  glorious  cloud 
Came  gliding  music  heavenly,  sweet  and  loud. 
With  sacred  raptures  which  my  bosom  fires, 
And  with  celestial  joy  my  soul  inspires; 
It  sooths  the  native  horrors  of  the  night. 
And  gladdens  nature  more  than  dawning  light. 

THIRSIS. 

But  hold,  see  hither  through  the  yielding  air 
An  angel  6omes:  for  mighty  news  prepare. 

2  Y  2 


ANGEL  GABRIEL. 

Rejoice,  ye  swains,  anticipate  the  morn 
With  songs  of  praise;  for  lo,  a  Saviour's  bom. 
With  joyful  haste  to  Bethlehem  repair. 
And  you  will  find  the  almighty  infant  there; 
Wrapp'd  in  a  swaddling  band  you'll  find  your  king, 
And  in  a  manger  laid,  to  him  your  praises  bring, 

CHORUS  OP  ANGELS. 

The  God  who  in  the  highest  dwells, 

Immortal  glory  be; 
Let  peace  be  in  the  humble  cells 

Of  Adam's  progeny. 

DAVID. 

No  more  the  year  shall  wintry  horrors  bring; 
Fix'd  in  the  indulgence  of  eternal  spring. 
Immortal  green  shall  clothe  the  hills  and  vales, 
And  odorous  sweets  shall  load  the  balmy  gales; 
The  silver  brooks  shall  in  soft  murmurs  tell 
The  joy  that  shall  their  oozy  channels  swell. 
Feed  on,  my  flocks,  and  crop  the  tender  grass, 
Let  blooming  joy  appear  on  every  face; 
For  lo!  this  blessed,  this  propitious  mom, 
The  Saviour  of  lost  mankind  is  born. 

THIRSIS. 

Thou  fairest  mom  that  ever  sprang  from  night, 
Or  decked  the  opening  skies  with  rosy  light, 
Well  mayest  thou  shine  with  a  distinguish'd  ray, 
Since  here  Emmanuel  condescends  to  stay. 
Our  fears,  our  guilt,  our  darkness  to  dispel, 
And  save  us  from  the  horrid  jaws  of  hell. 
Who  from  his  throne  descended,  matchless  love! 
To  guide  poor  mortals  to  bless'd  seats  above : 
But  come  without  delay,  let  us  be  gone, 
Shejjherd,  let's  go,  and  humbly  kiss  the  Son. 


A  PASTORAL 

BETWEEN  THIRSIS  AND  CORYDON,  UPON  THE  DEAT« 
OF  DAMON,  BY  WHOM  IS  MEANT  MR.  W. 
RIDDELL. 

Thir.  Say,  tell  me  true,  what  is  the  doleful 

cause 

That  Corydon  is  not  the  man  he  was  1 
Your  cheerful  presence  used  to  lighten  cares. 
And  from  the  plains  to  banish  gloomy  fears. 
Whene'er  unto  the  circling  swains  you  sung 
Our  ravish'd  souls  upon  the  music  hung ; 
The  gazing,  hstening  flocks  forgot  their  meat, 
While  vocal  grottos  did  your  lays  repeat : 
But  now  your  gravity  our  mirth  rebukes. 
And  in  your  downcast  and  desponding  looks 
Appears  some  fatal  and  impending  wo; 
I  fear  to  ask,  and  yet  desire  to  know. 


132 


THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


Cor.  The  doleful  news,  how  shall  I,  Thirsis 
tell ! 

In  blooming  youth  the  hapless  Damon  fell: 
He's  dead,  he's  dead,  and  with  him  all  my  joy ; 
The  mournful  thought  does  all  gay  forms  destroy : 
This  is  the  cause  of  my  unusual  grief. 
Which  sullenly  admits  of  no  relief. 
■Thir.  Begone  all  mirth !  begone  all  sports  and 
play. 

To  a  deluge  of  grief  and  tears  give  way. 
Damon  the  just,  the  generous,  and  the  young. 
Must  Damon's  worth  and  merit  be  unsung '? 
No,  Corydon,  the  wondrous  youth  you  knew 
How  as  in  years  so  he  in  virtue  grew ; 
Embalm  his  fame  , in  never  dying  ver.se, 
As  a  just  tribute  to  his  doleful  hearse. 

Cor.  Assist  me,  mighty  grief,  my  breast  inspire 
With  generous  heats  and  with  thy  wildest  fire, 
While  in  a  solemn  and  a  mournful  strain 
Of  Damon  gone  for  ever  I  complain. 
Ye  muses,  weep ;  your  mirth  and  songs  forbear, 
And  for  him  sigh  and  shed  a  friendly  tear ; 
He  was  your  favourite,  and  by  your  aid 
In  charming  verse  his  witty  thoughts  array'd; 
He  had  of  knowledge,  learning,  wit,  a  store, 
To  it  denied  he  still  press' d  after  more. 
He  was  a  pious  and  a  virtuous  soul, 
And  still  press'd  forward  to  the  heavenly  goal ; 
He  was  a  faithful,  true,  and  constant  friend, 
Faithfid,  and  true,  and  constant  to  the  end. 
Ye  flowers,  hang  down  and  droop  your  heads, 
No  more  around  your  grateful  odours  spread ; 
Ye  leafy  trees,  your  blooming  honours  shed, 
Damon  for  ever  from  your  shade  is  fled ; 
Pled  to  the  mansions  of  eternal  light. 
Where  endless  wonders  strike  his  happy  sight. 
Ye  birds,  be  mvite,  as  through  the  trees  you  fly, 
Mute  as  the  grave  wherein  my  friend  does  lie. 
Ye  winds,  breathe  sighs  as  through  the  air  you 
rove. 

And  in  sad  pomp  the  trembling  branches  move. 
Ye  gliding  brooks,  O  weep  your  channels  dry, 
My  flowing  tears  them  fully  shall  supply; 
You  in  soft  murmurs  may  your  grief  express, 
And  yours,  you  swains,  in  mournful  songs  corn- 


Grant  me,  ye  powers,  ...  by  the  limpid  spring 
The  harmless  .    .    .of  the  plain  to  sing, 
A  wreath  of  flowers  cull'd  from  the  .  . 
Is  all  the  ,    ,    .my  humble  muse  demands. 

Now  blithesome  shepherds,  by  the  early  dawn, 
Their  new  shorn  flocks  drive  to  the  dewy  lawn ; ' 
While,  in  a  bleating  language,  each  salutes 
The  welcome  morning  and  their  fellow  brutes : 
Then  all  prepared  for  the  rural  feast. 
And  in  their  finest  Sunday  habits  drest ; 
The  crystal  brook  supplied  the  mirror's  place, 
.    .    ,  they  bathed  and  viewed  their  cleanly  face, 

 and  nymphs  resorted  to  the  fields 

 pomp  the  country  yields. 

The  place  appointed  was  a  spacious  vale, 
Fann'd  always  by  a  cooling  western  gale, 
Which  in  soft  breezes  through  the  meadows  stray, 
And  Steals  the  ripened  fragrancies  away ; 
Here  every  shepherd  might  his  flocks  survey, 
Securely  roam  and  take  his  harmless  play ; 
And  here  were  flowers  each  shepherdess  to  grace, 
On  her  fair  bosom  courting  but  a  place. 

How  in  this  vale,  beneath  a  grateful  shade. 
By  twining  boughs  of  spreading  .    ,    .  made, 
On  seats  of  homely  turf  themselves  they  place, 
And  cheerfully  enjoy  the  rural  feast, 
Consisting  of  the  produce  of  the  fields, 
And  all  the  luxury  the  country  yields. 
No  maddening  liquors  spoil'd  their  harmless  mirth, 
But  an  untainted  spring  their  thirst  allayed, 
Which  in  meadows  through  the  valley  strayed. 
Thrice  happy  swains  who  spend  your  golden  days 
In  ...    .  pastime  ;  and  when  night  displays 
Her  sable  shade,  to  peaceful  huts  retire ; 
Can  any  nian  a  sweeter  bUss  desire  7 
In  ancient  times  so  pass'd  the  smiling  hour. 
When  our  first  parents  lived  in  Eden's  bower, 
E'er  care  and  trouble  were  pronounced, 
Or  sin  had  blasted  the  creation  .... 


I  to  some  dark  and  gloomy  shade  will  fly, 
Dark  as  the  grave  wherein  my  friend  does  lie 
And  for  his  deaj^h  to  lonely  rocks  complain 
In  mournful  accents  and  a  dying  strain, 
While  pining  echo  answers  me  again. 


A  PASTORAL  ENTERTAINMENT. 

While  in  heroic  numbers  some  relate 
The  amazing  turns  of  wise  eternal  fate  ; 
Exploits  of  heroes  in  the  dusty  field, 
That  *f>  their  name  immortal  honour  yield ; 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THOMSON. 
BY  COLLINS. 
The  scene  on  the  Thames  near  Richmond. 


In  yonder  grave  a  Druid  lies, 

Where  slowly  winds  the  stealing  wave; 
The  year's  best  sweets  shall  duteous  rise 

To  deck  its  poet's  sylvan  grave. 

In  yon  deep  bed  of  whispering  reeds 
His  airy  harp*  shall  now  be  laid. 

That  he,  whose  heart  in  sorrow  bleeds, 
May  love  through  Ufe  the  soothing  shade. 

Then  maids  and  youths  shall  linger  here, 
And  while  its  sounds  at  distance  swell, 


'  The  iEoIian  harp. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


133 


Shall  sadly  seem  in  pity's  ear 

To  hear  the  woodland  pilgrim's  knell. 

Remembrance  oft  shall  haunt  the  shore 

Where  Thames  in  summer  wreaths  is  drest, 

And  oft  suspend  the  dashing  oar. 
To  bid  his  gentle  spirit  rest ! 

And  oft,  as  ease  and  health  retire 

To  breezy  lawn,  or  forest  deep, 
The  friend  shall  view  yon  whitening*  spire, 

And  mid  the  varied  landscape  weep. 

But  thou,  who  own'st  that  earthy  bed, 

Ah !  what  will  every  dirge  avail ; 
Or  tears,  which  love  and  pity  shed, 

That  mourn  beneath  the  gliding  sail ! 

Yet  lives  there  one,  whose  heedless  eye 

Shall  scorn  thy  pale  shrine  glimmering  near? 

With  him,  sweet  bard,  may  fancy  die, 
And  joy  desert  the  blooming  year. 

But  thou,  lorn  stream,  whose  sullen  tide 
No  sedge-crown'd  sisters  now  attend, 

Now  waft  me  from  the  green  hill's  side. 
Whose  cold  turf  hides  the  buried  friend ! 

And  see,  the  fairy  valleys  fade. 

Dun  night  has  veil'd  the  solemn  view: 

Yet  once  again,  dear  parted  shade, 
Meek  nature's  child,  again  adieu! 

The  genial  meads,  assign'd  to  bless 
Thy  life,  shall  mourn  thy  early  doom; 

Their  hinds  and  shepherd-girls  shall  dress 
With  simple  hands  thy  rural  tomb. 

Long,  long,  thy  stone  and  pointed  clay 
Shall  melt  the  musing  Briton's  eyes : 


•Richmond  Church,  where  Thomson  lies  buried  in  the 
corth-west  corner  of  it,  below  the  christening  pew,  without  a 
Cablet  or  memorial  to  say— Here  Thomson  lies. 


I  O  !  vales,  r  d  wild  woods,  shall  he  say, 
I    In  yon  your  Druid  lies. 


O  THE  SHADE  OF 
THOMSON.* 

BY  ROBERT  BURNS., 

While  virgin  Spring,  by  Eden's  flood 
Unfolds  her  tender  mantle  green ; 

Or  pranks  the  sod  in  frolic  mood, 
Or  tunes  the  EoUan  strains  between; 

While  Summer  with  a  matron  grace 
Retreats  to  Dryburgh's  cooling  shade, 

Yet  oft  delighted  stops  to  trace 
The  progress  of  the  spiky  blade; 

While  Autumn,  benefactor  kind, 

By  Tweed  erects  her  aged  head, 
And  sees,  with  self-approving  mind, 

Each  creature  on  her  bounty  fed; 

While  maniac  Winter  rages  o'er 

The  hills  whence  classic  Yarrow  flows, 

Rousing  the  turbid  torrent's  roar. 
Or  sweeping  wild  a  waste  of  snows ; 

So  long,  sweet  poet  of  the  year, 

Shall  bloom  that  wreath  thou  well  hast  won, 
While  Scotia  with  exulting  tear 

Proclaims  that  Thomson  was  her  son. 


"This  was  written  at  the  request  of  Lord  Buchan,  and  sent 
with  the  following  modest  remark :  "  Your  lordship  hints  at 
an  Ode  for  the  occasion:  but  who  would  write  after  CoUins? 
I  read  over  his  Verses  to  the  Memory  of  Thomson,  and  de- 
spaired. I  attempted  three  or  four  stanzas  in  the  way  of  Ad- 
dress to  the  Shade  of#ie  Bard,  on  crowning  his  bust.  I  trou- 
ble your  lordship  with  the  enclosed  copy  of  them,  which  I  am 
afraid  will  be  but  too  convincing  a  proof  how  unequal  I  ain 
to  the  task  you  would  obligingly  assign  me." 


THE  END  OP  THOMSON'S  WORKS. 


